The First Rule Of Survival (38 page)

‘Can you talk?’

‘Ja.’

‘I’m at the Caldwell farm. Nothing yet. What about your end?’

‘I’m in trouble, sir. I stayed out of sight until after three, then I had all hell let loose on me when they could not find you. I told them you felt sick and had gone to find a chemist. I do not know if they believed me, but now they are worried that you will talk to the press and the media.’

‘I don’t care, Don. If I don’t find this boy Joe, I don’t think I want a job any more. You just keep your head down and nothing will stick.’

‘You have visited the bunker?’

‘No. Can’t see the point.’

‘Why not?’

‘We still have guys there, don’t we? It’s still sealed off.’

‘Not since Monday. It is sealed, but there’s no one there as far as I know. You could ask Thambo.’

‘I didn’t know that. I’ll go after I’ve spoken with Caldwell. Thambo may call you. Ask him then. Call me if anything comes up – but Don? Watch yourself.’

He hangs up, negotiates a right-angled turn, continues up the hill towards a copse of gum trees.

*   *   *

He takes almost fifteen minutes to wind his way gingerly over the deeply rutted track past fallow fields and then up a long stretch towards the summit of a broad rolling hill. As he crests the summit, the low evening sun hits the windshield and blinds him. He pulls down the sun-visor, squints at the road ahead, makes the turn and sees two huge barns some 300 metres ahead of him. Apart from their dark forms, the whole scene is bleached white by the low autumn sun, and de Vries keeps his left hand raised over his left eye to block out the intense light.

He finds Ernest Caldwell smoking by his car outside the entrance to the first of the two barns. Caldwell waves at de Vries and starts to trudge towards him the moment the Toyota’s engine is switched off.

‘De Vries? Deirdre called me on my cell. If she’d thought, I could have come back to the house.’ He grips Vaughn’s hand firmly, shakes it. ‘We’re all in shock here. We can’t believe it. Those poor children only a few kilometres from our house, just off our land. We can’t get our heads around it.’

‘I was searching for them for seven years. I knew they, or their bodies, were somewhere.’

They stand silently for a moment. There are swallows on the wing; their plaintive cries drift on the strong breeze.

Caldwell nods. ‘What can I do for you?’

De Vries studies him for a moment, shuffling around until his back is to the sun. Caldwell is the first person he has met today who has seemed relaxed and content, his face and body-posture open, his eyes met with his own. Everyone is hiding something, but Caldwell just smiles affably, awaiting instruction. It almost throws him.

‘We have an ongoing situation, sir,’ de Vries tells him, leaning in to speak above the persistent breeze. ‘I need to review some information. Is that all right?’

Caldwell offers him a cigarette. De Vries declines, pulls his own pack from his pocket and they both stick one in their mouths. Caldwell passes him a heavy, industrial-looking lighter.

‘Wind-proofed. Vital here. Deirdre gave it to me.’ De Vries nods, fires it up, and passes it back to him. ‘Ask whatever you like.’

‘You told my men you had no idea about the government building, the bunker, just off your land?’

‘Yes – I mean, no.’ He laughs. ‘I was amazed to discover it was there. I would have expected the Land Searches to have thrown it up, but I guess it was secret. There are all sorts of rumours going ar—’

‘What about the rest of your workers?’ de Vries interrupts. ‘Did they ever speak to you about it?’

‘No, Colonel. You can see for yourself if you want to drive around the farm. It’s at the furthest corner from us. We don’t even cultivate those distant fields at the moment, so there’s no need for any of us ever to go there. And as you’ll see, it’s in a dip. I went up there after everything had happened. I couldn’t get a bakkie anywhere near, it’s too rough.’

‘So, none of your workers would ever have been there?’

‘No. I suppose Terry might have ridden out that far, but I doubt it.’

‘Who’s Terry?’

‘Terry Hardiman. He’s our groom. We have stables here and he oversees the team. Spends most of his time in the saddle, training my kids, or taking visitors for rides.’

De Vries feels his fingers tingle. ‘Your groom. A white guy?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long has he worked for you here?’

Caldwell looks taken aback. ‘I don’t know. Maybe six or seven years. Why?’

‘South African guy?’

