A Sailor's Honour (23 page)

‘What will happen? Talk us through the sequence of events.'

‘We set it off during the match. The box sections will disintegrate under the force of the simultaneous explosions. The arch will collapse by its sheer weight – more than 2,600 tons – pulling the outer columns – a hundred and two of them at 50 to 60 tons each – inwards so that they will collapse into the stands with all the glass and aluminium facades between the columns.' Berrangé indicated the external feature of the stadium: illuminated sheets of glass spanning the entire circumference of the stadium, giving it the appearance of an oval-shaped cake dish.

‘The parts of the structure which don't collapse under their own weight will be pulled inwards so that everything would land on the seating area. Except the arch. The arch will fall straight down onto the pitch.'

‘And the players,' someone said.

Someone's cellphone rang and they took time to consider what the Berrangé proposal entailed. There were no dissenting voices.

‘When and where do we place the devices?' the major asked when the cellphone had been silenced.

‘We have only one opportunity, and that is at the factory in Hamburg, during the manufacturing process,' Berrangé replied.

‘That won't be easy to achieve.'

‘It's the only way.'

‘When?'

‘The semifinal slated for Durban would be a good time,' Berrangé said. ‘The stadium will be filled to capacity, with more than sixty thousand spectators, two of the four best teams in the competition and all of the Fifa bosses, the local, national and international political leaders in the
VIP
stands, and about a billion viewers – so they estimate – worldwide watching on live television and listening to the commentary in more than a hundred languages.'

‘Your plan looks good in theory, but it's impractical,' the major suggested. ‘How will we disguise the device so that they don't find it during the numerous quality checks they are bound to have in a construction project of this magnitude? Fifa will have its own inspectors. The chief engineer will fly over from here at various stages during the manufacturing to see for himself that everything is sound. Everything will have to be signed off step by step for each section of the arch. There is just no way that your device will go undetected during all those checks.'

‘We haven't overlooked that, Major,' Berrangé responded with a slight smile. ‘The arch design is so important that there is a whole team of surveyors whose job it is to see that every component making up the entire stadium – from the columns to the arch, the pitch and even the platforms on which the seats are to be placed – has been manufactured to specification and placed on site in precisely the correct position. To be able to do that, they place survey points – that's what they call them – on various components during the process of manufacture. I emphasise, during manufacture. And that's where Hamburg comes in. There will be a survey point on each section of the arch. We can disguise the devices to look like survey points.'

‘We've done a Hamburg operation before,' the major said. ‘We burned our bridges there and it won't be easy to get back in.' He thought for a while before he asked, ‘The manufacture of the sections of the arch will involve steelwork and lots of it, won't it?'

Berrangé nodded.

‘We may have a contact there,' the major said. He was looking at the men around the table but addressing the general behind him. ‘But it won't be easy to persuade him to work for us a second time when we still owe him money from the previous operation.'

The general intervened. ‘It's a very good plan. We just have to make it work.'

‘But how, General?' the major asked.

‘We have money in Hamburg, or have you forgotten? Lots of money. And with money, you can achieve anything.'

‘It won't be easy to gain access to that money,' the major argued. ‘The last time we tried, the bank refused. When we tried to intercept the account holder, he eluded us at the airport.' He was careful not to mention the name. There was no reason for the others to know.

‘There are ways to make him compliant. It is our money and he can have no objection to cooperating with us.'

‘With all due respect, General,' the major said, ‘it seems to me that you've forgotten that his wife and children were killed by our operatives, and that the man is as stubborn as a mule.'

‘Even a mule can be made to obey. It's up to you to make it work.' The general pointed at the model of the Moses Mabhida Stadium. ‘It is a good plan, an elegant one.' He pointed at the major. ‘It's up to you to make it work. Find a way. And be quick. From what Berrangé has said, they will start the manufacture of the box sections soon.'

A solitary seagull on the light pole across the street brought Pierre de Villiers back to the present. He checked again whether his cellphone was on, the one he always wore on a thong around his neck.

The call came on time.

‘They want you back here in three days, no more,' Johann Weber said. ‘No argument and no delaying tactics.'

De Villiers was ready. ‘Have you spoken to Liesl recently?' he asked. ‘Are there any clues?'

‘Yesterday morning. I could hear lots of birds that are not of our local variety. Definitely hornbills, and a ground hornbill, I thought. Liesl would have known for sure, but we weren't allowed to say much.'

‘They must be somewhere north of Durban, Zululand perhaps,' De Villiers ventured.

‘Or further north, I thought,' Weber added.

‘You mean in the bushveld?'

‘I grew up there,' Johann Weber said. ‘I know the sounds. There was something that reminded me of the place where I grew up. It wasn't just the hornbills, but the cicadas and the smaller birds, including a rainbird.'

Pierre de Villiers's survival training had covered a lot of that: which birds were edible and where they were found throughout the subcontinent. ‘There's not much left to hunt in Zululand, so it has to be north of that.'

‘I think so too,' Weber agreed.

‘Is she alright, though?' De Villiers asked.

There was a pause before Weber replied. ‘She sounded alright, but I can't be sure. She's never been the type to complain. And they were standing right next to her, they told me, so she couldn't say much. And I didn't want to take any risks.'

‘I'll come over on the earliest flight,' De Villiers promised. ‘And then we can sort this out once and for all.'

‘That's fine. Let me know when you have a flight number.'

‘I'll do that,' De Villiers said. ‘And Johann, I'm sorry.'

There was a long silence, so long that De Villiers thought the connection might have been cut. So he said again, ‘I'm sorry. I'm sure it's my fault.'

‘Oh, nonsense!' Weber replied. ‘How can it be your fault when we both know that we're dealing with totally irrational people?'

When there was no answer, Weber added, ‘Let me know your flight number when you're ready,' and cut the connection.

