Jackal's Dance (53 page)

The senior of the two MRI doctors spoke for both men. ‘I don't think that will be necessary. Let her rest for now. From what you say, she's physically stable. How is she mentally?'

‘Holding up. I know her father. If Megan's anything like him, she's strong as an ox.'

‘She'll need to be, poor girl.' He turned to a nurse. ‘Leonie, you go and sit with her. Any sign of deterioration and we can have her down to Windhoek inside an hour.'

The nurse left with Dr Adams. The pilots and
medical staff then settled down to a serious game of cards. It might be a long wait, it might not. They had no way of anticipating what, or how many, casualties they'd have to deal with. All they could do for now was remain on stand-by.

Etosha National Park was sealed off. Resident guests were told only that the park had closed and they were to remain in the camps until further notice. Any people wishing to leave had to do so accompanied by an official park vehicle. Arriving tourists were turned away at both the Andersson and Von Lindequist gates. Self-drive visitors who were out and about throughout the park were flagged down by officials who had been sent to bring them back. Questions about the reason why were fobbed off with evasive answers such as, ‘I don't know, sir, I'm just following instructions.' Reimbursement for bookings lost and holidays cut short would be an administrative nightmare but the Nature Conservation head office wasn't taking any chances of further visitors becoming caught up in what was turning into a major international incident.

The media were the next to reach Okaukuejo. Routine monitoring of police and Medi Rescue radio frequencies meant immediate awareness of any emergency. Arriving virtually en masse at the Andersson Gate, it fell to park employees to refuse them entry. They'd been instructed to admit no-one but the police and military personnel.
Unwilling to take responsibility and uncertain who to contact, those manning the gate passed the buck to the Chief Veterinary Officer. He had no wish to be accountable for a wrong decision and smartly deflected the issue back to military headquarters.

Further delays were experienced while clearance was obtained. The army wanted to keep the media out of it. Always mindful, however, of the power of press and television, they bounced the problem as high as they could, into parliament's lap. In the end, and only because the Press Secretary reminded the Vice President that there was an election coming up which required media cooperation, permission was granted. Several hours had been wasted in the process. It was clear to the journalists that park officials either knew nothing or had been forbidden to speak about what was going on. It was frustrating the hell out of them. Their only solid information was about bodies on the pan and a report of missing tourists.

Some of the more experienced of them were beginning to smell a rat. What was the big deal? Why all the secrecy? Who was trying to cover up what? They had no way of knowing that any mention of an armed incursion had been deliberately omitted from open channel radio communications. The defence force wanted awareness of UNITA involvement kept on a need-to-know basis. There was obviously no way to suppress it completely and Reuters were already speculating about rebel forces being responsible. Until it was
known for sure that a terrorist group had penetrated so far into Namibia, and that some kind of retaliatory action could be reported, hysterical headlines would not be welcome. The media had met this kind of stonewalling before. All it served to do was make them more interested. Thoughts turned to all the possibilities and even before they reached Okaukuejo they knew there had to be a very real chance of Namibia becoming a focus of world attention. Each and every one of them suspected that UNITA's name was about to be spread all over the globe.

With so many unannounced late season arrivals, the Okaukuejo Rest Camp didn't know what had hit it. Denied access to the known survivor, reporters turned to bewildered staff who found themselves giving interviews on a subject about which they knew virtually nothing. Tourists were bailed up and asked for comment. Confusion and misinformation fuelled rumours to such an extent that some guests packed up and demanded to be escorted from the park. Wildly inaccurate stories had them firmly convinced that Jonas Savimbi's entire fighting force were about to descend on them. Their departure did at least mean that the media could be offered accommodation.

Having captured the rest camp on videotape from viewing tower to waterhole, and knowing that the police were on their way, photographers, film crews and journalists could do nothing but wait. Possible military involvement or an exact location had not been mentioned for the simple
reason that those few who knew those facts kept well out of the media's way. Frustrated news crews milled around the bar, throwing questions at anyone who entered.

Buster, who so far had managed to avoid being interviewed, was pounced on when he went to pick up a bottle of lemonade for Megan.

‘Are you the guy who found her?' There was nothing intuitive about his question, the journalist had taken the same wild stab with everyone.

Buster was no match for the street-wise reporter. ‘Yes.'

Before he realised what was happening, Buster found himself surrounded by eager media. Cameras flashed and rolled as questions came from all sides. In desperation, he held up his arms for silence. It was immediate. Uncertain of how much to say, Buster took refuge behind an unemotional retelling of the facts as he knew them. By the time he'd finished, the media knew they were on to something very big. As keen as most were to head for Logans Island, they stayed at Okaukuejo. Buster, finally gathering his wits, had told a little white lie and said there was an army roadblock already in place. Police ire at the media being first to a crime scene and destroying possible forensic evidence went with the job. The military were a different matter.

With the information from Buster stimulating cut-throat pressure to scoop each other, one enterprising photographer followed him back to Megan's bungalow. He sneaked around the side
and crouched under an open window in time to hear a girl's voice saying thank you for the cool drink. Knowing he'd only get one or two shots, the man waited until he heard Buster leave the room. A single grainy photograph, taken through the gauze flyscreen, of Megan propped against pillows with both eyes closed, would eventually find its way onto the front page of every major newspaper in the world. It would make the photographer a lot of money. But he paid for it. An unexpected flashlight going off so badly frightened the already traumatised girl that she became hysterical. A second cameraman, who had sneaked after the first, captured a classic picture of Buster throwing the perfect right hook. Evidence of the veterinarian's brief brush with pugilistic skill would also grace the tabloids, much to Buster's later embarrassment.

With action hotting up, the media began to demand more information.

