A Gathering of Vultures

Prologue

An abandoned mine outside Carltonville, South Africa.

As soon as the track levelled out, Alan stabbed at the brake pedal and brought the big Jag to a skidding stop on the loose gravel chippings. He was a little surprised by the amount of dust and gravel his arrival produced; the thought unnerved him a little, because this was an eerie place. The ghosts of the men who had died here still lingered.

He stared through the harsh brightness as his headlights beamed out across the bleak, desolate landscape of the deserted mine. Only the steel framework of the head-gear remained, the skeletal structure silhouetted against the horizon, like the bare bones of some giant primeval mammoth, whose corrugated iron flesh had long since been torn away by the scavenging squatters from the nearby shanty town.

The site had been stripped of everything recoverable or reusable, and then abandoned for nature to reclaim. Tufts of long coarse grass fractured their way up through the floor slabs, sending cracks and fissures creeping out in shattering webs across the concrete, the narrow clefts punctuated at intervals by thick clumps of weeds. In several places trees had burst up through the remains of the tarred road and were busily spreading out their disruptive network of roots in all directions.

The place was silent except for the urgent rustling of the coarse grass in the wind, and the shrill monotonous chirping of the crickets.

What the hell am I doing back here? Alan wondered.

But it was a rhetorical thought because Alan knew what he was doing here, or at least, he knew why he’d come. His old boss-boy and long-time friend, Samson, had not given any details but insisted it was important that Alan meet him at the old mine. Alan had not hesitated in agreeing.

He reached down and began to wind the window shut, as if to keep out whatever malevolent and unseen force had spooked him.

Baas Alan, it is good to see you, grinned the intrusive black face through the half-open window, the genuine pleasure of seeing his old friend clearly etched across his face.

God Samson, you could’ve given me a heart attack sneaking up like that.

Respected old man, that could never happen, for your heart is as strong as a lion and twice as big as an elephant. It was a reference to Samson’s opinion of his friend’s character rather than an allusion to his physical stature, although it could have applied equally as well.

As Alan emerged from the car, Samson seized him in a huge bear hug.

"‘It really is good to see you again, old friend."

He stepped back, beaming.

So, what’s so dammed important that you dragged me up here in the middle of the night? Alan asked.

I have been looking to make some extra money and so I have been scavenging in the old mine. This morning, when I went down to the storeroom on the second level, I found a lot of boxes that are full of guns. They were not there on Friday and now there are reinforced gates and strong padlocks.

Samson glanced to see if Alan was impressed.

What sort of guns are they, Samson?

Alan wasn’t really bothered what type of guns they were and wouldn’t have known the difference if he were told, but he needed thinking time.

Baas, I know nothing of these things. All I can say is they are long ones, like the police and army guys have.

He stretched his arms out wide in much the same way as a fisherman describing the one that got away and, just like a fisherman, it was an exaggerated span.

Alan thought out loud, Samson, we really should call the police, but I am worried that you could be implicated; you know how the police tend to over-react, so imagine how they will respond to a report of an arms cache in an abandoned mine, especially so close to the squatter camp.

Alan had already decided that this was the most exciting thing to happen to him since he retired. He was not ready to hand it over to someone else just yet.

I want to see these weapons for myself.

He rummaged in the boot of his car and emerged with a heavy-duty lantern that he handed to Samson. He found a torch for himself and put it into his pocket. The two of them headed over towards the mineshaft.

* * * * *

The headlights had been clearly visible from the moment the car had started to wind its way down towards the mine. One of the men spotted it immediately.

Hey you guys… there’s a bleddy car coming!

His two companions stopped unloading the truck and peered over the side, towards the spot that was being pointed out.

Maybe it’s not coming here, suggested one of the others.

Don’t be focken stupid, man. This track doesn’t go anywhere else. And you know what’s at stake if we get caught with this stuff. Get the bleddy shit back on the truck and get it out of here.

He screamed the words back over his shoulder while his gaze remained fixed on the relentlessly closing intruder.

Frantic activity erupted at the rear of the truck as the other two men struggled desperately to lift and slide the remaining crates onto the flatbed platform. They were only too aware of the consequences of upsetting Roelefse. It did not take very much to rile him, and it was already obvious that one of his ferocious moods was developing.

As soon as the cargo was back on the vehicle, one of the loaders rushed round to the cab and started the engine. It fired up in a roar and immediately the driver dropped the clutch, spewing up a cloud of dust and gravel from the back wheels. Nearby, were the tattered remains of one of the mine buildings. There was just enough of it left to hide the truck and its load.

