Chapter Text
Angola - Namibia border, 1981
Dust devils and mirages played games with the convoy that drove up the long highway that led north out of South West Africa, or Namibia depending who you talked to, into war-torn Angola.
The rust-scarred trucks drove through the western edge of the grasslands. Among the tall grass, huge mounds of dirt indicated termite colonies undisturbed by rainfall or the passage of man, while herds of antelopes scattered at the sound of the engines. Occasionally, a brown and black fox, its bat ears flicking back and forth, would run across the road and yap at the convoy, but there was no indication of human civilization other than the dry roadbed and the sagging phone line hung from posts beside the road. Some of the wire hung dangerously low as vultures perched on it, watching the parade go by.
The occasional baobab tree broke up the monotony of the waving grass. The thick trunks, surmounted by a lacework of tangled branches, were laden with huge weaver bird nests. Under one tree, a troop of baboons gibbered at the trucks, leaping up and down in the branches, scattering birds. The sound carried for miles.
As the trucks drove on, huge granite boulders marked the edge of the Damara mountain range. On the other side of the mountains was the Namib desert and the Skeleton Coast where the treacherous currents of the Atlantic had wrecked many ships over the centuries. Their weathered corpses littered the beaches, from rusting iron to the sun-bleached wooden ribs of whalers.
The road ran parallel to the mountains until it crossed the border, then they'd turn inland toward Xangongo, though that wasn't their final destination.
The mercenaries who drove the trucks knew the day would be almost over before they reached their destination in southern Angola. Then it would be several hours of unloading, and the return trip.
The lead truck turned to the west, into the sand dunes that marked the edge of the Namib desert. The others followed docilely, sending up clouds of fine sand that sifted into the cabs and the clothing of the riders. Two men, a driver and passenger, sat in each truck armed with a heavy-duty rifles held ready for use. Most of the men wore bandannas or sweatbands to keep the perspiration that dripped down their tanned faces out of their eyes, and everyone wore opaque sunglasses. Their bodies stuck to the torn leather seats of the cabs as they rocked over the rutted roads.
Coming up on the border, they were stopped by a swarthy South African Defense Force soldier who stood in front of the barbed-wire gateway with his hand up. His rifle was slung ready for use.
The rider in the first truck opened his door and climbed out, some papers in his hand. His vest was open over his tanned, shirtless chest and darkened with sweat where his body had rested against the seat.
"I have the documents right here."
"Let's go inside," the soldier suggested, squinting at the convoy. The men were getting out, stretching their legs and yawning, the voices a babel of different languages.
He led the way to a small hut beside the road. Outside, there was a water barrel and several chairs sitting under a canopy, shielded from the sun. Inside, it was cooler, the dried mud of the thick walls giving some relief from the heat. Another soldier snored behind a curtain set up at the far end of the room.
On the table were several pens and pencils, papers and a telephone. A pile of ammunition was neatly set to one side, along with canteens and overstuffed packs. It looked as if more than two men lived here.
"These papers are in order," the soldier finally concluded a few minutes later after scanning the sheets. "I'll just stamp them for you, Mr. Griffin." He produced a stamp and a pad and marked the sheets. The inkpad was so dry that the mark hardly showed.
"Any idea of what's over the border?" Griffin asked casually as he looked around the post. His accent marked him as being from the United States.
"SWAPO guerrillas come out after dark mostly," the soldier replied, after stamping the papers and handing them back. They walked outside. "Every night like clockwork. They mine the roads. Sometimes they try to get across, and we shoot them. You make sure you form a laager, like in your American Westerns, and circle your trucks at night or they'll take them from you and probably leave your bodies for the hyenas. Watch out!"
"Catch any of them?" Griffin asked. The South West Africa People's Organization, otherwise known as SWAPO, were alternately known as guerrillas, terrorists, or freedom fighters, depending on who you asked.
The soldier shrugged. "The troop caught six last night, and three the night before. 'Course we had to bury them fast or the hyenas would be after them. They don't care what they eat."
The man grimaced. "Or the lions?
"Lions go for fresh kill. Going very far?" the soldier asked conversationally, eying the trucks. "Lot of stuff heading north these days. We've been un-mining the roads clear up to the border."
Griffin sharply glanced at him, then laughed easily realizing that the soldier was lonely and bored. "Not very interesting a load this time out. Been out here long?"
The soldier spat. "Last day of a long stay. My relief'll be here in a couple of hours. Then, I head back to the barracks. 'Course Ondangwa's no beauty spot, but it's better than rotting out here in the sun."
"Think of your tan," Griffin advised with a flash of white teeth. "The girls love a good tan."
"Lager and pretzels and Maggie," the soldier sighed wistfully, "and more beer. Angolan customs is about a mile up the road. Don't let them steal you blind there. Goodbye. Tot siens."
"Tot siens."
The soldier unfastened the barbed wire gate, and pulled it open. The driver waved farewell as he gunned the engine, and the trucks drove up the dirt road towards the mountains that lay to the east.
A half-mile onward, long out of sight of the watchtower, the convoy turned into the twisting canyons of the mountain range and rumbled onward, making a huge loop around the customs station, to come out, an hour and half later, on the upper edge of a two-lane highway that paralleled the border.
The trucks made good time on the crushed stones until they turned off into the desert and into another smaller range of mountains where the road was practically non-existent. Griffin checked the map in the front compartment and frowned, his fingers tracing their route.
"What are you looking for?" the driver inquired with a heavy Spanish accent. "The road we're taking isn't on that map, or any map, Griff."
"We're not going to check in with Angolan customs?" the man inquired sarcastically. His fingers rapped on the hot metal of the car door for a second.
Perspiration dripped down from his thick black hair which was tied back in a ponytail. "This stinks, Alphonse."
"What, my truck?" the driver laughed. "That's the smell of money, Griffin!"
"This shipment. It's jinxed. I think that soldier knew exactly where we're going and who we're going to see."
"Are you questioning the arrangements?" Alphonse retorted, his question sounding even more insolent than it was. "It's been set up for a month, Griff."
"Yeah, it's been set up for a month, which means the word could have slipped out," Griffin replied, his gaze restlessly scanning the gold-brown hills around them. "We've lost people since then."
"You're questioning Blaisdell's orders? You? His golden boy?"
Griffin shot him an icy stare. "I couldn't reach him before we left yesterday to express my doubts."
Alphonse shrugged. "So, he was in Johannesburg counting his money. He usually doesn't go on small deliveries like this. You are too new at this to know that. How long have you known him? Two years? One? A month?"
Griffin went back to staring out the window. "I've been around for a while."
"Ah, yes, I know about," Alphonse chortled. "Your exploits are the talk of the Parakeet! The women swoon and throw their panties -- "
The young man flushed. "I doubt it."
"And ask for the key to your bedroom also, I hear!" the driver sneered. "The Parakeet is a good bar where people find themselves without money and try to steal it --"
"It's your choice," Griffin replied lazily, his tone just above serious trouble if the teasing continued. "Maybe you have a girl there?"
Alphonse gave a loud laugh that shook his emaciated frame. He pounded his hand on the wheel a couple of times. "How do you know? I have met a new girl, Carla, and she is in love with me. Can you believe that? She actually thinks she's in love!"
