Jackal's Dance (38 page)

Fingers touching his genitals made him stir. A
strange voice cut through sleep and James opened his eyes. The leering face above him was easy to read.
Oh, my God, I'm going to be raped.
Instead, he was pulled from the bed and had his clothes thrown at him. Dressed, James stumbled outside, terrifyingly aware of the hand that kept fondling his buttocks but too frightened to object.

Mal Black struggled wildly against the pillow over his face.
This can't be happening.
He kicked and thrashed violently but whoever had broken into his room was strong as an ox. Even as he fought, Mal was trying to figure out who could possibly be doing this. There was no doubting that they intended to kill him. He, or she, was lying on the pillow. Mal couldn't breathe. Desperate for air, he flailed against the suffocating weight. Slowly the blows that connected became weaker. Snippets of his past clicked over, like a flip chart, parading faces and events at random. Mal felt himself losing consciousness.
Why?
his brain screamed.
Why me?
He would never know the answer. The UNITA rebel waited several minutes after Mal stopped all movement before easing the pressure. Leaving the pillow where it was, he casually helped himself to whatever took his fancy.

The soldier felt nothing but satisfaction at having killed the stocky young man. He deserved to die. Scouting around earlier, he had been disgusted by what he'd seen through the window of bungalow two. Never at any time did he question his own double standards. The spoils of war – rape and pillage – were something quite different. In the
aftermath of action, with blood pumping fast, boys and girls, men and women alike were fair game. Some of the men even developed a taste for anal sex. But a man kissing and caressing another, as this one had been doing, was, as far as the terrorist was concerned, deeply offensive. From that moment, irrespective of Ace's order that no tourists were to be harmed – at least until he had interviewed them – Mal had been a marked man.

At the inquiring look when he reached the car park without a hostage, the terrorist simply shrugged and said, ‘He won't be coming with us.'

‘What went wrong?' Ace asked sharply.

‘The bastard had a knife,' the surly response came back.

Ace knew the man was lying but left it. Dissension in the ranks was never far from the surface, but in the volatile business of hostage taking, he needed to keep a lid on it. The soldier would go on report once they were back in Angola.

Johan and Henneke were both on their backs, snoring. They lay side-by-side like two beached whales. The sudden light woke Henneke – it always did when Johan, with no regard for his wife's sleep, needed the toilet. But Johan was still in bed. Henneke raised her head and let loose a scream. Johan mumbled as she shook him urgently. ‘Wake up, wake up.'

‘Wha – Go back to sleep, Mother.'

‘Johan, wake up.'

Reluctantly, he did. ‘What is it?'

She jerked her head towards the end of the bed.

Johan's eyes seemed to double in size and he immediately went on the offensive. ‘Get out of my room, kaffir.'

The rebel didn't speak Afrikaans but the word
kaffir
was understood from one end of Africa to the other. His AK jerked towards the wardrobe and back to Henneke. She slid fearfully from bed. Johan would have done the same but the weapon, held steadily on him, changed his mind.

Henneke dressed as quickly as she could, her rolls of fat quivering with terror. Johan became even more outraged when he realised that the man was eyeing her semi-naked body. He said nothing. The old,
‘What do you call an African with a gun?'
racist joke flitted absurdly across his mind, as did the answer.
‘Sir.'
Now fully clothed, Henneke stood waiting to be told what was expected of her next.

Johan was not permitted to put on any clothes. Barefoot, and wearing shortie rayon pyjamas of a garish purple colour with bright yellow sleeping teddy bears decorating them, he hobbled alongside his wife as they were herded to the car park. All he could think was,
The bastard stole my watch.

Two men were needed for the Schmidts. They occupied the largest bungalow, which had a small annex that served as a bedroom for Jutta. Walter and Erica came awake with loud protest. When they saw the men in their room, Walter's first reaction was to offer them money. He was unprepared for their systematic search and confiscation of anything valuable. Erica, for once, kept her mouth
shut, even when her much-prized two-carat diamond engagement ring was taken.