‘Yes. Well, English originally, I believe. I think of myself as a Bokkie now . . .’ He chuckles, but checks himself when he sees de Vries’ frozen expression. ‘We don’t spend a lot of time together. He knew my last girlfriend better – and my kids, of course. He has his own cottage with its own stables, just along from the cottages and the main stable-block. I think he said he came from Port Elizabeth, spent some time in the UK. I’m from Derbyshire originally. Got divorced, wanted a new start. Why?’

De Vries considers for a moment. Then: ‘Got a picture of him?’

Caldwell splutters. ‘Not on me.’ He laughs. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘Probably not. You have any other white employees?’

‘A couple of girls who work in the shop. They come in from Riebeek West three days a week. Otherwise, no.’ Caldwell clicks his fingers. ‘Actually, I
do
have a picture of Terry. Come inside.’

He leads de Vries into the first of the two barns and then through an interior door into a small office with a chipboard desk and an old iron filing-cabinet. On the wall is a distorted piece of paper, printed with a photographic image. The first thing de Vries notices is the broad band of deep blue sky that runs across the top. As he approaches it, he sees that it is a group shot of people in front of the two barns.

‘We took this when we built and opened these two barns. It was a big thing for us. February before last. It was a kind of barn-raising, like in that film . . .’ Caldwell reaches up and pulls the sheet off the corkboard. ‘
Witness
, that was it.’ He hands the sheet to de Vries. ‘Terry is right here.’ He points to a tall figure at the back of the group of about forty people.

De Vries squints at it. Says, ‘I need to take this outside.’

He trots back into the sunshine, stares at the picture. The inkjet printing has begun to fade and, close up, it is pixilated and fuzzy. De Vries holds it away from himself, tries to focus on the partially obscured face. He is experiencing the same sensations he felt when he studied the picture of Toby Henderson in the mortuary. He swallows hard, aware that his hands are shaking and that he cannot keep the picture still enough to stare at it any longer. He is almost certain.

He looks up to see Ernest Caldwell lighting another cigarette. He takes a breath and steadies himself.

‘I ought to speak to this Terry myself. Where will he be?’

Caldwell looks down at his watch.

‘It’s coming up to five now. He’ll either be at his place or out riding. He often takes his horse for a run at dusk. I’ll drive you down and we’ll see. You need to go right away?’

‘Yes.’

Caldwell points a remote-control key fob at the barn and the huge door begins to descend.

‘Follow me down.’

He ducks into his Subaru. De Vries gets into the Toyota, struggles to push the key into the ignition, finally fires up the engine and pulls out after Caldwell. He is thinking about the face in the picture. The face with a beard and sideburns, not complete but, he thinks, complete enough. He wonders whether he has seen correctly and wishes he had taken the picture with him.

When they pull up outside the cottage, de Vries can see how isolated it is. Further down the gentle hill, perhaps a kilometre away, is a group of plainer workers’ cottages in a semicircle of gum trees, some with lights in the windows, but this house is bigger, completely dark.

Caldwell gets out of his car and walks over to Vaughn.

‘Looks like he’s out just now. He has his own stables around the back. We can check and see if Derby is missing.’

‘Derby?’

‘His horse.’

They walk briskly behind the house to a small courtyard bordered by three stables. Caldwell peers into each box. From the second one a white horse’s head appears but, from the others, there is no sign of life.

‘Yes. He’s out riding. He’ll have taken his dog, William, with him too. Do you want to wait?’

De Vries wonders. He affects nonchalance.

‘No. I’ll catch him tomorrow. Will you see him this evening?’

‘Probably not. I can call him later. He never takes his cell out with him – the reception isn’t great around here.’

‘That’s fine. I’ll call by tomorrow morning.’

Caldwell looks at him. ‘Are you sure? You seemed concerned back there up at the barns.’

‘No. It’s been a long day, that’s all, and I could do with a break. Tomorrow is fine.’

Caldwell waits a moment longer, then turns towards his car. He stops and looks back at de Vries.

‘You want to talk to Deirdre or me any more?’

‘No, sir. Thank you. When I come to the main road, which way do I go for Riebeek-Kasteel?’

‘Turn right. When you reach the T-junction, turn left and you’ll see it signposted. There’s still another hour of light. You’ll be there well before nightfall. Just follow me back to the farmhouse and then carry on past me.’