Griffin eyed Alphonse in disbelief. Was any girl that blind? "She must be...young. She believes in true love? With a mercenary?"
"She is young," Alphonse said with a sudden mood change. "She is from Spain and here with no money. She stays busy in an office by day..."
"At night -- never mind." Griffin changed his mind about asking about the night. He had no interest in Alphonse's love life. His gaze drifted to the map in his lap. "Are we nearly there?"
Alphonse grinned. "Five more hours. Will you break out one of those pain pills for me? I have a terrible headache."
Griffin did as he requested, carefully selecting the canteen closest to Alphonse. Their canteens might get mixed up, and after hearing Alphonse complain about headaches and nausea the night before, he certainly didn't want to catch anything the driver had.
"So, you said we lost some people? Who?" Alphonse asked abruptly after swallowing the pill and the water.
"Holms has a fever and landed in the hospital yesterday. So did Wilkins. Atkins, Peters, and Lee all were reassigned to that Zaire operation."
"They've been drinking the wine at the Parakeet! What kind of a fever?"
"Dunno," Griffin replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "I heard this from Marcel as we were loading."
"The Zaire expedition is a waste of Blaisdell's work," Alphonse grumbled. "I told him that last week. A few missiles, a few guns, some medicine."
"Of course, he listened to you," Griffin replied with a slight mocking edge. He ran his hand over his hot face and it came away covered with sweat and dust. "He listens to us all."
"He listened," Alphonse boasted. "He knows I know what I am talking about."
Griffin looked doubtful but he didn't comment. Talk ceased. The hours rolled on with no relief from the intense heat that baked the acrid countryside. The convoy passed a herd of elephants, who flapped their huge ears, at the noise. The beasts turned their attention to the branches of acacia trees, pulling down mouthfuls of leaves to chew on.
An hour later, Alphonse turned and headed to the east. The landscape changed. Mopane trees, figs and palms dotted the veld as herds of curved-horned wildebeest and pronghorn antelopes grazed among the waving grain. Birds circled overhead, including vultures and falcons who preyed on the rodents hidden in the brush and dead meat brought down by predators.
Unexpectedly, a lioness sprang in front of the truck in hot pursuit of an oryx. Alphonse stopped abruptly, throwing Griffin, who had been drowsing, against the dashboard.
"What the..?" he mumbled.
"Time to break," Alphonse proclaimed, his attention on the lioness and her prey. He turned off the engine, then reached back and picked up his rifle.
Griffin stared as the man climbed out of the cab onto the hot dirt road. "What are you doing?" he said in sheer disbelief.
The lioness came back across the road, the small impala in her bloodstained jaws, and headed for the waiting pride of lions where a black-maned patriarch was lying under a baobab tree, his tail lazily flicking at the eternal flies.
"We could get good money for the pelt," Alphonse suggested thoughtfully, looking at the lion.
Griffin shook his head, his eyes trained on the lions. "We're not here to poach. Maybe on the way home, but not on the way up. Lion meat stinks anyway."
The men stayed close to their trucks as they stretched their arms and legs or slouched off into the brush to empty their bladders. One man jumped back, mouthing an oath, when he met up with an adder traveling along the side of the road. The others laughed at him as the snake went on, ignoring the human.
"How about that cheetah?" Alphonse asked, pointing to the elegant cat who was working her way stealthily through the grass near several sable antelopes. She was trying to cut a young antelope out of the herd from the angle she was approaching. Alphonse raised his gun and aimed it at the spotted coat.
Griffin slammed his hand on the burning hot hood of the truck a second before the gun went off right behind him. The herd took off in all directions, the cheetah missing her prey as the young antelope dodged, but the bullet missing the cat as she chased the deer.
He glared at Alphonse who grinned at him and hefted his gun. "You have a soft spot for animals?" Alphonse asked mockingly.
Griffin replied sharply, "We're not here to kill the wildlife!"
"Survival of the fittest, Griffin," Alphonse sneered. "Did you learn anything in Afghanistan?"
Griffin, overcome by a crazy impulse, yanked the gun from his hand, and aimed at the sable deer closest to the cheetah. The rifle's recoil hurt his naked shoulder as he fired. The buck went down almost on top of the cat which skittered to a stop in a cloud of dust.
Across the road, the lions roared, their repast disturbed. Several of the lionesses prowled restlessly, their eyes on the humans and the trucks.
Griffin lowered his gun. "I'm not sure she'll eat it, but now she's got a chance."
"Before they come in?" a new voice asked in a harsh Texas accent. The burly man had walked up from the next truck. Griffin vaguely remembered being introduced to him. His name was Bob Williams from Austin. He was pointing to a pack of hyenas, just to the north of where the cheetah was crouched over the dead deer, her nose visibly smelling the air for danger.
"I hate those things," Griffin snarled, putting up the gun again.
Alphonse grabbed his arm. "It's not our job," he said in faultless imitation of Griffin's tone. "Get in the truck, Bwana, and let's get moving. The safari is over with."
A hyena yelped. Several others from the pack chimed in, and the cheetah, having bitten free the lower leg of the buck, retreated swiftly into the brush right before the hyenas arrived to tear at the carcass.
Griffin, swallowing his anger, walked back to the other side of the truck. Williams stopped him before he climbed in. "You can't kill only the ones you don't like. There are always hyenas, Griffin." His gaze flicked to Alphonse.
Griffin didn't trust himself to comment, just nodded and climbed in, putting the rifle behind the seat. Alphonse slammed shut his door and started the engine with a roar that startled the lions.
Williams waved at the others who climbed into their trucks, and trotted to his own, swinging himself into the front seat and gunning the engine to follow Alphonse.
The land rolled endlessly on under the burning sun, and Griffin drank frugally from his canteen, wetting his throat. Both he and Alphonse covered their noses and mouths with bandannas to keep out the insidious dust.
Hours later, Griffin was jolted out of a half-sleep by the abrupt stop of the truck. He rubbed his eyelids free of the encrusted dust and sand, feeling the grit between his fingers, and blinked. He pulled down the bandanna and looked around.
They had driven into the kopjes, rocky areas that bordered the mountains, then up into the winding canyons that made up the lower mountain range. What grasses survived in the baking heat were on each side of the overhanging canyons and tall enough that they brushed the windows of the trucks.
The reason for their stop raised his gun and aimed it directly at Alphonse who kept his hands clearly visible on the wheel and smiled at the strange soldier, dressed in dark khaki.
Griff looked into the side mirror and saw other black soldiers, decked out in camouflage that made them hard to spot, stepping out of the underbrush, holding their guns ready. "Friendly lot, aren't they?"
Alphonse held up his hands and waited as other troops stepped out of the jungle up to the trucks. The first soldier came up beside the window, his gun ready.
"The blue moon will set among the ivory," Alphonse said in Bantu.
The soldier replied in the same language, "And the ivory will dance. You have the shipment?" he finished in English.
"Si."
"I will take you to camp," the soldier said, hitching himself on the side of the truck, the safety secured on his rifle.
Alphonse drove up the rutted path among the towering canyon walls till they found a clearing. Several thorn trees clustered to one side of the water hole whose muddy edge had been trampled by both human and animal tracks. Against one wall, under the overhang, were several camouflaged huts, tin-roofed and built out of weathered lumber. The incline of the canyon's wall and camouflage webbing that stretched from wall to the roofs made them impossible to see from the air. Ten or more soldiers in the same dark khaki as their guide, filled barrels at the oasis, while several others rolled one barrel away towards the huts.
