The Delta (41 page)

She wanted to say something encouraging, but she had already decided that she wanted no more of this operation. Once she had briefed Martin on her recce she was still determined to turn her back on Corporate Solutions and take no part in bringing war to a country at peace, no matter what injustices these separatist rebels may or may not have endured.

The machine-gun continued to fire in desultory bursts of three to five rounds at a time. Above and in between the cacophony was
the even louder voice of a man screaming in a local language, which sounded like Lozi.

‘Is ammunition a problem for you?'

The leader shook his head. ‘No, we have plenty of ammunition and weapons, though by now you may have heard that we could use more men. Why do you ask?'

‘Those are machine-guns that are firing. Those men need to be told to use them like machine-guns. They need to get used to firing twenty-round bursts. It's an area weapon, not a popgun.'

The leader turned and looked at her, and she read a look of surprise on his face. He'd obviously just been making conversation when he'd mentioned that a woman might be able to teach them something about war.

‘But surely it is better to conserve—'

The voice was screaming now and it had lapsed into heavily accented English. ‘Cease fire. Listen to me, you stupid bastards … I won't tell you again. THIS IS A MACHINE-GUN. FIRE IT LIKE A
FOKKING
MACHINE-GUN, NOT LIKE A
BLADDY
POPGUN!'

After a brief pause the gun started firing again and it kept going until the whole belt of seventy, eighty, maybe a hundred rounds was finished. Sonja heard the metallic clunk as the empty breech block locked itself in the open position.

The leader was saying something to her but she wasn't listening. She was gripping each side of the
mekoro
tightly. Her head was spinning and her blood was pumping so hard and fast its noise was deafening her.

She told herself she had to be wrong. It couldn't be him.

The poler pushed them towards a chink in the curtain of papyrus and when Sonja looked up she saw a man in uniform waiting for them.

‘Good afternoon, madam.'

‘Gideon!' It had taken her a couple of seconds to recognise him. His head was shaved and he was wearing a smartly pressed short-sleeve camouflage shirt and trousers. He braced up into a position of attention, then shuffled carefully down the muddy bank to catch the bow of the
mekoro
as it slid between the long stems of grass. ‘How are you?'

‘I am fine, madam, and you? Are you well?'

‘Yes, I am well.' The leader stepped out and Sonja politely waved off Gideon's hand and stepped off the canoe. It was good to stretch her legs again. Gideon did look fine. As she shook his hand, three times in the African manner, she saw the whites of his eyes were clear and his breath no longer smelled like a Sunday morning shebeen. Gideon exchanged a few words with the leader, who bowed to Sonja and told her again he was sorry for her inconvenience, and that he must rejoin his men. The poler pulled her Glock from his shorts and handed it to her.

‘Come, madam,' Gideon said. ‘I am to take you to the general, our commander. He is with our senior instructor and operations officer, who also wants to meet you.'

She felt her legs weaken, as though they might give out from under her, and mentally cursed herself for her weakness.

It couldn't be.

Gideon made small talk as he led her on a well-trodden path that became firmer and drier with every step. They were on a sandy island and ahead of her was a cluster of mature sausage trees and mahoganies. She heard an authoritative deep voice speaking loudly in Lozi.

The reeds gave way to long grass as they approached the shade of the trees. Sonja saw thatched roofs and as the grass became progressively shorter she saw the dwellings were actually open-sided
lapas
, or shelters. They were long and narrow and beneath the thatch were chairs and tables, like an open-air bush schoolroom.

Gideon motioned for her to wait, with a gentle hand on her arm. Sitting cross-legged in the clearing, facing them, were a dozen young men in camouflage fatigues. Her arrival had been noted and the men couldn't help glancing at the white woman who had emerged from the long grass. Addressing the trainees was an older African man, also in uniform, with a cap of tight grey curls and a black swagger stick tucked under one arm. His deep voice was rising to a crescendo, as if he was fighting to keep their attention. Eyes dutifully flicked back to the general.

