command?”
“How many Vryburg’s d’you know, major?” said Winterhoek dryly, caught up in the urgency of his plans. “Yes, him. Where is he now?”
“In Uganda, sir. The Chinese have already talked to him.”
Winterhoek grunted. “And now we will talk to him. Get a man on it straight away. We do not have to buy the man, after all. We’ll simply use him as a messenger.” He stopped in his tracks. “But do not make contact until I say so! I just need a man up there, standing by. And I am to be kept informed both of his movements, and his intended movements. Is that clear?”
“Clear, sir,” said Bluthen, though he knew that the latter would not be as easy as the glib delivery of the instruction.
“Good. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about security. I want Brazzaville clamped up tight. As a drum! For a beginning, dispose of Luang’s man.”
Bluthen pursed his lips. “That could mean reprisals, sir. I’m thinking of Reynolds. I’m afraid we are still unable to contact him.”
“You can’t make omelets without breaking eggs, major. Do it!”
As they returned to the French windows Bluthen, yet again, wondered how many generals throughout history had used that term, and how many needless deaths had been caused because of it.
FOUR
Eric Walton was a short, thick-set and a poker-faced individual. His ex-wife had often described him as a stubborn mule, both in looks and disposition. This description, in the latter respect - the former being little short of a calculatedly unkind dig - was apt. Except that his ex-wife, the only daughter of a university professor, labored under the mistaken belief that Walton was mulish by nature. He was not. The image was a cloak beneath which he found it easier to do his job, and which all too readily - under provo-cation - adapted to domestic needs. Without the job, he always maintained - if only to himself - he would be quite an easy-going, pleasant sort of man to be with.
At about the time that Jean-Paul Winterhoek was waking from his much-needed sleep, five countries away to the north, Walton was easing his aching shoulders. Then he glanced at his watch. Five minutes more. He looked out the windscreen at the sky. “Red sky night...” he intoned to no-one but himself, “Shepherds delight...” He looked up at the lighted windows of Karen McCann’s second floor flat, and he sighed. What a palsied way to earn a living! And, God! what a tediously boring day; just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that!
It would not be so bad, he thought, if he had been told more details of the brief. But here was the S.I.S. “need-to-know” maxim at work. Just keep tabs on her; his control officer had instructed him. Lose her at your peril, and all that rubbish. Later, came the sweetener, you will be told when to take positive action. Whatever that had meant.
It had begun of a promising enough note. But as the days wore on it had proved the height of nothing at all. The girl herself was involved in nothing, she did nothing, she took him nowhere. The kids she knocked around with offered exactly the same fever pitch of excitement.
The girl lived the shallow life of a student nurse. Nothing more, nothing less...How the hell could there be less ! Whatever the reason for the assignment, Walton was convinced; it had nothing to do with her, personally. She, then, he reasoned, was a stray end waiting to be pulled in and sewn into the greater scheme of things. It had to be that.
She left her flat on weekdays at 8am and took the bus to the end of Roodenpoort Road. She laughed and gossiped her way up Roodenpoort Road with the other students and entered the gates of the college almost invariably at 8-29. She was seen again at lunchtime, usually eating sandwiches on the lawn. More giggling and gossiping. College got out at 4-30. She would spend a few minutes at the gates, ditto the giggling and gossiping, then she would walk back down
“How many Vryburg’s d’you know, major?” said Winterhoek dryly, caught up in the urgency of his plans. “Yes, him. Where is he now?”
“In Uganda, sir. The Chinese have already talked to him.”
Winterhoek grunted. “And now we will talk to him. Get a man on it straight away. We do not have to buy the man, after all. We’ll simply use him as a messenger.” He stopped in his tracks. “But do not make contact until I say so! I just need a man up there, standing by. And I am to be kept informed both of his movements, and his intended movements. Is that clear?”
“Clear, sir,” said Bluthen, though he knew that the latter would not be as easy as the glib delivery of the instruction.
“Good. And while we’re at it, let’s talk about security. I want Brazzaville clamped up tight. As a drum! For a beginning, dispose of Luang’s man.”
Bluthen pursed his lips. “That could mean reprisals, sir. I’m thinking of Reynolds. I’m afraid we are still unable to contact him.”
“You can’t make omelets without breaking eggs, major. Do it!”
As they returned to the French windows Bluthen, yet again, wondered how many generals throughout history had used that term, and how many needless deaths had been caused because of it.
FOUR
Eric Walton was a short, thick-set and a poker-faced individual. His ex-wife had often described him as a stubborn mule, both in looks and disposition. This description, in the latter respect - the former being little short of a calculatedly unkind dig - was apt. Except that his ex-wife, the only daughter of a university professor, labored under the mistaken belief that Walton was mulish by nature. He was not. The image was a cloak beneath which he found it easier to do his job, and which all too readily - under provo-cation - adapted to domestic needs. Without the job, he always maintained - if only to himself - he would be quite an easy-going, pleasant sort of man to be with.
At about the time that Jean-Paul Winterhoek was waking from his much-needed sleep, five countries away to the north, Walton was easing his aching shoulders. Then he glanced at his watch. Five minutes more. He looked out the windscreen at the sky. “Red sky night...” he intoned to no-one but himself, “Shepherds delight...” He looked up at the lighted windows of Karen McCann’s second floor flat, and he sighed. What a palsied way to earn a living! And, God! what a tediously boring day; just like yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that!
It would not be so bad, he thought, if he had been told more details of the brief. But here was the S.I.S. “need-to-know” maxim at work. Just keep tabs on her; his control officer had instructed him. Lose her at your peril, and all that rubbish. Later, came the sweetener, you will be told when to take positive action. Whatever that had meant.
It had begun of a promising enough note. But as the days wore on it had proved the height of nothing at all. The girl herself was involved in nothing, she did nothing, she took him nowhere. The kids she knocked around with offered exactly the same fever pitch of excitement.
The girl lived the shallow life of a student nurse. Nothing more, nothing less...How the hell could there be less ! Whatever the reason for the assignment, Walton was convinced; it had nothing to do with her, personally. She, then, he reasoned, was a stray end waiting to be pulled in and sewn into the greater scheme of things. It had to be that.
She left her flat on weekdays at 8am and took the bus to the end of Roodenpoort Road. She laughed and gossiped her way up Roodenpoort Road with the other students and entered the gates of the college almost invariably at 8-29. She was seen again at lunchtime, usually eating sandwiches on the lawn. More giggling and gossiping. College got out at 4-30. She would spend a few minutes at the gates, ditto the giggling and gossiping, then she would walk back down
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