"What's in that one?" Griffin muttered out the corner of his mouth seeing one hut apart from the others. A bored guard sat outside it, chewing gum.
Alphonse shrugged. "Probably the sick tent."
"I thought people didn't get sick around here," Griffin retorted.
"I don't," Alphonse boasted. The trucks drove around the oasis to the far end of the canyon, and parked beside the first hut. The door opened and a tall man, dressed in khaki pants and a white shirt, stepped outside, lighting a cigarette from a pack in his pocket. Gold glinted on the braid of his uniform hat.
The soldier jumped off the truck and walked around to the back of the truck as the drivers and their riders clambered out of the convoy. Alphonse clambered out of the truck.
The tall man surveyed Alphonse. "I am Captain Herrara. You are..."
"Alphonse Costca. Right," Alphonse replied arrogantly. Griffin had the feeling that Alphonse was being deliberately obnoxious.
The Captain's face showed a trace of distaste but it was gone in a second. His eyes were hard and black. "Costca? I was told to deal with Kermit Griffin."
"I'm Griffin," Kermit spoke up. "Do you have the papers, Captain?"
"Yes. Come inside." Herrera scanned Griffin for a second, his expression not changing, then waved towards the hut.
Griffin climbed down from the cab, seeing the other trucks being unloaded with the help of the soldiers. The boxes of guns and ammunition were carried inside what Alphonse had thought was the sick bay. Obviously, Captain Herrera wasn't going to get himself blown up if he could help it.
Afternoon sunlight filtered in between splintered boards, and dust motes danced in the stifling air as Herrera led the way into the hut. Two soldiers followed them and stood inside the door while the captain went over to a long table, strewn with papers.
This was obviously Herrera's sleeping quarters as well as the operations center. A cot, draped with multiple layers of mosquito netting, sat against one wall next to a small table. On the table was a small oil lamp, and a wind-up clock with a dented bell on top. Griffin had a feeling the clock had ended up being thrown at a wall more than once, or, possibly, at a soldier or two. It was rusty and old-fashioned, and the timing was off, he concluded with a quick glance at his own watch, by at least fifteen minutes.
An antique radio dominated the other end of the room with a rickety chair set in front of it. Griffin felt the hairs on his neck go up, but he didn't let his expression change as he surveyed the radio. Something caught his attention and he bent down to eye it carefully. Corrosion. The radio was probably useless.
"Alphonse, we'll have to use the radio we brought," he called.
"Try that one," Herrara ordered bluntly as he took a paper off the table. "You have the coordinates."
Griffin shrugged. "As soon as we get a signature on those forms, Captain."
The man smiled thinly, and took up his pen. He wrote his signature on the forms Alphonse held out, and then put the pen down.
"Go ahead," Alphonse said smugly. "Griffin, make the call."
"Don't you want to check and see how the unloading is going?" Griffin asked uneasily. He looked at the closed door.
"Make the call," Herrera ordered, leaning back against the wooden table, his right hand playing casually with his pen while the left hovered inches away from the gun tucked in a holster.
Griffin stared at him in puzzlement, then looked at Alphonse. The man shrugged. "Do it, Griff. You're the communications man this trip."
He sat down in the rickety chair, and flipped several switches. To his surprise, the radio came to life. "It's in better condition than I thought," he said aloud without realizing how his voice carried. From the corner of his eye, he saw Herrera smile.
"Ivory to Adder, Ivory calling Adder -- "
"Ivory, this is Adder," came a dry, older voice out of the radio.
Griffin had never met the radio man on the other end. Blaisdell had already recruited Adder long before Griffin entered the picture, but he had always imagined the man as a wizened dwarf who never seemed to sleep. At least, every time Griffin had called, day or night, Adder had been there.
"Adder, we have gotten -- uhhh!" Griffin fell off the chair onto the hard-dried mud floor as a rifle butt smashed against his ribs. He curled up protectively, his hand reaching for the gun in his belt, but the butt smashed at his back, and his vision swam.
Dizzily, he felt himself flipped over, his gun and the knife in its sheath taken away from him. One of the guards slammed his gun against Alphonse's back as the man held up his hands in surrender to the Captain's gun. The thin man went down on his hands and knees.
"Ivory? IVORY!" the voice called out of the radio.
"Welcome to Angola, gentleman," Herrera said icily. "I am Captain Tallaz of the Cuban army and you are all prisoners of the Popular Liberation Movement of Angola, the real government here."
"Oh, hell," Griffin gasped. "A damned Communist."
"Thank you for the guns, gentlemen. I have been short of ammunition for several months." Tallaz picked up the radio and flipped the switch. "Adder, this is Tallaz."
"Who?"
"Tell your commander that if he wants his men back, that I will trade them for one hundred thousand dollars."
"Who is this again?" Adder questioned slowly.
Tallaz gave Griffin a thin smile as he tried to sit upright. The pain in his ribs made him gasp as he moved. The soldier stood beside him, the gun raised ominously. He clicked down on the transmitter. "This is Tallaz. Tell Paul Blaisdell if he wants his men back alive, I will contact him at this setting, the day after tomorrow, at this time," Tallaz replied.
"I need to speak to Ivory," Adder barked. "The only person that Blaisdell will talk to is Ivory!"
Tallaz held the microphone in front of Griffin's face. "Talk to him. You have three seconds."
"Adder, this...is Ivory," Griffin wheezed.
"For real, Ivory?" Adder demanded.
"It's all real, Adder."
"We will be in touch," Tallaz cut him off. He flicked the off switch on the radio, and checked his watch. "I suppose I must keep you alive, 'Ivory' until then."
Griffin narrowed his eyes at the tall man, who stepped back instinctively. The soldier raised his gun warningly, and Griffin reluctantly relaxed. Despite the pain, he had almost jumped the officer.
"Mercenaries are whores for the highest bidders," Tallaz sneered, lighting a cigarette and tossing the hot match on the mud floor. "How much do you think you are worth?"
"What?" Griffin muttered as he swayed upright. At a jerk of the gun, he put his hands on his head.
"How much money are your lives worth to Paul Blaisdell, master mercenary?" Tallaz asked with a sneer as he leaned back against the wooden table.
Griffin had a sinking feeling. He wasn't sure he was worth a franc to Blaisdell despite their last adventure in Afghanistan. "What are you planning?" Griffin finally asked as the silence in the room grew long.
Tallaz looked outside where the trucks were now being unloaded exclusively by his men. "Dinner. In three days, either your Blaisdell will give me the money or I will shoot all of you one after the other, and leave the bones for the hyenas. The first man who tries to escape will be staked out in the hot sun until it bakes him like a tortilla," Tallaz said, reading him correctly. "Now, dinner. Josia, Kampua, take them to the others."
Griffin got to his feet, despite the agony it caused in his ribs, and stumbled after Alphonse out of the hut.
Outside the trucks had been driven to the other side of the water hole by an overhang and parked in the shade. Several soldiers swept away the tire tracks, and the water hole looked almost uninhabited except for by the vultures that wheeled in circles in the cooling night air. Out of one hut came the appealing smell of cooking. The soldiers dragged the prisoners to a hut, then bound their hands, then threw them in with the others.
