that; plus God knows what else. And he turned them down flat!”
“Quite. So the Brits wave a big stick at McCann’s daughter, which has apparently persuaded him to do something that goes very much against his grain...or why would they need the stick in the first place?”
“Oh, absolutely,” put in Bluthen, very much enjoying the game now.
“So, major...The meat of the matter. What if the Brits no longer had the daughter to wave their stick at ? What if we had her?”
Several seconds passed as Bluthen considered this. There was a certain irony about the possibility that appealed to him. And it was very definitely the kind of positive move he had been waiting to get his teeth into. Then again, he reasoned, where would it get them? What would be the end result? At last he said, “But what would we gain from that, sir? The Brits would lose out, certainly. And probably the Chinese. Though, perhaps,” he shrugged, “only in the short term.” He quickly added, “But that was our original goal anyway. Wasn’t it, sir?”
“As you remark, major...And?” Winterhoek’s tone rose sharply to the question.
Bluthen knew he was missing something, but could not for the life of him think what it was. He sighed, shrugged. Winterhoek clucked his tongue. “Devious thinking, major. I’m always saying that. Now, come along. How can we gain the advantage?”
Bluthen thought hard. He had already realized that Winterhoek was way ahead of him, that their next move would already be mapped out in his mind. This was a game the older man played with those under him. Sometimes it could be downright irritating, others, it could be tutorial. An idea did spring into Bluthen’s mind, but he discarded it. Aaron Motanga hated the new South Africa administration with a passion. None the less, he said, “But Motanga would not deal with us, sir. Not under any circumstances I can think of.”
Winterhoek smiled. The man was on the right track, anyway. “Of course Motanga will not deal with us. So, who would?”
“Pardon, sir?”
Winterhoek stifled his exasperation. “Who would deal with us...In Zaire ?” Now he did not wait for an answer. “Very well, major, I will tell you. Roderick Lumimba would deal with us. Or, at the very least, he would be less of a threat than Aaron Motanga is currently proving.”
Bluthen gave a nervous chuckle. “But Lumimba is in ex...ile.” The last word was uttered with a pronounced rallentando, plus a suddenly understanding dimenuendo. “You mean...”
Winterhoek nodded briskly. “That is precisely what I mean! And if we are quick off the mark we can damned-well achieve it!” His pace quickened automatically; his movement seemed always to be governed by the speed of his current thinking. “I need a safe house in neutral territory. Where do you suggest?”
Bluthen struggled to keep up with his superior, both in pace and mental dexterity. “Ah...We have two I can conjure up on the spur of the moment, sir. One in Kisimiso, Somalia. On the coast. That’s the mid-east transit station. We ran the Kenyan operations from there. It’s rarely used now, of course. A man called Kara-Munte runs it; from our pocket. And we have another in Soroti, north of Kampala. That one was the Uganda forward station; we use it now as a sort of Rest and Recreation base for all Central Africa operations.”
“Run by whom?”
“SAI Central, sir, in a roundabout sort of way. At least, it is debited to Central funds, and is the actual property of Central. But, to my knowledge, only we use it... Oh, and the East Africa station on the odd occasion.”
“That will be the one, then. Have it cleared and held in readiness to receive one female occupant and a baby-sitter. Ryan is the man for that job, methinks.
“I’ll see to it, sir. I think it’s unoccupied at the moment, in any case. If not, I’ll transfer whoever’s there to Kisimo.”
Winterhoek nodded. “Which also leads me to Vryburg...”
“The second in
“Quite. So the Brits wave a big stick at McCann’s daughter, which has apparently persuaded him to do something that goes very much against his grain...or why would they need the stick in the first place?”
“Oh, absolutely,” put in Bluthen, very much enjoying the game now.
“So, major...The meat of the matter. What if the Brits no longer had the daughter to wave their stick at ? What if we had her?”
Several seconds passed as Bluthen considered this. There was a certain irony about the possibility that appealed to him. And it was very definitely the kind of positive move he had been waiting to get his teeth into. Then again, he reasoned, where would it get them? What would be the end result? At last he said, “But what would we gain from that, sir? The Brits would lose out, certainly. And probably the Chinese. Though, perhaps,” he shrugged, “only in the short term.” He quickly added, “But that was our original goal anyway. Wasn’t it, sir?”
“As you remark, major...And?” Winterhoek’s tone rose sharply to the question.
Bluthen knew he was missing something, but could not for the life of him think what it was. He sighed, shrugged. Winterhoek clucked his tongue. “Devious thinking, major. I’m always saying that. Now, come along. How can we gain the advantage?”
Bluthen thought hard. He had already realized that Winterhoek was way ahead of him, that their next move would already be mapped out in his mind. This was a game the older man played with those under him. Sometimes it could be downright irritating, others, it could be tutorial. An idea did spring into Bluthen’s mind, but he discarded it. Aaron Motanga hated the new South Africa administration with a passion. None the less, he said, “But Motanga would not deal with us, sir. Not under any circumstances I can think of.”
Winterhoek smiled. The man was on the right track, anyway. “Of course Motanga will not deal with us. So, who would?”
“Pardon, sir?”
Winterhoek stifled his exasperation. “Who would deal with us...In Zaire ?” Now he did not wait for an answer. “Very well, major, I will tell you. Roderick Lumimba would deal with us. Or, at the very least, he would be less of a threat than Aaron Motanga is currently proving.”
Bluthen gave a nervous chuckle. “But Lumimba is in ex...ile.” The last word was uttered with a pronounced rallentando, plus a suddenly understanding dimenuendo. “You mean...”
Winterhoek nodded briskly. “That is precisely what I mean! And if we are quick off the mark we can damned-well achieve it!” His pace quickened automatically; his movement seemed always to be governed by the speed of his current thinking. “I need a safe house in neutral territory. Where do you suggest?”
Bluthen struggled to keep up with his superior, both in pace and mental dexterity. “Ah...We have two I can conjure up on the spur of the moment, sir. One in Kisimiso, Somalia. On the coast. That’s the mid-east transit station. We ran the Kenyan operations from there. It’s rarely used now, of course. A man called Kara-Munte runs it; from our pocket. And we have another in Soroti, north of Kampala. That one was the Uganda forward station; we use it now as a sort of Rest and Recreation base for all Central Africa operations.”
“Run by whom?”
“SAI Central, sir, in a roundabout sort of way. At least, it is debited to Central funds, and is the actual property of Central. But, to my knowledge, only we use it... Oh, and the East Africa station on the odd occasion.”
“That will be the one, then. Have it cleared and held in readiness to receive one female occupant and a baby-sitter. Ryan is the man for that job, methinks.
“I’ll see to it, sir. I think it’s unoccupied at the moment, in any case. If not, I’ll transfer whoever’s there to Kisimo.”
Winterhoek nodded. “Which also leads me to Vryburg...”
“The second in
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