Unable to get at Megan, they hounded Dr Adams until he agreed to make a statement about her condition. He'd delivered many lectures to interns but had never known such an avid audience. Medical terms and possible complications were carefully explained until the subject was well and truly exhausted. Megan would be written up as a heroine, a label she would be forced to wear until time erased others' memory of the ordeal.

Dr Adams didn't actually give much away. But with Buster's statement already on record, a picture of extreme bravery was emerging and the doctor's audience clamoured for further details. Eventually
the media grew tired of hearing ‘I couldn't comment on that', and wandered back to the bar. Time was still in their favour. They were well ahead of CNN, the BBC and other international news crews. Speculation as to what exactly had happened at Logans Island and where it would lead to had several journalists drafting headlines: ‘Students Snatched as Bush War Erupts,' ‘Luxury Lodge Targeted by Terrorists,' even ‘Namibia Mobilises Against Savimbi'.

Detective Sergeant Brian Wells was the next to arrive. He didn't expect the incident to remain a police matter, but until someone said so it was up to him to treat it as civilian. He'd cooperated with the military on past occasions and always found them grateful for any assistance. Leaving his four constables in the office, Wells wasted no time making his way to Megan's bungalow.

Buster, who by now was feeling positively protective of Megan, eyed the policeman suspiciously. ‘She's in a bad way. Do you have to speak to her now?'

‘It would be helpful,' Wells said mildly. ‘We need to know exactly what happened up there.'

‘But she's already been through it with military intelligence.'

‘I'm police, not army.'

‘Can't I tell you then?'

‘Were you there?'

‘No.'

Wells sighed.

‘She told me everything.'

‘Sorry. I must speak to the girl.'

The media were back, crowding the new arrival, trying to pick up more snippets of information. Wells was an old hand. ‘As soon as I have anything to report, you'll be the first to know.' With that, he went inside.

The detective sergeant had seen many gruesome sights, witnessed the aftermath of hundreds, if not thousands, of violent acts, listened to God-knows-how-many tales of brutality or revenge, seen young lives snuffed out by self-induced stupidity. Grim-faced, he broke tragic news to shocked relatives almost every week of his working life. It could be said that Wells had a jaded view of humanity and tended to think the worst of people until they proved otherwise.

All he knew before speaking to Megan was that she'd survived an ordeal that had taken the lives of twenty-seven others. An execution of some kind. The girl was lucky. He knew she'd been injured, and that she was a polio victim. Perhaps it was relevant. His job now was to establish facts, fast, causing as little angst in the girl as possible.

Megan's swollen and bruised face didn't faze him. He'd seen much worse. But her quiet, ‘It's not as bad as it looks,' got his attention. On Valium, the doctor had said. Whatever, the girl's composure was admirable. As he listened to Megan's story – the capture, the walk out onto the pan, waking up out there, her struggle to reach the island, finding another body, determination to go for help – Wells'
respect for the softly spoken student reached a height usually reserved for his wife and daughter. That she had survived was nothing short of a miracle. That she could speak of it, although clearly not wishing to, said more for her courage than anything Wells had ever seen. His hard old heart softened, melted, then grew angry and set like granite. He would do everything in his power to help bring the bastards to justice. Wells had no doubt that the army would take over, he and his men being recalled to Windhoek. Until then – and he could always develop a little radio trouble to ensure it didn't happen until he was ready – this was one policeman who would give the case his all.

With a gentleness seldom seen by his colleagues, Wells went through Megan's story again. Finally, he rose. ‘Thank you, Megan. You've been more than helpful.'

‘Please find my friends.'

‘We'll find them,' he promised, despite an unspoken fear for their safety. The cynicism was back. Like Major Brand, the policeman didn't like their chances.

Buster still stood outside the door. Reporters waited, cameras and tape recorders ready. Wells gave them the usual say-nothing statement. ‘The situation is being treated as serious. We have a crime scene, I am conducting a criminal investigation. That is all.'

‘Is UNITA involved?'

Wells chose his words carefully. ‘You know the
score, ladies and gentlemen. I am not at liberty to discuss anything that might involve the military. For now, it's a police matter.'

‘At Logans Island, wasn't it?'

Wells saw no point in avoiding the subject. ‘That is correct.'

‘Can we have access?'

‘Not at the moment.'

‘Then it is military?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘We hear there was a mass murder.'

‘That is only an allegation at this stage.'

‘How many were allegedly killed?'

‘No comment.'

‘Who were they?'

‘No comment.'

‘Well, who killed them?'

‘No comment.'

‘Come on, Wells,' one seasoned journalist called out. ‘Give us something.'

‘If I could, I would. Sorry.' Wells sympathised with the men and women in front of him. They were only doing their job. But it was more than his own was worth to say more. The Angolan situation was sensitive and potentially explosive. Any public announcement would have to come from the army information office. Even if only a portion of the truth, it was still going to be one hell of a story.

‘If it's not military, what's to stop us going to the scene?' The question came from a sharp-faced woman reporter.

Wells responded with a long and penetrating
stare at the sea of faces. It said it all. His only words were, ‘That's it, thank you.' They let the policeman pass.

‘I'll give fifty to one if we don't see the army up here inside an hour.' The sporting cameraman had no takers.

‘Bloody hell,' someone muttered. ‘By the time we get anything usable this place will be crawling with international journos. So much for a world scoop. Come on, who's for a beer?'

Wells spoke briefly to his men before the two police vehicles set off for Logans Island. ‘There seems to be little doubt who was responsible. Some were in uniform. What we have to do is piece together what happened where and exactly who to. Secure the crime scene. Check the guest register and staff records. Get onto Wits University. Start with names and addresses.'

‘What about the army?'

Wells nodded. ‘They're on their way. Most will go after the terrorists. No harm in lending a hand.'

‘Do we let the Super know it's military?'