Griffin landed on another man, who cursed him luridly, as he rolled over to end up next to Alphonse. The men shifted till they had some dirt to lie on.
"Hell of a way to spend the last days of your life," Griffin said under his breath.
"Shut up," Alphonse snarled. "Just shut up!"
Two days later, a tall man drove a worn-out jeep with flaking paint and thin tires through the armed and manned gate that led into the small garrison town of Iptaki, Namibia. Only twenty miles from the Angolan border, the fort and farms were surrounded by two separate barbed wire fences, a breast-high stone wall, and had watchtowers several hundred feet apart along the perimeter. Machine guns and cannons protruded from the towers, and the driver could occasionally see a soldier looking out, as he drove through the business area where bars and small shops catered to the civilian population and out to a farm set apart from the city by several miles.
He was stopped at the gate by a weathered soldier in his forties who held up his hand.
"Good day. I'm here to see Captain Keetman?" the driver said, holding out his passport.
The soldier looked it over, then compared the face with the picture inside. "Mr. Blaisdell? The Captain is waiting for you up at the house. Just keep going up this road."
Blaisdell looked up the crushed stone drive that led to a cluster of buildings, with an omnipresent watchtower, a mile or so beyond the gate.
"I'll tell him you're coming up," the soldier said. "Drive through, sir. Goeie midday." He opened the gate to let the jeep in, then closed it behind Blaisdell. Looking in his rear-view mirror, the mercenary saw the soldier raise his radio and begin to talk into it as the jeep approached the farmhouse.
The stone house had a main building and two wings. Two tall, barred Palladian windows flanked the front door, and above them, two more casement windows on the gable in front. A small planter sat on the curved front steps, filled with yellow and white daisies that spilled over the edge, their petals a brilliant contrast against the dark bricks. Trapped in one of the upstairs windows, a lace curtain, caught in the closed sash, flapped in the breeze.
The right wing was stuccoed mud with traces of paint that had been weathered off by the harsh winds and baking sun. The gable on the end had a doorway a good six feet off the ground, reachable by an black-painted iron staircase.
On the left, the numerous windows had rusted mesh over the glass panes, and ran the length of the building. Blaisdell suspected that this was the barracks for the troops from the number of men who seemed to be working at that end. The hot sun had bleached all the color out of the wing, leaving it a pitted sandy brown, except for the dark metal roof where a green patina had rusted into dark ugly streaks. A satellite dish, antenna pointed to the sky, sat to one side, as well as the ubiquitous telephone pole with a line to the crooked poles that lined the road he had been following, through checkpoint and checkpoint, from Windhoek.
Count on Keetman to always be in contact, he thought. His reputation had been built on being prepared for anything that came his way.
A small, single-winged plane sat on the tiny airstrip behind the main house, with several men working on it. Two armored personnel carriers sat baking in the hot sun next to the buildings behind the farmhouse. There had to be extra barracks of some kind since more soldiers came and went between the small Land Rovers parked nearby and the workshop on the edge of the runway.
They all look so young, Blaisdell thought unexpectedly, watching the men. The soldiers were probably in their early twenties with the towering self-confidence of youth. I don't know anyone that young anymore.
Blaisdell parked the battered automobile in front of the house and paused for a second to look in the mirror and brush back his dark hair into smooth waves behind his ears. His reflection -- thick dark eyebrows above blue eyes and his face caked with a layer of dust over sunburned white skin -- stared back at him. He could recognize the signs of strain, even if he wasn't going to show his anxiety to the man he was going to meet. He pulled off his jacket, slung it over his shoulder, picked up the briefcase from the back seat, and went up the stairs.
A short soldier in a floppy hat and khakis limped around the corner, his rifle balanced on his shoulder. He squinted at Blaisdell for a second, then glanced at the open door.
A man walked out onto the chipped stairs. Deceptively fragile with a slender build and a fine-boned face, with only a few sun wrinkles around his eyes, he was a few inches shorter than Blaisdell. His short fair hair, sun-bleached to ash, was brushed back neatly behind his ears and ended a half-inch above his collar. He wore a dark blue shirt and tan pants with highly polished boots. His right hand sat on the butt of the gun protruding from his waistband until he held his fingers out to the tall, craggy visitor.
"Paul Blaisdell?" he asked with a soft English accent. "The Falcon?"
Blaisdell shook his hand. "Captain Alexander Keetman. I'm glad to finally meet you."
"It's strange we haven't met before," Keetman agreed with a smile that showed his white teeth. "I've heard a great deal about you. Come inside. Let's talk."
Blaisdell followed him inside the house where the temperature, in the deep shade, was almost chill after the blistering ride north.
The entry led into a cavernous dining room with a huge polished stinkwood table and chairs on a blue-and-white tiled floor. To one side, a windflower arrangement in a cobalt vase rested on a wooden pedestal.
Keetman led him through the dining room to a study carved out of the cavernous room by a wooden screen. The intricate Indian-carved sandlewood had the darkened tone of great age as well as a faint lingering scent. It was lined with bookshelves, the serried ranks of books broken up by a large glass-fronted armoire where a silver teapot and several teacups gleamed in the sunlight that sifted through the wire-meshed windows. Two large floor lamps sat beside a sofa and two comfortably worn chairs. The coffee table sat in front of them. A basket of mending sat beside one of the chairs.
Right beside the door, a set of rifles rested on a gun rack, their ammunition below them. Their gleaming metal and well-oiled stocks were a stark reminder that South West Africa was not a peaceful land for anyone.
A tall woman set down a silver ice bucket, sweating in the heat, on the wood desk, and turned as they entered. Her rose cotton dress flowed loosely around her body.
"My wife, Danielle," Keetman introduced her with a softer tone. "This is Paul Blaisdell."
Her reddish-blond hair that fell in a braid to her waist. Her lake-blue eyes surveyed him, assessing him, and Blaisdell was aware of his sweaty shirt and flushed face.
"I've brought you some ice, Alec. Do you want some tea or coffee, Mr. Blaisdell?" she asked politely, her accent softer and more musical than Keetman's.
"No, thank you," Blaisdell replied courteously.
"Then I'll leave you alone. I expect you will staying for dinner?" She glanced at Keetman, who smiled at her.
"He will certainly be staying here, Dani."
"That would be an imposition," Blaisdell said uncertainly. "I believe there are some rooms in the city -- "
"If Alec says you'll be here, Mr. Blaisdell, then I'm certain you will." She cut him off with a sweet smile. She kissed her husband on the cheek as he put his arm around her waist and gave her a slight hug. "The latest set of messages are on your desk." She glided out, shutting the wooden door behind her.
Keetman poured himself a drink. "Do you want anything?" he asked. "I have gin, whiskey, bunchu brandy, ginger ale..."
"Gin, please." Blaisdell took the filled glass and sat down opposite Keetman, who settled in a leather chair.
"So, what can I do for you?" Keetman asked after sampling his vodka.
"I need help," Blaisdell said bluntly, lifting up the lid of his briefcase. He didn't miss Keetman's sudden tension. The man's hand was on the gun butt just in case a pistol came out. He had no doubt the soldier knew as much about Blaisdell as the mercenary had been able to pull together about Keetman in two days. Maybe more.
