Spy Out the Land (37 page)

‘Yes,’ Campbell-Fraser said. ‘And I’d do it again.’

As he spoke the last word, he thrust his body back in his chair, throwing out his right arm at the same time and smashing his elbow into Charamba’s jaw. Almost in the same move, he swung
the arm back down again and grabbed hold of Charamba’s drooping hand, twisting it in a single sharp move and catching the pistol as it fell from it. Charamba collapsed to the floor, crying
out as he landed in the field of glass fragments by the shattered window. Campbell-Fraser heaved forward again in the chair, swivelling his body until he was in the same position he had been a
second earlier. Only now both his hands were around the butt of the pistol.

The room was empty.

Sandy had given her directions to it and she had watched as he and Celia had walked across the airstrip and climbed aboard their jet. Had he tricked her and told her the wrong place? Surely they
couldn’t have decided to try their luck with fleeing, after all she had outlined?

Then she saw the body by the bed. She ran over and saw the wound in the head. The blood looked fresh. The bed was also unmade and the pillow still had the indentation of someone’s head.
They must have just left.

Rachel ran back to the door and out into the field that surrounded the base. She started running back towards the main compound, looking for any sign of a woman and a young child.

Dark ducked as Campbell-Fraser fired, and as he did he caught the expression on the face of Phillip Gibo, holding the detonator on the other side of the table. Dark shook his head furiously at
him to signal he mustn’t hit the switch, then reached out and grabbed Campbell-Fraser by the legs, yanking at them with all the strength he could muster.

Campbell-Fraser cried out as he fell and reached out for the table with his spare hand, but he missed and lost momentum. He landed on his back with a thud and the sound of crunching glass. Dark
was about to reach over to grab the gun when he realised the man’s body was somehow still moving. He looked down and saw that Charamba had wrapped his arms around Campbell-Fraser’s
chest and was pushing his feet against the legs of the table so they were both sliding along the sheet of glass fragments towards the hole in the window. Dark watched as, with a howl of rage in his
throat, Charamba gave another heave and the Rhodesian overtook him and hurled towards the empty space. Campbell-Fraser’s scream faded as he hurtled into the darkness and joined the roar of
the falls below.

Rachel had found the two of them with one of the black Selous Scouts by the edge of the base, crouched down in a hole in the fence. The man had drawn his weapon on her, but it
had taken just a few words to make them realise the true situation. ‘Your husband has taken some men hostage,’ she had said. ‘I’m to take you to him.’

The man had dropped his weapon then, and they had come willingly with her. Rachel had considered countermanding Dark’s orders by trying to persuade the South Africans to intervene, either
from a distance via sniper rifle or by invading the carriage from the air, but all such ideas were useless, she knew, as there was too great a risk that Smith and other delegates would be killed.
Sandy had told her Dark was prepared to blow everyone in the carriage to smithereens if his demands weren’t met, and it sounded more than plausible.

She had immediately told the Harmigans she was commandeering their jet and pilot. Celia had tried to kick up a fuss, but Sandy had calmed her down. Rachel had quietly repeated the consequences
if they didn’t turn up in Carlton Gardens within the next forty-eight hours, and then boarded the plane. She hadn’t glanced back.

At Victoria Falls airport, she found a taxi driver who had insisted he couldn’t drive anywhere until he saw the roll of bills in her hand. He parked at the foot of the bridge and she
helped her passengers climb out. There was nobody at the barrier, just the moon shining above and the lights from the central carriage blaring and the roar of the Falls.

It was time.

A woman walked into the carriage, slender and pale. Dark recognised her at once from the arcade in Brussels, but it was the two figures directly behind her that captivated his
attention.

‘Pappa!’ Ben cried, and Dark took him in his arms as he raced across the carriage. Then he walked towards Claire – Hope – who simply leaned against him, sobbing gently
with relief. She turned and saw her father and embraced him, too.

‘Mr Dark.’

He looked up. It was the Englishwoman.

‘My name’s Rachel. I’ve been looking for you.’

Dark took a step towards her. ‘Have you arranged for safe conduct for me and my family through Zambia?’

‘For your family, yes. But not for you, I’m afraid. I have instructions from London and they’re adamant you face justice.’

Dark stared at her. He moved his head slightly and glanced back at the carriage. Gibo was still standing there, the detonator in his hands as if glued to them. But Dark couldn’t tell him
to set it off. Not now.

He turned back to the woman, Rachel, whose eyes were fixed on him. He didn’t need the detonator, he realised – he could kill her with his bare hands. She didn’t even seem to be
armed. Within a matter of seconds he could strangle her as he had done the sentry, and then take Hope and Ben and run, using her father’s contacts across the border, and then on to another
destination, away from all this.