De Villiers was more than ready. His bag was packed, with both his passports in the top pocket of his multipocketed travel jacket. His Leatherman multitool was in the bag. It would have to travel in the hold. A gift from his brother-in-law, it had been strapped to his ankle during numerous missions in Angola during the war years. All he had to do was to make some phone calls. Four or five, he reckoned.

His beard had come along nicely, but it made him look ten years older and accentuated the lines at the corners of his eyes. He was ready. This time he would use the knife. This time there would be blood. It can't be done otherwise, he had concluded during one of the nights when he couldn't sleep. Closure was going to come at a price, and the price was blood. De Villiers had no intention that the blood should be his, or his daughter's, or Liesl Weber's.

This time Emma de Villiers was more understanding. She knew De Villiers had to go back to South Africa, that it was the only way they'd get Zoë back. ‘Yes, you can go, but I don't want you to take any risks,' she said. ‘Give them what they want, and then come back as soon as you can.'

De Villiers made the first call standing on the veranda on the first floor, looking out over the Macleans Reserve and to the islands beyond. He needed an excuse to go to South Africa. An alibi, should he ever need one. Considering what he intended to do, he might well need one. In line with his training as a Special Forces operator, the exit strategy was always the first thing he planned. He called his doctor. Dr Annette de Bruyn was on weekend duty at her practice and took the call.

‘Annette, I need an excuse to take some leave and go back to South Africa. Could you please make arrangements for me to see Dr McKerron in Durban in about five or six days?'

‘You also need to see a gastroenterologist for the radiation proctitis we spoke about. And you might as well have a check-up from the oncologist who treated you last year. What's her name again?'

De Villiers couldn't remember either. Most of the treatment had been administered by a radiographer, Marissa, a mischievous girl hardly out of her teens. ‘Come by later,' Dr de Bruyn said, ‘and I'll have the referral letters ready for you.'

Next he phoned
DS
Veerasinghe. She was at home and she sounded tearful. ‘Has he roughed you up again?' De Villiers asked.

She denied it, just as she always did, but De Villiers was not convinced. ‘Vaishna,' he said, ‘one of these days I'll drive over there and break his neck, I swear.'

‘He is the father of my children. Leave him alone,' she said. Her husband was a taxi driver who worked odd hours and then expected his wife to be waiting for him when he arrived home. She had to be in the kitchen, ready to serve her master. If she was family, De Villiers thought, I would have broken both his legs already. He resolved to pay the man a visit on his return from South Africa.

‘Please let me know how the police investigation is going,' he said. He had been warned off the investigation and they were treating him like a suspect. ‘Please send me an email every day with a full report.'

She promised, although he couldn't expect much. The case was, after all, in the hands of another unit.

He booked tickets for Auckland-Sydney-Johannesburg-Durban on the internet, printed the tickets, and sent a text message to Johann Weber with the Durban flight details.

It was still too early to make his daily call to Zoë. The number they had given him was on speed dial. He called it anyway.

‘Hallo.' It was a man's voice, a South African. He had said, hallo, not hello. On the last two scheduled calls, a woman speaking with a Remuera Kiwi accent had answered.

‘It's De Villiers,' he said in English, although he was tempted to speak Afrikaans. ‘I'd like to speak to my daughter.'

‘Thus iss not the time to phone. You muss only phone in the evening.'

De Villiers took a chance. ‘I've had a message from your boss. And I need to speak to my daughter now.'

‘I only take orders from the general,' the man said. The clue slipped out and confirmed De Villiers's own conclusion.

‘Well,' De Villiers lied, ‘the general sent me a message through the major, and I need to talk to my daughter now.'

After a short delay, Zoë came on the line. ‘Dad? Is that you?' The phone was on speaker, De Villiers could hear.

‘Hello, Babyshoes. Are you okay?'

‘Of course I'm okay. I can look after myself. Are you okay, Dad?' She sounded like her mother.

‘What are you doing, my girl?'

‘I'm painting and drawing and writing. And in the evening I watch
TV
with Auntie Sandy.' De Villiers had correctly identified the local kidnappers.

‘That's nice. Is Auntie Sandy taking good care of you?' De Villiers asked.

‘That wasn't nice,' the man said. ‘You are trying to trick us. It won't work. Don't phone again. We will phone you. Unnerstand?'

The line went dead before De Villiers could answer.

When he rang again, there was no answer. The message option was set to the service provider's answering service. He left a short message that he regretted as soon as he had rung off. Another empty threat. De Villiers was angry with himself for his lack of professionalism. They won't take me seriously if I carry on like this, he thought. But another thought also crossed his mind. That might be just what I need: them not taking me seriously enough.

De Villiers ate his breakfast slowly. The cereal stuck in his throat like unbuttered bread. He took out the pay-as-you-go cellphone with the secret number and speed-dialled another number on his list.

‘Have you found the house yet?' he asked.

‘No, but we're narrowing the search to an area between the main street and near the river. We think it's there.'

‘Good. Keep looking, and let me know as soon as you find it. It would help a lot if you could pinpoint their location today or tomorrow, the earlier the better,' De Villiers said. ‘I'm flying out on Monday morning and I'd like to know where they are before I leave.'

‘Will do, Captain.'

‘It's Major to you.'

‘Yes, sir!'

‘I'm going to be away for six to ten days. I'm counting on you to bring her out safely.' De Villiers knew that these men he had contracted to get his daughter back were good. Though he hadn't met them before, he knew them by the reputation of their unit. They were recces who got the job done. In close confines, face to face with the enemy. In hand-to-hand combat. Without causing civilian casualties.

He had no choice but to put his trust in them. ‘When you find the house and have confirmed that my daughter is inside, don't do anything until I give the final order, alright?'