He pulled out a set of papers. "As you might have heard, I was sending a shipment to Angola, up near -- "
Keetman waved his hand. "No names. I knew about it. It was a joint shipment for SWAPO and the Angolan rebels. You covered both sides of the conflict."
"How much did you hear before the shipment? I suspected there was a leak," Blaisdell grimly commented.
"That's unimportant now," Keetman replied amused. "What do you have there?"
Blaisdell pulled out the first sheet. "You aren't the only one who knew about it. Apparently someone knew we were coming. Through my radio man, I've got a ransom demand for the men in the convoy."
"A ransom demand?" questioned Keetman, taking the paper from him. "You mean they're still alive?"
"Yes, they're still alive," Blaisdell said harshly.
Keetman's grey eyes widened fractionally as he read the message and handed it back. "A high price for mercenaries."
Blaisdell acknowledged that with a nod. "More than I got for the shipment."
"Are you're sure the men are alive?" Keetman persisted. "It's rare that anyone bothers keeping them alive."
"My man insisted that Griffin attest that they were still alive before he'd pass on the random demand. He made clear that Griffin and the others had better be alive the next time he called, or the deal was off."
"So, you're going to deal?" Keetman asked.
"How can I not? I want to keep them alive. Tallaz looks like he can be bought off, but I doubt he'll keep his word," Blaisdell said soberly.
"The law of the jungle," Keetman mused. "They could already be dead."
"Griffin is supposed to call me tonight. I'll work out the final details with Tallaz. If I don't hear from Griffin, it's over," Blaisdell concluded.
"So, what do you want from me?" Keetman asked watching him closely. "After all, you're shipping weapons to my enemy as well as your enemies."
Blaisdell shrugged. "If you knew the shipment was going out and didn't stop it, you probably don't mind if SWAPO gets it, Captain. I don't think you'd have let it go forward if you didn't."
Keetman chuckled. "You're giving me great credit, Mr. Blaisdell. I'm hardly infallible."
The mercenary raised a disbelieving eyebrow but politely didn't comment on that. "As for the Angolan rebels, your people are also supplying weapons to them, so you can overthrow the Communist government up there."
"You're saying I have a fifty percent chance of getting shot by anything in that shipment, rather than one hundred," Keetman commented with an amused edge to his voice. "Tactful. As for your men, you're doing everything that could bring them back alive."
Blaisdell licked his lips realizing this was going to be as difficult as he had imagined. "I need your help to get them out before the deadline. I know you have a group of troops up here watching the border with Angola which regularly make sweeps in there -- "
"That's illegal," Keetman said, his voice cool. "Crossing the border for any reasons, including personal, is illegal. We only respond to possible threats."
"Whether the Namibians want it that way or not."
Keetman spread his hands fractionally. "The government of Namibia, along with the government in South Africa, have declared that SWAPO and the other rebels coming out of Angola are invading our sovereign territory."
"The rebels coming out of Angola say they are freedom fighters against South African tyranny and a puppet government installed by Pretoria in Namibia," Blaisdell said blandly. "The UN recognized SWAPO as the sole representative of the Namibian government in 1973, nearly eight years ago."
"There have been elections since then," Keetman riposted. "The Namibians voted for their own government -- "
"The elections were boycotted by SWAPO and condemned by the UN. South Africa still rules this country," Blaisdell stated flatly.
"Not strictly speaking, but, in actuality, yes. We feel that we are preventing the spread of Communism down from Angola, a feeling that the United States government agrees with and supports us in doing," the soldier replied blandly, his amused expression at odds with the party line rolling smoothly off his tongue. "The Namibian government has also instituted a draft to protect itself from Angolan guerrillas, who are fighting their own civil war against that country's Marxist government. Your country is supporting the Angolan rebels in that case, remember? That's who the guns were for."
Blaisdell nodded ruefully, realizing that his personal feelings about South Africa and apartheid were interfering with his mission. He had to get Keetman on his side, and attacking the government and military of South Africa wasn't the way to do it. He made one last protest. "The United States also says the Cubans are sending advisors to the Angolan government. We don't support communism in any form."
"They are not only sending Cuban but Russian advisors," Keetman retorted. "We have proof. For the moment, let's forget, in this instance, who is the villain in southern Africa and who is the hero, Blaisdell. You are a mercenary and your men are all hired guns. I am in this country by request of the legitimate government to help prevent communism from spreading south and to help these people live in peace. Our differing views are too opposed to discuss here and now. What about your men?"
Blaisdell's gaze met Keetman's unflinchingly. He realized the officer's gaze was now all business, all professional -- and ruthless. His words left an intriguing amount unsaid as well. Did this mean Keetman was a South African liberal? Strange to find one in the military. "Keetman, you're the only hope I've got of getting them out. You've got the troops here and the expertise. I want them out safely."
Silence stretched between them as Keetman sat back and thought, tapping his fingers against the worn leather of the chair. Blaisdell glanced out the window at the gold-brown veldt with billowing waves of dried grasses, and in the distance, a sparse grove of green trees. Outside the double lines of barbed wire beyond the watchtower and airstrip, a road bordered by the iron water pipe snaked north into the low desolate of mountains which looked hot enough to melt asphalt.
"Why these men?" Keetman asked suddenly. "Why do you care?"
Blaisdell felt his shoulders relax momentarily. Keetman was still interested. "I don't leave people behind if I have to. It's not my way of doing business."
"As long as these men are yours, you'll do what you can to get them back?" Keetman said lazily, his hand moving up and down on the sweating glass. The ice cubes clicked as he lifted it to his mouth and drank.
"Yes," Blaisdell said meeting his gaze with a look as cold as the ice in the glass.
"But one of them must have told Tallaz about your shipment," Keetman mused. "You have a traitor somewhere."
"I'm working on finding him right now," Blaisdell replied.
"Do you think he's among the captured men?"
"I don't know. I doubt it. He's probably not quite that stupid."
Keetman leaned forward, staring into Blaisdell's dark eyes. "You don't know a lot, Blaisdell."
Blaisdell assessed that. "You say you know more?"
Keetman smiled. "More than you do. The latest report is on my desk."
"About my men?" Blaisdell said eagerly.
"Yes. I picked up the initial call from your radioman, and kept listening," Keetman admitted, putting his glass on a coaster. He went over to the desk and picked up a brown folder that had been lying under a black telephone. "I contacted my scout, Nangolo Otaya, and asked him for a status report."
"What did he say?" Blaisdell leaned forward.
"The camp is next to a water hole up in the mountain ranges, in a canyon. You can't see it from the air at all. There are several huts." Keetman scanned the typed material quickly. "Otaya says your men are being kept in one hut. Your guns and trucks are gone. All that's left is a jeep and one last truck, and about twenty troopers, enough to do what needs to be done."
"Enough men to kill them all," Blaisdell echoed.
"There aren't any trucks to take them to the border if he's releasing them to you," Keetman agreed. "Unless he plans for you to come in and take them out yourself. He might make them walk -- "
"They'd be dead of the heat in a day," Blaisdell concluded grimly. "I was right about him."