Beside the pontificating commander was another old man, but this one was white. There was much less hair on top than she remembered, and what there was now hung long and lank and grey almost to his shoulders, which seemed a little rounded with age. The legs were bandy, but the calves muscled. His exposed skin was nut brown, except for the top of his head, which was red and mottled with dark sunspots. He wore a faded T-shirt in the camouflage pattern of the old South African Defence Force, denim shorts and rafter sandals.

She could tell by the way his head was moving slowly from side to side that he was watching the eyes of the young recruits. He would have noticed their distraction.

When the general finished his address he turned to the white man, who turned sharply to his right and saluted the African general. The commander reciprocated and turned and walked away.

‘Course,' the white man said.

There were no more doubts, and hearing his voice up close merely confirmed her worst fear. She wanted to turn and run away.

‘COURSE! On your
bladdy
feet, you useless pack of bastards!' The recruits scrambled to stand and snapped to attention. ‘Course, dis-missed.'

He turned away from the troops, who milled around in the clearing chatting to each other, and walked towards her.

He smiled and she took in his face as he approached her. He wore rimless glasses now and his beard was long and white, except for the yellow tobacco stains around his mouth, which matched the colour of his teeth as his mouth contorted into a wide grin framed by deep wrinkles. He spread his arms wide as he closed the distance between them.

‘Hello, my girl. It's been a long time.'

She turned away from him and again she felt the urge to flee from his touch.

‘Sonja, wait, let's—'

She changed her mind and turned back to face him. Putting every ounce of her weight into the swing, she slammed her fist into the left side of his jaw.

He staggered, reaching out with his right hand to steady himself, but recovered from the blow and straightened himself up again. He worked his jaw from side to side and placed his fingers gently against the left side of his face.

The soldiers behind him stopped their chatter and a couple had the temerity to laugh.

‘SHUT UP YOU BASTARDS.' He didn't look back at them, but his words were enough to silence and disperse the troops. He stared at her.

‘Hello,
Papa
.' She turned on her foot and walked away from him, towards a brown canvas army tent into which the general had just disappeared.

‘Sonja?'

She ignored him.

She opened the flap of the tent and a soldier seated at a fold-out table with a tactical radio set on it stood up. ‘Hey!' He reached for a pistol in a holster on his belt.

‘Relax, Mishak. We are expecting this woman,' said the older man.

‘I take it you're in charge here,' she said to the man without preamble.

‘I am. Leave us, Mishak.' The young soldier looked at Sonja, fastened the flap on his holster, and walked out. ‘And if you have come to serve in the Caprivi Liberation Army, Ms Kurtz, in whatever capacity, you will please address us as “sir”.'

When he'd said ‘we' were expecting her she had thought the general was referring to his entire force. She could see now he favoured the royal ‘we'. Not a good first impression. ‘I haven't come to serve anyone or anything. I was on my way to meet my employer, Martin Steele, when your men kidnapped me.'

‘Kidnapped?' He sat down behind another folding desk and motioned for her to take a seat in a canvas-covered director's chair.

She shook her head. ‘I don't intend on staying long. Where is Steele?'

‘
Major
Steele is on his way here now. Respect for rank is important, Ms Kurtz. We did not give orders to kidnap you, Ms Kurtz, we gave orders to
protect
you.'

‘From what?'

‘You were involved in a gunfight with three men who were trying to kill you near Divundu. After that, you were tailed all the way along the Caprivi Strip by two men in a Nissan Patrol.'

That was news to her. The road had been pretty empty and she was sure she would have spotted a tail. ‘How do you know all this?'

‘The Caprivi is our homeland, Ms Kurtz. We have eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing happens there that we do not know about.'

Sonja wondered how, then, ‘our' troops were able to walk into an ambush at the dam construction site that left scores of the general's soldiers dead, wounded or captured, but she resisted the urge to inject the barb.

‘We were told,' he continued, ‘that you were a professional, Ms Kurtz, whom we could learn from. Personally, I doubt our men could gain much from the experiences of … of one so young, but Major Steele was very persuasive. I wonder now, however, if you will bring us trouble.'