The three men watched from the shadows as a tall, grey-haired white man and a shorter, thick-set African embraced each other. They observed the two talking for a moment before they headed towards the mineshaft.

* * * * *

The cage and hoist had been removed when the mine closed, so the only option was to use the safety ladder attached to the wall of the shaft.

Samson took the lead. He slung the lantern over his shoulder and, as he moved from rung to rung, it banged against his hip, dancing the beam from side to side. Its light afforded no help to him in his descent, but it did provide some comfort in the thick black void.

It took Alan the best part of twenty minutes to reach the station on the second level, one hundred feet below. The cold steel texture of the ladder was no longer familiar to him and he had proceeded with caution, making certain not to slip on the greasy rungs or stumble on one that had rotted away.

By the time he stepped off the ladder his arms and legs were aching. His face was clammy, moistened with sweat, and his heart was pounding.

I’m getting too old for this sort of thing, he said between deep gulps for air.

Samson was sitting against the opposite wall of the station with his arms clasped around his knees. He waited for Alan to recover before they proceeded into the passage.

The smell of underground is not something that is easy to forget after a lifetime of working with it in your nostrils. A pungent odour, chemical and processed, compounded of earth, rock, sweat, damp, and the hot greasy smell of machinery that is being worked hard. It had lain dormant in Alan’s memory only to be triggered again the instant that he entered the tunnel. But this mine was long dead. No jackhammers rattling at full blast, no men to fill the air with the stench of their labour. Now the place smelt only of humidity and slack, brackish water. The sound of it dripping rapidly from the walls and roof reached them from nearby, but it must have been draining off somewhere else because the ground underfoot was little more than damp.

Their echoing footsteps disturbed the tomblike stillness of the tunnel, the regular reverberation broken only by their sloshing strides as they passed through an occasional puddle of stagnant water.

As soon as they reached the storeroom, Samson set his lantern down. He angled the beam so that it cast its intense light through the mesh gates and over the contents of the enclosure. At the front were wooden crates, about four feet long, three feet wide and a dull olive green colour. The lid of one was lying to one side, revealing its contents of six weapons.

Alan could see straight away that they were automatic rifles. He had seen these particular weapons before, but the closest he could come to identifying them was Samson’s description, ‘…like the ones the police and army guys have.’

He did a quick count of the long crates and estimated that there were at least 1,200 rifles. Enough to start quite a war, he suggested.

The storeroom also contained a variety of other boxes, flat squares ones made of wood, and metal ones with hinges on one side and fold-over clips on the other. Alan didn’t know it, but they contained hand-grenades, landmines and ammunition, as well as spare magazines for the assault rifles. The boxes and crates were all stenciled with the initials S.A.D.F., which told Alan that they belonged to the South African Defence Force.

Samson, these must be the weapons stolen from the Swartskop air base last week… he paused before adding, …This is definitely a matter for the police.

The two men stood up in unison, but as Alan did so he dropped his torch. As he bent to retrieve it, he noticed a small cloth badge. He picked it up and examined it. The object was about three inches in diameter and appeared to be made of red cotton. Stitched onto it was a smaller circle of white in the centre of which was a black embroidered emblem. At first glance, the emblem put Alan in mind of a Nazi Swastika, but this emblem was different. It was triangular in shape, comprising three arms bent at right angles at the elbow and surmounted by clenched fists. The arms were conjoined at the shoulder, to form the triangular shape and the whole thing was surrounded by a jagged barbed wire wreath.

You know what this is, don’t you, Samson?

But he never had a chance to finish. In the midst of their pre-occupation neither had been aware of the two figures creeping up in the dark.

* * * * *

Roelefse and his two companions started to emerge from behind the remnants of the admin block just as Alan and Samson had disappeared into the mineshaft.

The three of them moved off across the compound and had almost reached the shaft when Roelefse suddenly held up his hand. They stopped.

Eugene, go get a bobejaan spanner and a tyre iron… he hesitated before adding prophetically, …just in case there’s some trouble.

The stump of the index finger on his right hand began to itch in pleasurable anticipation and he rubbed it vigorously up and down the seam of his trousers.

Arbelt, you stay here and watch out for any other uninvited guests. Eugene, you come with me.

Roelefse issued orders with the authority of a man who expected instant and unquestioning obedience. Arbelt handed the adjustable spanner to Roelefse, who took it with his right hand, rocked it a couple of times to get the feel of the weapon, then slapped it against the palm of his left.

Just right, I reckon.

He was peering down the shaft, watching a small beam of light bobbing from side to side, gradually moving lower and lower until it disappeared to one side. He handed the spanner to Eugene, who put it, together with the tyre iron, into the small rucksack that he was carrying.

