Winterhoek exploded. “I’ll say there’s a connection! And do you know who we must thank for it? I’ll tell you. Some fourth-grade trainee! While we were running around in circles, she - yes, a flippertyjibbet of a girl - decided, off her own bat, to look a little deeper. And do you know what she came up with? Whose name ?”
“No, sir, I don’t!” said Bluthen irritably, even forgetting to add “sir” - an omission neither man noticed.
Winterhoek again hit the desktop. “Of course, you don’t! And neither did I. Didn’t even think about it! Which just goes to show, doesn’t it?”
“For God’s sake!” hissed Bluthen under his breath. “Get on with it!”
Winterhoek sucked in a breath and expelled it noisily. “One of those innocent and totally unconnected teenagers, major, is a girl called McCann! Karen McCann. How do you like that !”
“Kar...” Bluthen began, astounded.
“Exactly!” said Winterhoek, sitting back sharply in the chair.
Winterhoek had slept for something over four hours undisturbed, and had finally woken naturally, just as dusk was setting in. The call from SAI HQ in Pretoria had come through two hours later, the subject matter of which was to have been a computer run-down of all known foreign agents operating in both the Congo and Zaire. The news about Karen McCann had been a totally unexpected bonus, one that had blessed the business with a radically new dimension. As Bluthen had hoped, they were now taking an offensive line of their own.
Winterhoek rose from behind the desk and stepped briskly over to the French windows, peering out at the moonlit gardens. “Let’s take a stroll outside, major. I can think better on the move.” He slid open the door and stepped out onto the patio. Bluthen, his mind grappling with this latest addition, followed him out.
The air itself was cool and still, but filled with countless fluttering moths, attracted by the lighted windows. Bluthen quickly closed the door behind them. The moon, as yet low down in the evening sky, washed the trees a pale grey. Through the branches it was possible to see the broken patchwork loom of one of the lights on the outside wall. There was a crunch of a footstep on the gravel path and a shadowy figure stepped into view.
Bluthen waved. “All right, Kenneth...”
The figure gave a loose salute and a mumbled, “Yes, Nkosi,” then stepped back into the shadows to resume his rounds.
Bluthen followed Winterhoek down the steps and onto the dark-shadowed lawn. The high-pitched twitterings of the insect life dimmed slightly as they moved into the trees, then swelled back to its normal level as if some inner sense had told them that the intruders had just as much right to be there.
“Blackmail., d’you think, sir?” asked Bluthen.
“Of course,” said Winterhoek., slowing his pace to an amble. “Which enables us now to take a more considered guess at the Brit’s overall strategy.” He paused, a finger raised in the air. “Once bitten, twice shy, major. Before we go off half cocked, let us conduct a brief resume of events leading up to this...this most significant moment. And let us do it slowly, concisely, and chronologically...”
An hour later they were still wandering the gardens.
“Perfect terrain for an ambush, sir,” Bluthen was saying. “And you must be right; even a bombing strike on this Kanyamifupa place would not succeed totally. The worst damage Motanga could inflict, being realistic, would be a dispersal.”
Winterhoek flapped a hand in the air. “Besides which, major, of all the current protagonists, only McCann knows precisely where the damned place is. No, Motanga - plus the British, of course - was more or less obliged to allow McCann unimpeded access to some kind of staging area.”
“Yes, sir. And it would be typical of Aaron Motanga to insist upon something
fairly - very - spectacular, in exchange for the Mai-Ntombi Tract concession. The Americans offered vast sums for
“No, sir, I don’t!” said Bluthen irritably, even forgetting to add “sir” - an omission neither man noticed.
Winterhoek again hit the desktop. “Of course, you don’t! And neither did I. Didn’t even think about it! Which just goes to show, doesn’t it?”
“For God’s sake!” hissed Bluthen under his breath. “Get on with it!”
Winterhoek sucked in a breath and expelled it noisily. “One of those innocent and totally unconnected teenagers, major, is a girl called McCann! Karen McCann. How do you like that !”
“Kar...” Bluthen began, astounded.
“Exactly!” said Winterhoek, sitting back sharply in the chair.
Winterhoek had slept for something over four hours undisturbed, and had finally woken naturally, just as dusk was setting in. The call from SAI HQ in Pretoria had come through two hours later, the subject matter of which was to have been a computer run-down of all known foreign agents operating in both the Congo and Zaire. The news about Karen McCann had been a totally unexpected bonus, one that had blessed the business with a radically new dimension. As Bluthen had hoped, they were now taking an offensive line of their own.
Winterhoek rose from behind the desk and stepped briskly over to the French windows, peering out at the moonlit gardens. “Let’s take a stroll outside, major. I can think better on the move.” He slid open the door and stepped out onto the patio. Bluthen, his mind grappling with this latest addition, followed him out.
The air itself was cool and still, but filled with countless fluttering moths, attracted by the lighted windows. Bluthen quickly closed the door behind them. The moon, as yet low down in the evening sky, washed the trees a pale grey. Through the branches it was possible to see the broken patchwork loom of one of the lights on the outside wall. There was a crunch of a footstep on the gravel path and a shadowy figure stepped into view.
Bluthen waved. “All right, Kenneth...”
The figure gave a loose salute and a mumbled, “Yes, Nkosi,” then stepped back into the shadows to resume his rounds.
Bluthen followed Winterhoek down the steps and onto the dark-shadowed lawn. The high-pitched twitterings of the insect life dimmed slightly as they moved into the trees, then swelled back to its normal level as if some inner sense had told them that the intruders had just as much right to be there.
“Blackmail., d’you think, sir?” asked Bluthen.
“Of course,” said Winterhoek., slowing his pace to an amble. “Which enables us now to take a more considered guess at the Brit’s overall strategy.” He paused, a finger raised in the air. “Once bitten, twice shy, major. Before we go off half cocked, let us conduct a brief resume of events leading up to this...this most significant moment. And let us do it slowly, concisely, and chronologically...”
An hour later they were still wandering the gardens.
“Perfect terrain for an ambush, sir,” Bluthen was saying. “And you must be right; even a bombing strike on this Kanyamifupa place would not succeed totally. The worst damage Motanga could inflict, being realistic, would be a dispersal.”
Winterhoek flapped a hand in the air. “Besides which, major, of all the current protagonists, only McCann knows precisely where the damned place is. No, Motanga - plus the British, of course - was more or less obliged to allow McCann unimpeded access to some kind of staging area.”
“Yes, sir. And it would be typical of Aaron Motanga to insist upon something
fairly - very - spectacular, in exchange for the Mai-Ntombi Tract concession. The Americans offered vast sums for
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