South African captain patted the empty seat by his side and waved the black over.
Bent low beneath the cabin ceiling, Nkume grabbed a metal frame to steady himself against the helicopter’s motion and made his way across to
Bekker. He leaned over the captain, saying something that Bekker couldn’t make out over the engine noise. The South African nodded anyway and reached out to put his left hand on Nkume’s shoulder.
With his right hand, he reached across his chest to the bayonet knife on his web gear. In one fast motion he pulled it out of its sheath and jammed it into Nkume’s chest, just below the sternum.
The black’s face twisted in surprise and pain. He let go of the ceiling and grabbed at his chest, nearly doubled over by the fire in his heart.
Bekker could see him trying to scream, to say something, to make some sound.
Bekker pulled his knife free and yanked the wounded man toward the open door. Nkume realized what was happening, but was in too much pain to resist. Too late, one hand feebly grabbed at the doorframe, but his body was already outside the Puma and falling. The empty, unsettled land below would swallow Nkume’s corpse.
Bekker didn’t even watch him fall. He cleaned off his knife and resheathed it, then looked around the cabin. The few men who were awake were looking at him with surprise, but when he met their eyes, they looked away, shrugging. If the commander wanted to kill the informer, he probably had a good reason.
Bekker had already been given the only reason he needed. Orders were orders. Besides, he agreed with them. Anyone who turned his coat once could do it again, and this operation was too sensitive to risk compromising. And Nkume’s crimes were too grievous to forgive. South
Africa’s security forces might use such a man, but they would be sure to use him up.
His last duty performed, Rolf Bekker closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 1
Glimmering
MAY 23- ANC OPERATIONS CENTER , GAWAMBA ,
ZIMBABWE
A light, fitful breeze brought the smell of death to Col. Sese Luthuli’s nostrils.
He took a careful breath and held it for a moment, willing himself to ignore the thick, rancid aroma of rotting meat. Luthuli had seen and smelled too many corpses in his twenty five years with the African
National Congress to let a few more bother his stomach. The sound of strangled coughing behind him reminded the colonel that most of his bodyguards weren’t so experienced. He frowned. That would have to change.
To liberate South Africa, Umkhonto we Sizwe, the ANC’s military wing, needed hardened combat veterans, not green-as-grass boys like these. Or like the fools who’d let themselves be butchered here at Gawamba.
Luthuli eyed the orderly row of dead men before him angrily. Twelve bullet-riddled bodies covered by a dirty, bloodstained sheet. Twelve more trophies for the Afrikaners to crow over.
“Colonel””
Luthuli turned to face his chief of intelligence, a young man whose ice-cold eyes were magnified by thick, wire rimmed spectacles.
“We’ve finished going through the wreckage.”
“And?” I,uthuli kept his voice even, concealing his anxiety and impatience.
“The document cache is intact. I’ve been able to account for everything
Cosate and his staff were working on. Including the staging plans for
Broken Covenant.”
The colonel felt slightly better at that. He’d been fearful that Broken
Covenant, the most ambitious operation ever conceived by the ANC , had been blown by the South African raid. Still, he resisted the temptation to relax completely.
“Any signs of tampering?”
“None.” The chief of intelligence took off his glasses and started polishing them on his sleeve.
“Everything else upstairs has been ransacked-desks emptied, closets and cupboards pulled apart, the usual trademarks of the Afrikaner bastards. But they didn’t find the safe.”
“You’re sure?” Luthuli asked.
The younger man shrugged.
“One can never be absolutely certain
Bent low beneath the cabin ceiling, Nkume grabbed a metal frame to steady himself against the helicopter’s motion and made his way across to
Bekker. He leaned over the captain, saying something that Bekker couldn’t make out over the engine noise. The South African nodded anyway and reached out to put his left hand on Nkume’s shoulder.
With his right hand, he reached across his chest to the bayonet knife on his web gear. In one fast motion he pulled it out of its sheath and jammed it into Nkume’s chest, just below the sternum.
The black’s face twisted in surprise and pain. He let go of the ceiling and grabbed at his chest, nearly doubled over by the fire in his heart.
Bekker could see him trying to scream, to say something, to make some sound.
Bekker pulled his knife free and yanked the wounded man toward the open door. Nkume realized what was happening, but was in too much pain to resist. Too late, one hand feebly grabbed at the doorframe, but his body was already outside the Puma and falling. The empty, unsettled land below would swallow Nkume’s corpse.
Bekker didn’t even watch him fall. He cleaned off his knife and resheathed it, then looked around the cabin. The few men who were awake were looking at him with surprise, but when he met their eyes, they looked away, shrugging. If the commander wanted to kill the informer, he probably had a good reason.
Bekker had already been given the only reason he needed. Orders were orders. Besides, he agreed with them. Anyone who turned his coat once could do it again, and this operation was too sensitive to risk compromising. And Nkume’s crimes were too grievous to forgive. South
Africa’s security forces might use such a man, but they would be sure to use him up.
His last duty performed, Rolf Bekker closed his eyes and slept.
CHAPTER 1
Glimmering
MAY 23- ANC OPERATIONS CENTER , GAWAMBA ,
ZIMBABWE
A light, fitful breeze brought the smell of death to Col. Sese Luthuli’s nostrils.
He took a careful breath and held it for a moment, willing himself to ignore the thick, rancid aroma of rotting meat. Luthuli had seen and smelled too many corpses in his twenty five years with the African
National Congress to let a few more bother his stomach. The sound of strangled coughing behind him reminded the colonel that most of his bodyguards weren’t so experienced. He frowned. That would have to change.
To liberate South Africa, Umkhonto we Sizwe, the ANC’s military wing, needed hardened combat veterans, not green-as-grass boys like these. Or like the fools who’d let themselves be butchered here at Gawamba.
Luthuli eyed the orderly row of dead men before him angrily. Twelve bullet-riddled bodies covered by a dirty, bloodstained sheet. Twelve more trophies for the Afrikaners to crow over.
“Colonel””
Luthuli turned to face his chief of intelligence, a young man whose ice-cold eyes were magnified by thick, wire rimmed spectacles.
“We’ve finished going through the wreckage.”
“And?” I,uthuli kept his voice even, concealing his anxiety and impatience.
“The document cache is intact. I’ve been able to account for everything
Cosate and his staff were working on. Including the staging plans for
Broken Covenant.”
The colonel felt slightly better at that. He’d been fearful that Broken
Covenant, the most ambitious operation ever conceived by the ANC , had been blown by the South African raid. Still, he resisted the temptation to relax completely.
“Any signs of tampering?”
“None.” The chief of intelligence took off his glasses and started polishing them on his sleeve.
“Everything else upstairs has been ransacked-desks emptied, closets and cupboards pulled apart, the usual trademarks of the Afrikaner bastards. But they didn’t find the safe.”
“You’re sure?” Luthuli asked.
The younger man shrugged.
“One can never be absolutely certain
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