De Vries studies the map on top of Thambo’s pile of reports, realizes that he is closer to the entrance of the Fineberg olive farm than he had imagined. He shuts off the reading light and looks at his cellphone. There are eight missed calls. The charge is nearly exhausted, but he scrolls down the list, sees that they are all from Don February. He presses the call button and hears Don’s phone ringing. The ringing stops and there is the sound of the freeway. ‘Don. Can you talk?’

The light on his screen fades and dies; the line goes dead. He has no battery left. He opens the glove compartment, then remembers that he is not in his own car. There is no charger there. He wants to throw the phone down hard, break it into pieces, but he lays it gently on the passenger seat, his hand shaking. He feels his heart beating in his temples. He stays stationary at the junction, engine running, the light beginning to fade around him. He knows that he must return to Riebeek-Kasteel, get in contact with Don February, put together a team, at the least with Ben Thambo. He hears himself breathing above the engine noise, rubs the sweat off his palms with the tips of his fingers, grips the wheel and turns left – towards the Fineberg olive farm.

There is no one at the entrance from the main road, and he drives fast and focused onto the track around the olive groves. Already, he needs his full-beam headlights to show him the way. The sun has fallen and the grey dusk of the countryside is blacker than night in the city. He takes the 90-degree turn at the far corner and begins to slow down. He stops the Toyota a hundred metres short of the turn-off down into the wooded dell. He searches the glove compartment and cubby-holes for a torch, finds nothing. He pats his chest for the feel of his gun and realizes that this, too, has been jettisoned back at headquarters.

He gets out of the car, trots towards the turn-off and then jogs down the hill towards the bunker, trying to mask his panting. The moon has barely risen and the canopy of trees block out what there is of dull white light. He ducks under the striped police tape and runs to where he remembers the trapdoor is positioned. It is closed, but not padlocked. He heaves the iron gate up and lowers it as slowly as he can to the ground. He is about to climb down inside when he freezes. In the distance, he hears a horse whinnying. He wonders whether the man calling himself Terry is on the horse or in the bunker, wonders whether to follow the sound of the horse, or let his body lead him where it will. He swallows, descends the ladder and jumps the last few steps, hitting the ground heavily, almost losing his balance. His limbs feel weak and shaky, but he is so charged with adrenalin now that he drives himself on, step after step.

He reaches the green doors at the entrance to the bunker and finds them shut also. He tries to squeeze his fingers between them, but cannot shift them. He picks up the strongest branch he can find on the ground and inserts it into the narrow gap between them. The right-hand door moves a few centimetres, but he cannot gain sufficient purchase to lever it open. He searches the perimeter in the gloom, bent low over the leaves and twigs. His hand hits metal and he brings the object up to his face: a thick rusted blade from what might have been a chisel. He returns to the doors and tries again. Using all his limited strength, he pushes the chisel blade between the gap and uses the left-hand door as purchase. Finally, he swaps it for his fingers, dropping the chisel blade and, grimacing, heaves open the right-hand door. He squeezes inside, leaning his back against the door to keep it open. He uses his left foot to drag the chisel to the base of the left-hand door, lets the right-hand door close, almost completely.

He turns, stares down the corridor that descends to his right, sees only blackness, knows that there will be no light until he passes through the next set of doors and, even then, he doesn’t know whether the power has been cut, whether the generator which powered the dull green bulb, the cursed chest freezer, is still running.

He lets his eyes adjust to the blackness and then begins to move down the corridor, his arms held out ahead of him. He senses the walls either side of him, but he cannot see them. The smell infects his nostrils again, damp and mildew-ridden. It brings back the fear and desperation which overcame him, last time he was here. He stops, suddenly paralysed, appalled at the prospect of diving once more into the heavy black air ahead of him. He then pulls himself straight, continues gingerly, step by step.

His fingers hit the double doors at the bottom of the corridor and he swears under his breath. He sees nothing, but he shoulders open the door, which swings forward heavily but silently and then, once he is through, shuts behind him with an almost imperceptible hiss. At the far end, he can just see the low glow of green light that had lit their way only a week previously. Bracing himself, he walks slowly towards the prison block, concentrating on masking his footsteps by walking almost on tiptoe.