She didn't need to take this tinpot Idi Amin's abuse, though she was concerned if she was being followed. ‘Who was tailing me?'

‘That,' he reached into the pocket of his starched fatigue shirt for a packet of cigarettes, ‘we shall know soon, Ms Kurtz.'

She heard footsteps behind her and turned. Her father was standing at the entrance to the command tent. He stepped across the threshold and saluted. The general sat upright, with his clenched fists on his table top. ‘Enter, Major Kurtz.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

Sonja rolled her eyes at this parody of military discipline.

‘Begging the general's pardon, sir …'

‘Ah, you wish to spend time with your daughter. I understand, Major. Please do so, and appraise us of her intentions at your convenience.'

Sonja turned and brushed past her father, not bothering to indulge the general's Napoleon complex any further.

‘Sonja … wait.'

She strode across the clearing, looking for the man who had brought her here, or Gideon … anyone who could get her out of this place of madness. She felt his cool, rough skin on her arm and she rounded on him, dropping her hand to the butt of the Glock sticking out of her shorts.

He stood there, mouth open. He blinked. ‘You would raise a gun to your father?'

‘To stop you hitting me, or any other woman again. Yes.'

He looked at the ground. ‘It's what I wanted to talk to you about. For so long. I've changed, Sonja.'

She turned again and started walking away.

Walking towards her, gingerly stepping around the line of MAG 58 machine-guns that rested on their bipods on the ground, was an African woman with an elaborately braided hairdo piled on the top of her head. In her arms she carried a toddler, a little boy whose skin was several shades lighter than hers. The woman looked at Sonja as she came alongside her.

‘Don't you at least want to say hello to your half-brother?'

Sonja stopped in her tracks and looked back. The woman with the child had moved to her father's side and Hans Kurtz put his arm around her.

Sonja was speechless.

Her father took the little coloured boy from his mother's arms and kissed him. ‘Hello my boy.' He set the child down. ‘This is your big sister, Sonja. Say hello to her, Frederick.'

She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn't come. It was as if she'd been struck dumb. There was so much to be said, but she'd been happy a second ago to leave it unsaid and walk away from him forever.

The woman walked towards her and extended her hand. ‘Hello, Sonja. My name is Miriam. Your father has told me much about you.'

Sonja looked down at the woman's hand, but didn't take it. She could never tell with African women, but she thought this one, this
Miriam
was no older than she – perhaps even a few years younger. Miriam lowered her arm and clasped her hands in front of her. ‘I understand …' she began.

‘You understand nothing.' Sonja glared at her father, ignoring the woman, and thought of the lost years when he had drunk his way out of her life. She thought of the wasted time she had spent living with him, when her mother, who knew better, stayed in the UK. She remembered the biting sting of his palm across her face and how she'd vowed no man would ever touch her like that again.

Something brushed her leg and she looked down. It was the child. He had moved, unseen, between Sonja and his mother. He reached up and patted her on the thigh, where the sticky plaster dressing covered the wound that was almost healed.

‘Ouch,' the little boy said.

She stared down at his upturned coffee-coloured face.

‘Your father told me of the bad things he did to you, and your mother, Sonja,' Miriam said quietly, as Sonja looked into the wide green eyes of the little boy. ‘He told me about his drinking, and the violence towards you. He no longer drinks alcohol.'

She tore her eyes from the child and looked at the withered man with the bushy white beard. He had the sense not to say anything, but simply nodded.

‘And he has never raised a hand to me.'

‘No,' Sonja rounded back on the mother. ‘Only me and my mom.'

‘And I have seen him, heard him, pray for forgiveness for those acts many times.'

She couldn't recall her father ever setting a foot inside a church, except for funerals. Also, as she looked at him, trying to see through his eyes, she heard the countless, repetitive, objectionable words he'd had for black people.
Kaffir
,
coon
,
wood-head
,
munt
,
nigger
… and so many more. The racist jokes; the way he'd make fun of his farm workers without them realising it; the things he'd said he would do, when he thought she was out of earshot, to the terrorists who had raided the farm in his absence.