Jutta cried out to her parents when it was made clear that she was expected to dress in full view of the man in her room. But, with an automatic pointed unwaveringly at them, there was nothing Walter and Erica could do. ‘Just do as he says, my darling,' her father called. ‘Keep your back to him.'

The terrorist in Jutta's room kept up a running commentary as the girl hastily donned jeans and a T-shirt. Her firm, plump body, developing breasts, round and dimpled bottom and one quick glimpse of dark pubic hair were all described to his companion who listened with an eager smirk. ‘A ripe little plum ready for picking,' he called.

The man with Jutta agreed. ‘She will provide a feast later.'

Both men laughed.

The Schmidts, having no idea what was being said, nonetheless felt a deep disquiet for their daughter. There was something ominous about the tone of the men's conversation.

Felicity tried to remain calm. The man in her room, rather a smelly one, was indicating that she should get out of bed. He carried a weapon and had the look of a fugitive. She didn't think rape was on his mind otherwise the lights would still be off. Felicity saw him gesture towards the cupboard and assumed she'd be allowed to dress. Under his impersonal stare, she managed to pull on her clothes without revealing too much naked body.

Like everyone else in South Africa, Felicity had
read reports of UNITA terrorist activity in the Caprivi Strip. The situation up there was so bad that vehicles could only travel in convoy with an army escort. Even then, attacks continued. While this man might look like an undisciplined criminal, the weapon and the way he held it indicated otherwise. Felicity decided that her continued safety lay in doing exactly what she was told.

Philip, as he too started to dress, found himself wondering if Felicity was all right. He had no idea who the man in his room might be, or what he wanted. There were shouts from outside which probably meant that the other guests had suffered the same rude awakening. All Philip could come up with was that this had to be some kind of elaborate robbery. If that were the case, it would make it the most unfunny thing he'd ever experienced. He had the distinct impression that if he resisted or even complained, he might not live to regret it. Leaving the bungalow, Philip was relieved to see Felicity being pushed towards the car park. At least she had not been harmed.

Ace checked the eastern sky. Paler but not yet coloured by the sun. He had about three hours before anybody from the nearest rest camp could conceivably be in the vicinity. More than enough time. There was no longer a need for silence. Ace ordered that the tape be removed from everyone's mouth but that their hands remained secured behind them. Moving through the frightened and confused captives, he stood, arms folded, on a
raised area of concrete. Speaking bad Portuguese – he'd picked up enough to get by since joining UNITA – he asked if anyone else spoke the language. Chester struggled to his feet and stepped forward. ‘I speak some, brother.'

Ace looked impassively at the ranger. ‘Who are you to call me brother?'

‘I spent seven years with UNITA.'

‘Ha! Another filthy deserter.'

‘No, brother. I have an honourable discharge,' Chester lied.

Ace didn't believe him, but since the African seemed to be the only one with any knowledge of Portuguese, he was forced to use him. ‘What is your name?'

‘Chester Erasmus.'

‘Come up here. You will interpret for me.' Ace called out to his men in an African dialect. ‘We begin. Be alert for any attempts to escape. If anyone tries, shoot them. Hosi, pick six men and surround the car park. The rest of you wait by the main building. Yours will be the smaller group.'

Chester turned cold. He'd seen something like this once before. In fact, the incident had been the catalyst for his defection from UNITA, the last straw as he tried to make sense of patriotic rhetoric against a reality of inhuman savagery. The order could only mean one thing. A selection process. Chester knew that the soldiers could not hope to control so many prisoners. Most of the assembled crowd were going to be executed.

‘We are not interested in your African staff. Do
not waste my time with them. They can remain seated for the moment,' Ace said, grinning slightly at Chester. ‘Bring the rest forward, one at a time.'

The first person to catch Chester's eye was Walter Schmidt. ‘Walter. Will you step up here please?'

‘Why should I?'

‘Just do as you are asked.'