Roelefse had never been in a mine before but he descended with sure-footed confidence. He was about to step off the ladder onto the station on the second level when he heard Alan and Samson talking. He waited until their muted voices told him that they were well into the tunnel before stepping off the ladder. Eugene arrived shortly after and the two men headed deeper into the mine. They moved slowly and cautiously, directing their torch beams low along the ground, so they could see where they were going without giving warning of their presence.

As they closed in on the storage chamber, they could make out the silhouettes of the older man and the African, squatting on their haunches, intent on examining something.

As soon as he spotted them, Roelefse switched off his torch, carefully, so as not to make any sound. He held out his hand for the spanner and gesticulated with it to his companion.

The backlight from the two men in front was just sufficient for Eugene to make out Roelefse’s gesture of intent and together they inched their way forward, with their weapons raised above their shoulders. Striking in unison, they each landed a heavy blow to the heads of the men crouched in front of them.

* * * * *

An instant before the impact, Samson became aware of a shadow moving above him and he tensed as he started to turn his head. The rigid muscles of his neck absorbed some of the impact from the tyre iron, which had struck him a glancing blow. Samson collapsed into the mud, his head swirling in a red mist of pain as he drifted into semi-consciousness.

His right ear throbbed painfully, and his head felt as though it was being breached by jackhammers. Previous injuries he had sustained in the mine had taught him that fighting the pain only made it worse. Even so, he had to force himself to relax, allowing the pain to engulf him in sweeping waves until gradually it subsided a little.

As the spasms began to ease, Samson’s natural defence system started to take control. It pumped its numbing fusion of endorphins into his bloodstream, causing him to gradually regain his senses. He was lying flat on the ground with his head turned to one side. He could hear the sounds of men arguing, but the throbbing roar in his damaged ear prevented him from making out what their raised voices were saying.

Samson tried to lift his head off the ground, but the instant that he moved, a sharp stabbing pain exploded just below his right ear. It made him wince and squeeze his eyes tightly shut as he involuntarily fought against it. When the spasm finally passed, Samson opened his eyes and slowly they began to focus.

Lying within touching distance was Alan’s lifeless form, his face clearly illuminated by his fallen torch. Samson could see the mortal wound that had been inflicted and, with surging grief, the realisation of Alan’s death dawned upon him. His sorrow was also tinged with guilt; he was, after all, the one who had inadvertently lured Alan to his death.

The acrid scent of fresh blood reached Samson’s nostrils. Its metallic bitterness drenched the back of his throat. He had no way of telling how much time had passed since the attack, but it was probably less than it seemed. He also had no way of knowing what his assailants’ intentions were, but he instinctively knew that he too was in mortal danger.

Seeds of anger began to germinate inside him. He felt fury at the death of his friend, and sheer terror induced by the awareness of his plight. His budding rage was being nurtured by the powerful cocktail of chemicals being released into his body as part of its natural fight or flight defence mechanism. Samson knew that only one of these options was open to him if he was going to survive.

To limit his movement and avoid drawing attention to himself, Samson began to regulate his breathing. In spite of his injuries, his mind remained clear as the rush of adrenalin sharpened his perception. He started to formulate a strategy, but as he did so, he became aware of a shadowy movement. Someone bent down between the apparently lifeless bodies and started to examine them.

The observer steadied himself by placing his right hand on the ground directly in front of Samson’s face. The hand was clearly visible in the backlight. What caught Samson’s attention was the missing top joint of the index finger.

I reckon they’ve both had it.

The voice came from the shadowy figure crouched over him but was muffled and indistinct. Samson sensed that this was the moment to act.

As the figure began to straighten up, Samson rolled over onto his back and drew his knees up to his chest in one movement. Without pausing he drove his legs forward into the pit of the man’s stomach with the percussive force of a power-driven piston.

Roelefse was sent back-peddling unsteadily across the passageway. His face was frozen in amazement at the explosive resurrection of one of the corpses. He crashed into Eugene and both of them went sprawling across the tunnel.

The strain of Samson’s exertion caused a resurgence of nausea and pain and he felt faint as he struggled to get to his feet. He had no clear objective in mind, other than a vague notion of escaping, by going deeper into the mine. But he could not get up, his strength had deserted him, and he only managed to raise himself onto his hands and knees. His head hung down. He shook it slowly from side to side in a futile attempt to clear away the dizziness.

Eugene had cushioned the effect of Roelefse’s impact against the wall and he was only slightly winded. Outrage and hatred surfaced as he watched the black man struggling to stand up. It was obvious that he was in no position to defend himself. Roelefse groped in the dark and, when his fingers grasped hold of a flat metal object, he eased himself up onto his feet.