"Oh, very much so. He's not an independent operator, Blaisdell. Tallaz works alongside a man named Nicholas Steshka, a Russian officer assigned to help prop up the Angolan regime."
"Steshka?" Blaisdell asked curiously.
"He spends most of his time in the diamond mining area to the north in Lunda, but Tallaz is his fist in the south. In fact," Keetman paused for effect, "I'll lay coin on the fact that your guns are going to Steshka rather than any of the guerrillas. That means no one has to acknowledge that the shipment and your men ever existed." He picked up the paper Danielle had left behind and scanned it. "Apparently, he's planning something else. Tallaz, that is."
"What?" Blaisdell asked.
"He's digging a trench under the overhang at one end near some boulders. Otaya nearly got caught. It's big enough for a mass grave. Otaya pulled back for the night so he could radio me. He's on watch."
Blaisdell ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. "So, in other words, he's planning to kill them tomorrow."
"Sometime soon," Keetman agreed. His grey eyes surveyed the other man assessing his emotions. Placing the report on the coffee table, he sat back in the leather chair which creaked under him. "So, what will you give me, Blaisdell, for my help?"
Blaisdell sank back against the couch's embroidered pillows. "What do you want, Captain?"
Keetman mused, his fingers drumming the chair arms. "What do I want? What are you offering?"
Blaisdell spread his hands. "Money?"
The South African made a face. "It would be hard to hide."
"Swiss banks have been known to keep their silence," Blaisdell said dryly. "What else? Weapons? Information?"
"Drugs?" Keetman asked softly.
Blaisdell stiffened. "I don't deal in drugs. Neither do you if my information's correct."
The man smiled. "I know. So, what else?"
Paul shrugged. "My word?"
"Your word? About...anything?" Keetman put down the paper. "A promise?"
"A promise?" Blaisdell felt his feet were on quicksand and he was sinking fast. "What kind of a promise?"
"Anything I ask for?"
"What!?"
"An open-ended promise, Blaisdell, that you will be honor no matter what I ask for, at any time?" Keetman asked, watching him closely.
Blaisdell struggled with this concept, conflicting emotions tearing into him. The obligation to his men, his native caution, and the realization that there was a huge chasm beneath his feet that he had almost walked into. "I...I can't do that."
Keetman leaned back in his chair. "Why?"
"Why?"
"Yes, why? What is stopping you?"
Blaisdell glanced outside where a sudden cloud of dust heralded the arrival of another small twin-rotor plane. It taxied out of sight behind one of the other buildings. "It's too wide-open. I can't leave it open like that."
"You are a mercenary. You buy and sell anything. Why are you hesitating?"
"I sell your country guns; I sell the other side guns," Blaisdell interrupted. "It's a business decision and you know it. I don't approve of South African policies, and you know that too by now. I can't give you an open-ended promise."
"Apartheid?" Keetman asked with a slight smile. "It's a bad policy, Blaisdell, but it is the policy I have to live with right now."
"I can't live with it," Blaisdell said bluntly. "Set some boundaries, Keetman, or turn me down. I need your men, but I can't live that kind of a deal."
Keetman's gaze went out the windows to the low mountain range. "You give me a wide-open promise and I'll give you my word that it will be a personal matter, Blaisdell. I will put that rider on it. It will not involve our countries or their policies."
"A wide-open promise between you and me?" Blaisdell felt uneasy. He didn't feel that a personal debt to Keetman was any less dangerous than business.
"Exactly. Personal."
The mercenary wavered for a second, then nodded agreement. "All right, then. A promise between you and me. I will help you any way I can whenever you ask for my help."
Keetman's smile widened. "Don't be so shocked, Blaisdell. I promise you, you won't need a long spoon to sup with this devil. So, now, we go out and greet the others?"
"Others?"
Keetman stood. "I have been gathering my men since I heard about the first message. That was the last of them arriving on the plane."
Blaisdell rose. "So, it was a trick? You made me promise you anything but you were planning on doing it anyway?" His tone was raw and angry, and he clenched his fist on the back of the sofa.
The man eyed him calmly, his hand back on the gun butt. "I hadn't made up my mind about your men till I talked with you. The troops are here for reasons other than you, Blaisdell."
Blaisdell stared at Keetman, reassessing him. What else had been planned before Blaisdell's call? Why were the troops here? "How many men do you
have?"
"I'll take ten with me," Keetman replied, opening the door.
"You're planning on going yourself? Why you?" Blaisdell stopped Keetman with a hand on his arm. Outside in the hallway, Blaisdell could hear men's voices rumbling and feet tramping on the tiled floors, mixed with Danielle's laughter. The smells were drifting from the other end of the house. It was obviously where the kitchen was.
Keetman smiled thinly, his eyes showing cold anger. "Captain Tallaz needs to be removed from our area, Blaisdell. Yours aren't the only men he's taken in Angola."
"Some of yours?" Blaisdell inquired as they walked down the hall.
"He rounds up the natives to work in the mines up north for Steshka. No one comes out of there alive, and it's upsetting the people here on the border. Too many families are being sold into slavery." Keetman caught Blaisdell's disbelieving look. "You think that I don't care for the blacks? Some of them support us, you know. I want Tallaz, and I want Steshka's head mounted on my wall, Blaisdell. I just haven't had an excuse to go hunting till now."
"My men are the excuse? Will your government accept that?" Blaisdell countered.
Keetman gave a twisted grin. "My government has already made plans to take care of the Angolan problem, Blaisdell. They dovetail with mine."
The troops coming in, the plans to go north...good God, the South African government was going to invade Angola, Blaisdell surmised in a flash. That was a tidbit worthy of selling to the highest bidder. He saw Keetman watching him closely, and knew that his life was worth a thin dime at that second. Survival came first, over profit. "I think your wife's dinner is ready."
A smile played on Keetman's lips, but didn't reach his eyes. "Dani's a good cook. If you're lucky, she'll have time to bake. By the way, I want a complete rundown on your men so I can identify them."
"Dead or alive."
"Dead or alive," Keetman acknowledged. "I believe Dani has a room upstairs for you, Mr. Blaisdell. Shall we go to dinner?"
A chill ran down Blaisdell's back. He realized that now he was as much a prisoner as any of his men. The only question was what Keetman was going to do with him after the raid now that he knew what the future held.
Griffin knew time was dripping away just like the sweat that was soaking his clothing as he lay tied up in the hut. The room was crowded with the bound men.
He heard the sound of digging outside and the laughing jokes of the soldiers who had been discussing in loud tones their eventual fate, but the mercenaries had been left alone.
Shifting carefully, he looked over the bodies lining the hut's walls. From their pallor and the occasional wheeze, he could tell which ones were still alive and which were sick. He was sure one man was dead judging from the flies that were gathering around his eyes. The hut stank of urine and sweat, fear and despair.
He met the gaze of Bob Williams. who was sitting next to the door. The hot sun had seared one part of his face when it came in the cracks, but the man had been staring outside for hours.
"What do you see, Bob?" Griffin whispered hoarsely, breaking the silence.
Bodies stirred at the sound, but no one bothered to even open their eyes. Dehydration had drained them into lethargy.
The man glanced out the crack. The setting sun painted his face blood red. "Nothin', Griff." His accent was pure Texas. "Only about twenty left."
"No guard?"