Walter reluctantly rose and moved forward. With hands tied behind him, it took several attempts to gain his feet. The soldiers made no effort to assist.

‘Who is this man?' Ace demanded.

‘An industrialist from Germany.'

‘What is his business?'

Chester couldn't remember although Walter must have mentioned it.

‘Ask him.'

Chester turned to Walter and asked the question.

‘My factory manufactures motor vehicle components.'

The answer went back to Ace.

‘Send him over there.' Ace pointed towards the lodge.

‘Erica.' Chester called.

She came forward, head held high. ‘I demand to be with my husband.'

‘Tell her to shut up.'

Chester suggested to Erica that she only speak when spoken to.

‘How dare you! I want to join my husband.' She turned and went to follow Walter.

Ace jerked his head and Erica was shoved, none too gently, back to her original place. ‘One of them will be enough,' Ace muttered.

Chester felt a rush of sympathy for the German woman. He was reasonably certain that she had just signed her own death warrant.

‘Next.' Ace sounded impatient.

‘Jutta.'

Jutta scrambled up and stepped forward. Ace took one look at her and made an instant decision. With some pointed comments to his men she was sent to join her father.

Chester realised it hadn't occurred to the rebel leader that anyone other than his men understood their tribal language. He decided to keep it that way. It was difficult to see how at the moment but it might be useful later. His eyes roved the seated people. ‘Professor Kruger.'

Eben rose slowly and came forward.

‘Who is this man?' Ace eyed the professor with scepticism. He was old and liable to be a drawback in the bush. Was he important?

‘A university professor from South Africa.'

‘Ah!' Ace was still trying to make up his mind when Eben began to wheeze and struggle for breath.

Without his puffer, the attack, though short, proved severe.

Ace made his decision. The old man was a liability. He could return to his place.

Gasping for air, Eben sat down again. Despite physical discomfort, his mind remained crystal
clear. He realised what was going on. The people sent to stand near the lodge were not necessarily the lucky ones but they would undoubtedly live longer than those who remained in the car park.

‘Will the Wits students come forward, one at a time please?' Chester called out.

Fletch was first. Ace put the questions, Chester translated, then relayed the responses back. They were all asked virtually the same thing.

What Ace wanted was representation from as many countries as possible. Governments under public pressure, especially the sentimentally inclined, were easy targets, likely to pay up rather than risk ridicule or condemnation by those who voted them to power. South Africa, on the other hand, was known to take a hard line with terrorists. Ace knew he'd probably end up with hostages predominantly from that country. As long as they came from wealthy backgrounds, that was okay. Families could be relied on to cough up for the return of loved ones. In addition, he needed a few expendables – people who could be sacrificed in order to convince the outside world that UNITA meant business. The students were a bonus. Most of them would be fee-paying, and families who could afford to send their sons and daughters to university were the elite.

Fletch stood in front of Ace and answered the questions.

‘What country are you from?'

‘South Africa.'

‘What does your father do?'

‘He owns a vineyard in the Cape.'

‘How big?'

‘Just over a thousand morgen.'

Ace didn't understand the measurement.

‘Five hundred acres,' Fletch offered helpfully when Chester asked him to explain.

‘What car does he drive?'

Fletch was surprised by the question but answered calmly. ‘A Toyota Land Cruiser and an Audi sedan.'

‘And your mother? What does she do?'

‘Helps my father.'

Ace thought about it. Farmers cried poor at every opportunity but farms could be sold to raise ransom money. This kid's family was comfortably off. Nothing special. If he survived the trip his parents would be good for a few million. If it became necessary to kill him, his clean-cut youthful looks would work in their favour, the media certain to put Pretoria in a difficult position over the remaining South Africans. Fletch was told to stand with Walter and Jutta.

Troy was next.

‘Where are you from?'

‘Johannesburg.'

‘What does your father do?'

‘He's a lawyer.'

‘Does he employ other people?'

Troy had to think.

‘About forty.'

On and on the questions went. Troy, Josie, then Angela all joined Fletch.