He crossed the width of the tunnel in three strides, cursing as he went.

Kafir, you’re gonna be so focken sorry you did that!

There was no emotion in the words; they were merely an indisputable statement of fact. Steadying himself in front of Samson, he transferred his weight onto his left leg, balanced himself, then swung his right foot. His boot crunched into the middle of his target’s chest.

Samson’s head and torso had been lifted by the force of the kick, rocking him back onto his knees. His hands dangled limply by his sides as he swayed, helplessly exposed and on the verge of unconsciousness.

With his eyes firmly fixed on his crippled prey, Roelefse swung the tyre iron above his head, dropping it with all of his considerable weight and strength. The wide arc ended in an echoing thud against the side of the black man’s head.

Samson fell face first into the mud. This time there was no way that he would recover.

As he looked down at Samson’s prostrate form, Roelefse was filled with a feeling of exhilaration. The only variation in the tone of his voice was due to the fact that he was breathing heavily.

There…you black bastard…that’ll teach you….to mess with me.

He turned to his companion.

Eugene had watched the savage attack with a growing feeling of revulsion. He had no liking for blacks, but even his prejudice would never allow such a callous assault on a defenseless man. He had known Hendrick Roelefse for more than five years and had realised, at an early stage, that he was unpredictably vicious. But what Eugene had just witnessed was the behaviour of a seriously disturbed individual. He vowed never to get on the wrong side of this man.

We’re gonna have to get rid of this shit… Roelefse gestured to the two bodies at his feet, …Come Eugene, give me a hand.

Roelefse already had hold of one of Samson’s legs and was attempting to pull him down the tunnel, but the black man’s dead weight was too much for one person. Eugene took hold of Samson’s other leg, touching it gingerly at first, testing its lifeless state.

It was slow going as the two men tugged and jerked Samson’s bulk down the passageway. They needed both hands to grip the body, so had to stop every few yards to illuminate and inspect the way ahead.

When they finally reached the station, they dumped their burden by the edge of the shaft. Roelefse looked at the body at his feet.

Well, Kafir, it’s time for you to go to hell!

With this he placed the toe of his boot under Samson’s body and levered it over the edge.

By the time they had gone back for Alan’s body and returned to the station, Eugene was feeling decidedly queasy. The physical exertion in the stale, humid atmosphere had brought on an attack of nausea, and his feeling of disgust was steadily increasing.

Hendrick, this isn’t right, he stammered, as Roelefse was about to consign Alan’s body to the shaft.

Ag man, what’s your problem? You want me to say some words for the old bugger? Ok.

Roelefse made the sign of a crucifix across his chest. As he did so he intoned, In the name of the Father, the Son, and into the hole he goes.

He pushed Alan’s body over the edge and roared with laughter.

Eugene stumbled into the corner and vomited.

* * * * *

Chapter 1

Heathrow Airport, London…the same evening.

‘This is an urgent call for Mr Tremayne, passenger on British Airways flight BA57 to Johannesburg. Please report to gate number fifteen immediately.’

Because your plane is about to take off without you, Goron thought morosely, as he hurled himself through the terminal entrance before the automatic doors were fully open. His shoulder bag caught on the edge of the door and almost spun him around, but the force of his momentum popped him through. He paused for a second to find his bearings.

The walkway from the car park had brought him out on the mezzanine level, so he knew that the check-in area was below him. He moved quickly to the edge of the balcony and immediately spotted the bank of British Airways desks over to his right, on the far side of the terminal hall.

He had scarcely broken stride since entering the building but now he quickened his pace. Proceeding down the escalator two stairs at a time, he hop-stepped onto the lower level, his long-legged strides eating up the ground as he advanced smoothly, at speed, across the concourse. He manoeuvred nimbly around groups of milling people, chairs, and luggage trolleys that were scattered haphazardly about.

As he went, he silently cursed the traffic on the M25 and he damned Lavinia, his wife. He could still not believe that she had done what she had, or that she had waited until the last possible moment to tell him. It was just another example of the cruel delight that she seemed to take in showing him that she could hurt him at will.

The public-address system crackled back into life, its nasal message reverberating through the vast expanse of the lofty terminal building. ‘This is the final call for Mr Tremayne, passenger…’

Don’t panic, I’m here, he snarled, half to himself, as he slapped his ticket pouch down on the desk and humped his shoulder bag onto the scales. His voice sounded arrogant and he immediately regretted it. It wasn’t in his nature to be self-important, but the rush had made him irritable. He hated being late or rushed.

The check-in