Apocalypse
The water kept coming. Frank held his breath and pretended he was drowning. As a younger man he could have kept it up far longer. Most people thought he was in his middle forties. The reality was different. Frank had just passed his sixty-fourth birthday. Like Charlie, he was getting on in years.
The form of interrogation was called waterboarding. The CIA used it but there was nothing particularly American about the technique. Interrogators, down through the ages, had used water to extract information from reluctant informants. It could kill. But, if the subject cooperated, he or she could emerge unscarred. At least in body. The scars to the mind might be permanent.
Frank had gone through the ordeal before. Like Charlie, he had been trained as a special operative. Charlie had received his training in Australia. Frank had been trained in Britain. There wasn’t much to choose between the two countries. The British learnt a lot from the Germans in the Second World War and passed on their knowledge to the Australians and Americans.
Special operatives could be captured and various things could happen after that. They could be shot, tortured to death or subjected to intense questioning. The people who employed special operatives mourned the loss of a valuable asset when the first two outcomes eventuated but were more concerned about the third.
Operatives could be coerced into providing sensitive information. They could even be turned and made to work for the other side. That was why their trainees were subjected to techniques designed to strengthen their resolve and fight pain.
Frank lay back as more water poured over him. Old memories flashed though his mind. For a moment, he was a twenty-four-year-old recruit in a training camp in North Wales. Everything seemed exciting then. His world was painted in black and white. There were goodies and baddies and he had the good fortune to be born amongst the goodies.
That was a lifetime ago. He struggled to remember the young man he had once been. Charlie’s nephew, David, was twenty-four. Frank wondered how he would cope with waterboarding. The people who murdered Richard de Villiers were on to him.
The Bentley sped along the highway. Sipho wore a chauffeur’s cap which he had found in the glovebox. He thought it would act as a disguise. David wasn’t so sure but didn’t argue. Sipho was driving. If the cap helped to steady his nerves that was for the better.
They were heading east along the coast road that ran from Cape Town to Durban. The scenery was spectacular but they weren’t in the mood to admire it. Petra sat in a daze beside Sipho. She was in a state of shock and heavily sedated with tranquillisers that David had given her from his medical kit. He was in the rear with Mario and Charlie.
Mario had emerged unscathed from their ordeal. Charlie hadn’t. He arrived in his inflatable boat soon after David put through a call to him. Things should have got better after that but they didn’t. David blamed himself for what happened.
He should have tied Carla up. Mario had contemplated shooting her. That was unthinkable but it didn’t mean they could leave her cowering in a corner as if she was too scared to do anything. Carla wasn’t that sort. You couldn’t slap her down that easily. Rambo had a gun and Carla knew where he kept it.
She emerged from his cabin clasping the gun at arms’ length. Charlie was coming on board at the time. They were off-guard and not paying proper attention to what was happening until a crescendo of bullets tore through the air, ricocheting off the iron deck and burying themselves in dive bags and sacks of offal.
Carla emptied an entire clip in a single burst and was struggling to reload when Mario pounced on her. He snatched the gun away and hurled it towards David. This time they weren’t going to take any chances.
David grabbed a length of rope and trussed Carla like a chicken. Mario dragged her to the side and threatened to push her overboard if she did anything stupid. Both of them were hyped-up and didn’t immediately see what had happened to Charlie.
He was wearing a wetsuit and it wasn’t immediately evident that he had been shot. There was no nasty blood-stained entry wound. Charlie wasn’t squirming around and yelling in pain. He was slumped against a bulkhead as if he had suddenly been overwhelmed by fatigue.
David gave him shots of morphine. Under normal circumstances, the next step would be to get him to a hospital in Cape Town. Charlie was adamant that Cape Town was the last place to be. It was far too dangerous. He and Frank had been busted by the people who brought down Richard de Villiers’ plane.
They were up against a ruthless group who were bent on world domination. Charlie referred to them as the Cabal. They pursued their aims with murderous determination and eliminated anyone who stood in their way. No one was safe. The Cabal infiltrated governments and the forces of law-and-order.
He spoke in a whisper, giving instructions, choking back blood. They must take him to a hospital in Port Elizabeth and leave him there. After that they must keep going and lose themselves. He would contact them by telephone or email and tell them what to do.
It sounded like the final wish of a dying man. Charlie sat slumped between David and Mario. Sipho was keeping up a fast pace. For long stretches, they exceeded one-hundred-and-thirty kilometres an hour and sometimes reached one-hundred-and-sixty. They would be in Port Elizabeth, within a few hours, if they kept that up.
Then, on the outskirts of Knysna, they were stopped for speeding. Maybe the posh Bentley and Sipho’s smart suit created the correct impression. Or it might have been Charlie’s face, drained of blood and looking near death. Sipho said they were rushing him to hospital. He had the bends, from diving, and must be got to a recompression chamber as quickly as possible. To David’s immense relief, the police officer waved them on.
He sat back and watched the scenery pass by. For a long time, it had looked much the same. Then everything changed. He had read about it in books. Cape Town had a Mediterranean climate. It rained in winter and was dry in summer. Here, it rained all year round. A patch of rainforest had survived the climatic changes that occurred with the passing on the last Ice Age.
Mario disturbed his thoughts.
‘There’s a herd of pigmy elephants in there.’ He pointed to the trees. ‘Richard was helping to get their numbers up. The pigmies survived the arrival of the European farmers. Their big cousins were wiped out.’
’There were hippos too,’ Sipho said.
‘That’s right,’ Mario agreed.’
‘They were still around in the 1830s.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, quite sure. Richard showed me an entry in one of his ancestor’s diaries. I worked out that the writer was Petra’s great-great-great grandfather.’
Sipho said it with the precision he used in his computing. David was pleased to see that he had relaxed a little. He wasn’t driving as fast as before and he wasn’t as much on edge. They would arrive later but were less likely to crash on the way.
‘The diary recorded a visit to the observatory the British built when they took over the Cape Colony from the Dutch,’ Sipho said. ‘There was a swamp nearby and the astronomers were having problems with the hippos that lived there. They were invading the observatory gardens and eating the vegetables.’
David was pleased to hear them talking. They had been racing along in silence. Everyone was tensed up. That was not a good way to think clearly. They had to relax a little and get their minds back into gear. They weren’t seasoned warriors like Charlie and Frank.
David had seen something of their world. It was terrifying when he entered it and it hadn’t improved. Killing people is not a natural way of life. Mario and Sipho were doing their best to cope. Petra was totally overwhelmed. Seeing her sister chewed up by sharks had blown her mind.
He returned his attention to Charlie. His breathing was more regular and he had stopped coughing. Suddenly that changed. Mario said something about a friend who had recorded hundreds of rock paintings in the mountains of the Cape. They included giraffes and other animals that were no longer found in the region.
Charlie grasped Mario’s arm.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Olaf.’
‘Olaf What?’
The words wheezed from Charlie’s lips. His voice was scarcely audible. Mario leant forward to hear him.
‘Olaf What?’ Charlie repeated.
‘Magnusson … my parents look after him.’
‘Can you gain his confidence?’
‘I help him to record the paintings.’
‘Does he trust you?’
‘I think so. He’s an odd sort of fellow but interesting. He always comes to see me when I’m with my parents. I don’t think he has many friends.’
‘David …’
Charlie’s hand reached out.
‘You must contact Humphrey. Tell him about Mario. Say he must get him to speak to Olaf …’
His words died. David felt Charlie’s pulse. He still had one but it was very weak. There was little chance that he would help them now or in the future. They would be lucky if they got Charlie to hospital alive.