"He's asleep. Or looks it."
Griffin nodded. He sat forward, his freed hands coming from behind his back, his nails torn from fighting with ropes. A sharp nail had proven to be a way of sawing manila strands till he could yank them apart. He began working on the ropes around his feet.
Williams watched him carefully, his face expressionless. The others didn't move, their eyes closed, except Alphonse who felt Griffin move.
"What are you doing?" Alphonse asked loudly.
The men in the room stirred, several opening their eyes.
Griffin grabbed Alphonse's tattered shirt and shoving it up against his Adam's apple, pining the thin man to the wooden wall. "I'm getting as many of us out of here as I can. So, shut up!" he whispered back.
"You plan... to go alone?" Alphonse wheezed, his face going red.
"Not if I can help it."
"Set me free!" Alphonse snarled, bubbles of saliva appearing the corner of his lips. "Set me free!"
"Shut up or I'll kill you before they do," Griffin threatened, letting go of him. The man slumped against the way, his hate-filled gaze fastened on Griffin.
Griffin went to work on the ropes and was free a minute later. He stood up, licking his dry lips, and took a tentative step which made him sway. Dehydration made his head spin. He glanced at Williams. "I need back-up but -- "
"Geeze, get back!" Williams cried. "They're coming!"
Griffin stepped back instinctively as the door swung open and the guard stepped inside. Under his feet, he felt a body or something soft and he fell, his shoulders hitting the wooden walls hard. Debris and dust fell from the rafters.
Through the haze, he saw the guard lift his rifle to hit him, and Griffin shoved himself to one side, over Alphonse, who cursed him and kicked out, hitting him in the kneecap. Griffin fell forward, landing on prostrate bodies that didn't move. His head spinning dizzily, he felt hands grab his shoulders and yank him upright. The muzzle of a pistol shoved his chin up.
"Trying to escape?" Tallaz asked casually from the doorway where he stood with one guard while the two others held Griffin. "You don't like the hospitality?"
Griffin watched a large, black spider crawling over one guard's shoulder. "I'd rather have...be having martinis in...Kenya," he croaked.
Tallaz smiled thinly, his gaze moving over the other men who had stirred when he entered. "We came for you. But first, because of this..."
Griffin felt a chill go down his back. "What?"
"Come back for two of them. Any of them," Tallaz said to the guard behind him. "Shoot them."
"I'll tell Blaisdell," Griffin said desperately. "He won't pay for corpses. I'll tell him tonight."
Tallaz stared at him. "If he refuses, you all die in an hour and we leave. Be careful about what you threaten, whore."
"He won't pay for us if we're dead," Griffin warned doggedly. "Keep them alive. All of them. Get us...some water."
The Cuban smiled menacingly. "Bring him along!"
Griffin stumbled over bodies as the two guards dragged him out the door. He meet Williams' gaze for a second as the man watched, but he was yanked out the doorway.
Vultures swayed in the intricate lacework of baobab trees, black shadows against the setting sun and he heard the yap of a jackal calling to others as he stumbled over to the main hut. The soldiers shoved him into the chair and, without a word, handed him a glass of water which he gulped at, spilling the precious fluid in anticipation of their taking it away.
"Call him," Tallaz ordered.
Griffin obeyed.
Chapter Four
The sun had already set. The APCs were lined up, soldiers muttering in low tones as they loaded supplies. The air was clear and fresh with evening breezes.
Blaisdell stood on the veranda watching the troops as they prepared for the raid. Beside him was the limping man he had seen earlier, who had been introduced as Parker, one of Keetman's trusted officers who had been badly wounded and invalided out of the regular army.
"You keeping a large troop here?" Blaisdell asked idly.
Parker glanced at him. "Of course. We have to keep up the guard on the towers and clear the roads of land mines."
"But you travel light," Blaisdell observed.
Parker gave a hoarse chuckle. "You haven't seen anything yet, Blaisdell."
From around the two carriers came the Land Rovers, full of armed soldiers. They stopped in front of the house.
"It's time," Keetman said in a low voice from behind Blaisdell and Parker.
"Come back alive, Alec," Danielle whispered.
Blaisdell turned slightly and saw the two of them standing just inside the front door, intimately close. Keetman's arm was around her waist, holding her tightly to him while her hand was grasping his shoulder.
"I always do," Keetman replied with a slight trace of humor in his tone. "Except when I go into Natal."
She smiled. "You haven't taken me camping since then."
"You haven't let me travel without you since then," he retorted in an intimate tone. "Take care of yourself, Dani, and take care of our guest."
"What about our guest?" she asked.
"Parker knows what to do if it's a trap," Keetman answered. He kissed her hard as she hugged him.
Blaisdell felt himself flush, and he turned away. A few seconds later, Keetman brushed past him, settling his hat on his fair hair and putting his machine gun in the Land Rover. The two cars roared off into the night, stopping at the gate, then disappeared into the outskirts of the town.
"He's not taking the personnel carriers?" Blaisdell asked Parker in a puzzled tone.
"Not tonight," Parker replied laconically. "Shouldn't need more than the 'Rovers for the party."
"How long will it take them to get there?"
"According to your map, it should be about....ten or twelve hours. Then they got to sneak up. Tomorrow 'round noon, I'd say," Parker said, pursing his lips. "Depends on travel conditions."
"I hope that's not too late," Blaisdell said under his breath. He smelled Danielle's perfume, then felt her hand on his sleeve.
"It's almost time, isn't it, Paul?" she asked.
"We've got a little more time," Blaisdell answered, clearing his throat.
"Then let's sit in the agterkamer. It's more comfortable there." She led them through the darkened dining room where the antique oil-lamp was reflected off the polished rosewood table by the light of the stars. The smell of herbs floated in through the high-sash windows that overlooked the runway in the back.
The shutters had been opened to let in the evening breeze. She opened one of the bookshelves to show a modern radio transmitter set in a secret alcove, and tuned it to the frequency that Blaisdell had given her. She retreated to the leather chair where Keetman had been sitting and picked up a shirt from a basket of mending on the polished hardwood floor. She winced unexpectedly as she sat, then shifted position. Her hand went to her stomach.
Blaisdell frowned. Was she sick? Food poisoning? Or... could she be pregnant? If she was, why was Keetman letting her be up here on the front lines? Was he crazy? He opened his mouth to ask, but the sound of firing outside make everyone turn to the window.
"Just shooting shadows," Parker said laconically. "Happens every night."
Blaisdell looked at his watch, then around the group. "Any time now."
"You told your radioman that you would speak with them directly?" Parker asked. He was polishing the stock of one of the rifles, his stiff right leg held out in front of him.
"He's out of the loop now," Blaisdell acknowledged. "It's up to us."
"He's not in the area?" she questioned delicately, threading a needle.
"Ivory to Tusk, Ivory to Tusk..." the voice that suddenly came out of the radio sounded hoarse, dry and more than a little scared.
Danielle raised an eyebrow. "You're Tusk, Paul? I thought you were the Falcon?"
"Not on this raid. Now, I'm Tusk. That sounds like Griffin." Blaisdell took up the microphone and pressed the stud. "Ivory, this is Tusk."
"Tusk!" Griffin's voice sounded relieved. "What..." That was obviously directed at someone else. There was the sound of a scuffle, and a raised voice. The radio crackled and another man's voice came over the line. "Tusk, this is Viva. Have you the money?"