But what would be the point? The Service would only send others to look for him, as would the Russians, and who knew who else.

Face justice.
What would that entail, he wondered. He very much doubted anyone would wish to see him tried in public. More likely a long and nasty interrogation followed by the rest of
his life in solitary confinement. That was what traitors deserved. He thought back to the day four years earlier when he’d stood across the street from the British embassy in Stockholm and
contemplated walking in. Instead he had kept running, and as a result he’d met Hope and they’d had Ben –
created
him, a new being in the world with his own mind and soul.
But he’d been living on borrowed time nevertheless. They could hide somewhere and change their names every year – but he couldn’t change his past. Wherever he went and whatever he
did, the people he’d betrayed would remain dead.

He glanced across at Hope and Ben. Could he bury his old self so easily now? And could he spend the rest of his life looking over their shoulders as well as his own? They didn’t deserve
that. They’d have a better chance without him. Her father would protect them, he was sure, using all the power he had at his disposal. And he would be more powerful after today – if the
others had any sense, they’d appoint him their leader.

Dark walked towards Hope and took her face in his hands. ‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Do you understand?’

She caught herself in a sob, but then nodded, and he kissed her on the lips, long and hard and savouring the sweetness of her. Then he crouched down and hugged Ben, squeezing tight and feeling
the soft warmth of his cheek.

‘Will I see you again soon, Pappa?’

‘Mamma will take care of you,’ he said. ‘I have to go to England now.’

Ben took this in, then nodded slowly. He lifted a hand and placed it over his heart. Dark closed his eyes and took a breath, then in one movement stood, turned and began walking towards Rachel
Gold.

A summit between Ian Smith and black nationalist leaders did take place in railway dining car 49 on Victoria Falls Bridge on 25 August 1975. However, there was no siege. It was
instead a short-lived affair that achieved very little and broke up in acrimony. I’ve created a fictional version of the summit, compressing some events and altering others entirely, but
I’ve also incorporated many real details, drawing on contemporaneous reports, memoirs, declassified government files and other sources. Talks between the two sides eventually led to Rhodesia
becoming Zimbabwe in 1980, with ZANU’s Robert Mugabe being elected the country’s leader, a position he still holds.

Ian Smith, Harold Wilson, James Callaghan, Roy Jenkins, Ndabaningi Sithole and Joshua Nkomo were of course all real people, as is Kenneth Kaunda. Pyotr Ivashutin was in the KGB and then in the
GRU, but I’ve imagined that he took Kim Philby’s impish suggestion about SIS being a front for another service seriously. Matthew Charamba shares similarities with several Zimbabwean
leaders of the era, but isn’t intended to represent any one of them. The character Iwan Morelius is named after the Swedish thriller connoisseur who died in 2012, in tribute to his friendship
and encouragement and a memorable meeting in Stockholm.
Skål
, Iwan.

The Selous Scouts existed and operated much as I’ve described within Africa, but not (as far as is known) in Europe. My main sources on this unusual regiment and its methods were very
generous feedback from veterans and the memoirs of its leader, Lieutenant-Colonel Ron Reid-Daly. Roy Campbell-Fraser is my invention, though, as are his politics and motives.

The document mentioned in Chapter 8, ‘Towards the Summit: An Approach to Peaceful Change in Southern Africa’, was real, and I’ve drawn on the discussion of its contents in
David Martin and Phyllis Johnson’s
The Chitepo Assassination
. That book also concludes that Rhodesian intelligence was responsible for assassinating ZANU leader Herbert Chitepo, a
theory supported by several other sources, including the memoirs of Reid-Daly and the book
See You in November
by Peter Stiff, which purports to be a biography of one of the assassins.

The Spear is inspired by several clandestine and private intelligence groups of the era, notably The 61, an alongsider organisation to SIS; GB75, established by Colonel David Stirling, the
founder of the SAS; and Tory Action, set up by George Kennedy Young, who had been deputy director of SIS.

British special forces did co-operate with Malays during and after the war, including with the indigenous Senoi Praaq. Tom Gadlow’s conversion to Communism is partly inspired by George
Blake’s in North Korean captivity, but also by the experiences of John Cross, whose memoir,
Red Jungle
, shows his empathy for the Communists he lived and worked with in Malaya during
the war. Cross never became a Soviet agent as a result, but I’ve drawn on his experiences and also extrapolated from Nigel West’s fascinating entry about him in his
A to Z of
British Intelligence
.

Declassified files

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