Danielle began to sew the button on a white cotton shirt, her head cocked as she listened. She raised an inquiring eyebrow.
"Tallaz," Blaisdell mouthed at her. "I've got it. How are we going to work this out?"
"Move one half to the bank account number I gave you last time," Tallaz ordered. "I will tell you where to find your men. When you have them, I expect you to put the rest in."
Blaisdell raised an eyebrow. "You expect me to come for them personally?"
"You must come yourself. I insist and I have all the cards, Blaisdell. There is a radio there. Instruct your contact in Johannesburg to put the rest of the money in before you leave with your men," Tallaz agreed. "I will be watching you. "
"What's to keep you from shooting me as soon as I do?" Blaisdell asked dryly.
Parker's hands slowed as he polished gun. He watched Blaisdell. He looked like he was judging the mercenary. A slowly growing smile said he approved.
Blaisdell ran his hand through his brown hair. His eyes narrowed in anger but his tone didn't change. "I will put a delay on the delivery. The money will not be released for twenty-four hours till my men are safely back in South Africa. Anything before then, and the money doesn't go."
"What's to keep you from not sending it?" Tallaz said mockingly.
"The same thing that'll keep you from shooting us in the back. Our mutual good words," Blaisdell said acidly. "Let me speak to Ivory, Tallaz."
"I give you a day to get here. I start killing them at daybreak on the next day." The radio crackled, then went silent.
"You've got a day, eh?" Parker said after a minute. "Sounds like our cue."
"Keetman should arrive in time with the commandos," Blaisdell commented, reattaching the microphone to the hook.
Parker frowned, his hands wiping the oil from the stock. "I hope that no one else heard this, Danielle. If Steshka knew that Alec was out there with only ten men, we'd lose him for sure."
Blaisdell was shocked at the callousness in Parker's tone, then he realized, looking at Danielle, that she and Parker had no doubts that Keetman was going to return safely, with or without the prisoners. Parker's comment was just a statement of fact.
"Steshka has kept quiet ever since the raid which cost him the latest shipment of miners," she said sweetly. "I don't think he will try anything again too soon."
"He's always out there," Parker asserted, snapping the gun back together, and limping over to the gun rack. He hung it in an empty spot. "He also hires mercenaries."
Her gaze was fastened on Blaisdell. "Then, Mr. Parker, do you think Alec is going into one of Steshka's traps, baited by Tallaz and Mr. Blaisdell here?" Her tone was poisonously polite, and Blaisdell met her eyes with aplomb. He knew that this had to come up as soon as Keetman had said he would go after the lost men. It did look like a trap, a mercenary begging the military to break the rules, but Keetman had taken the risk and left. Blaisdell knew he probably wouldn't live long enough to see another sunset if Keetman was walking into a trap.
"As far as I know, there is no trap for anyone but me," Blaisdell said, his throat dry. "You heard Tallaz."
Parker nodded. "Yep. You could be working with him."
"We'll know soon enough," Danielle murmured, biting the thread off. She shook out the shirt. "Here, Parker, this one's yours, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am," the soldier said with a grin.
She tossed it to him. "Try to bring back more buttons next time you go to Johannesburg, please? I'm running out supplying the troops."
Parker tossed the shirt over his arm, and saluted. "Yes, ma'am. I'd better check the perimeter. Goodnight."
"Sleep well, Parker."
"You do their sewing?" Blaisdell asked as the door shut behind Parker.
"It keeps me occupied," she said placidly, picking up another shirt. "I like to sew. I made most of the curtains in this house."
Blaisdell glanced at the blue-rose pattered curtains that flanked the meshed windows. "What did you call this room? The aggerkam..."
"The agterkamer. It's a term for the private area off the dining room," she explained. "This house was built early in the last century. We rented it when Alec was sent here."
"You've done a lot of work on it then."
"It's our home for now. My parents own a farm in the Cape area. Robert is there."
"Robert?" Blaisdell crossed over to the couch and settled into its embrace. The leather was worn in spots. "Who's Robert?"
"My son. He's four," Danielle replied placidly.
"And you're here?" the mercenary asked shocked.
She glanced at him reprovingly. "I don't let Alec go out alone. Robert loves his grandmother and they are fine on the farm."
"But this is the danger zone!"
She threaded the needle and picked up a button. "We're all in danger, Paul. Do you see America as totally safe?"
Blaisdell struggled with his reply. "It doesn't have the military on its streets," he finally said. "This is a war zone, Danielle."
"I love my husband, Paul. I won't leave him to die here," she answered.
The mercenary leaned forward. "Danielle. Do you really think I am leading Keetman into a trap?"
Danielle met his gaze unwaveringly. "No. Alec didn't think so either. But if it is a trap, then it shuts on us all, Paul. Parker has his orders and I grew up hunting gazelle for the dinner table."
"You'll hunt me down like a dog. I know. My life depends on Keetman's return," Blaisdell concluded bluntly.
"Isn't that what you expected?" she said in a gentle tone. "Is that a truck?" Danielle listened, her hands poised over her mending.
"Why? Are you expecting someone?" Blaisdell asked.
"SWAPO came through a month ago and tried to burn the place. Alec thought it was Tallaz and some others, but I'm not certain," she replied with calm assurance. "I talked with some of the natives and it didn't sound like the Angolans, so it's probably the SWAPO."
"How do you keep the politics straight?" Blaisdell asked curiously.
She smiled distantly. "I try to stay at peace with all sides of this war. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't with Alec. I wasn't going to let him go into the borderlands alone again. A couple of years ago someone hired a mercenary to kill him. Otaya and I got there just after Alec was shot in the chest. We caught the leader of the mercenaries, a man named Rykker, but we needed his help to get Alec back to the border so -- "
"So you killed him later?" Blaisdell questioned. "After you got out?"
"Who? Rykker?" She smiled. "No, he's still paying ransom money to me. He's rather a nice man, really. Of course if Alec had died.... I intend to be here if he comes back wounded again, to care for him. Close the blinds, Paul, it's getting cold."
Blaisdell nodded and obeyed. "To care for him? Are you a nurse?"
"My medical degree is from Groote Schuur Hospital in Cape Town, and I have ample experience in," she stared him directly in the eye, "war wounds."
He nodded. "I think you're in the right place, Doctor Keetman."
"Let's have a drink," Danielle offered, eyeing him. "I don't expect to hear from Alec till tomorrow at the best. You'd better get some rest."
Blaisdell shook his head. "I can't sleep."
"Then tell me about `Ivory.' Who is that young man?"
"`Ivory'? Kermit Griffin. Griff. I met him... a while ago. Been training him ever since."
"Kermit?" she chuckled softly as she pulled out a piece of cloth and started to sew. It looked like the beginnings of one of the cushion covers. "Did his mother know Roosevelt?"
Blaisdell stared at her for a second, then laughed. "I don't think so. It's more likely that he's nicknamed after the frog than after Theodore Roosevelt's son."
"The frog? Oh, from the television show. I see. How funny. How old is he?"
"About...I don't know. Seems older."
"He's important to you," she murmured. "Well, Alec will bring him back."
"Dead or alive," Blaisdell muttered.