Part 41 (1/2)

”You'll make the deal for her?” Winston blushed at his own cowardice.

”I'll try,” Emmanuel said, and placed the phone to his ear. ”Now get out. Both of you.”

Emmanuel pushed the cas.e.m.e.nt window up and leaned out to take a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was over the horizon and a golden light shone onto the meandering river and squat hills. It was going to be another fine day, full of wildflowers and newborn springbok. The office door opened behind him but he didn't turn around. He didn't have the heart or the stomach to face anyone right now.

”He won't exchange the evidence for my girl, will he?” Mrs. Ellis said.

”No,” Emmanuel replied. ”He won't.”

Van Niekerk had been blunt to the point of insult. There was nothing in the proposal for him. No reason to exchange the ultimate blackmail tool for a frightened girl. He already had a maid and a cook. He had no use for another nonwhite female.

”They're not going to kill her.” The major had been brutal in his summation. ”I've seen the photographs and there's nothing those men can do to her that hasn't already been done. Disengage and walk away, for Christ's sake.”

He could imagine van Niekerk doing just that. Walking away from a helpless human being without a second thought. That was his strength, and it would take him to the very top.

”What can I do?” The housekeeper was humble in her powerlessness. ”What must I do to help my baby?”

Emmanuel heard the clink of cutlery and smelled the freshly brewed coffee. He checked his watch: 6:50 AM AM. He had three minutes left to make a decision. Go with van Niekerk and rise to the top of the pyramid of evil. Or stay here and go down fighting in defense of what was right.

He turned to Mrs. Ellis. She'd brought him a mug of coffee and a b.u.t.tered ham sandwich cut on the diagonal. It was enough to light a spark.

”What's in the pantry?” he asked.

”Everything,” she said. ”We're very well stocked. Mr. King insists on it.”

G.o.d bless the greedy rich, Emmanuel thought as the spark struggled to become a workable idea.

”Meat?” he asked.

”Bacon. Boerewors sausages and wild game steaks.”

”Sweet things?”

”I have some jam biscuits made up and a sponge cake for afternoon tea. Also some dried fruit and store-bought sweets.”

”Is Constable Hepple still here?”

”He's out on the veranda waiting for you. He told Johannes and Shabalala that he couldn't go back to town with them. He couldn't desert his post.”

”Bring Hansie, Elliot King, and Winston in here,” he said. ”We have to move fast.”

Emmanuel limped back to the guest bedroom with the mug of coffee in one hand and a half-eaten sandwich in the other. He stood in the doorway and sipped at the drink. The hot liquid singed the cut inside his mouth, slid over the lump in his throat, and continued down to the aching knot of fear in his stomach.

Sunlight filtered into the room but the Security Branch officers and the Pretorius brothers retained a grayish cast, the result of too little sleep, too little food, and too much beer.

”Well?” Piet was lounging on the bed, no doubt keeping the s.p.a.ce warm in preparation for the woman's return. Cigarette b.u.t.ts littered the floor around him.

Emmanuel forced more coffee into his bruised mouth and went to check on Davida: scared stiff but holding up. He handed her the coffee, which she drank down in a few thirsty gulps. She reached for the sandwich but he kept that firmly in his hand. It was a long shot. Relying on a plain ham sandwich to save Davida's skin. He saw d.i.c.kie out of the corner of his eye. The big man was looking at the sandwich and at nothing else.

”Major van Niekerk wants more time to think about it. He's going to call back in half an hour with an answer.” Emmanuel took a bite of the homemade bread and chewed it before continuing. ”Can you wait that long?”

Piet stood up and flicked ash from his pants. ”The answer is yes or no.”

”What do you want most, Lieutenant? The photographs or the chance to drop your pants for your country?”

Piet flushed. ”And what the f.u.c.k are we supposed to do while your major prances around?”

Emmanuel shrugged, and checked his watch. Any minute now, Mrs. Ellis was going to fire the opening salvo of the battle. He took a bite of the sandwich and felt the hungry gazes of d.i.c.kie and the Pretorius brothers follow the movement of his hands. He licked b.u.t.ter from his fingers.

”Where did you get that food?” d.i.c.kie blurted. ”And the coffee?”

”This?” Emmanuel held the sandwich up. ”Housekeeper gave it to me from the braai plate.”

”What braai?” d.i.c.kie said, and sniffed the air like a hound dog. The smell of woodsmoke began to rise and mix with the aroma of bacon, onions, and fried sausage.

”That b.a.s.t.a.r.d, King.” Emmanuel shook his head. ”He's got enough food in the kitchen to feed an army. Although I never had anything like that when I was marching through France. No boerewors or sponge cake in my ration pack.”

d.i.c.kie's stomach gurgled and the Pretorius brothers stepped toward the smashed doorway. The sizzle of oil and meat called all men.

”Wait,” Piet ordered. ”This is a setup. Why would anyone light a braai at this time of morning?”

The lieutenant was a pure freak of nature, always on the lookout for danger. He didn't need food or sleep so long as the ”work” remained unfinished.

”Practice...” Davida leaned forward in the chair with the empty coffee mug held close to her chest. ”Mr. King is going to have a breakfast braai for the guests when the lodge opens. He likes to test the food and pick what he wants.”

”What happens to the food he doesn't eat?” d.i.c.kie asked.

”He gives it to the workers,” Davida said. ”The ones building the huts.”

d.i.c.kie groaned at the thought of all that white man's food going into the mouths of black workmen who were happy with a cob of roast corn and a piece of dried bread twice a day. He sniffed and thought he smelled brewed coffee amid the aroma of roast meat.

”Lieutenant...” d.i.c.kie begged. He was a big man. He liked six-egg breakfasts wiped up with a loaf of bread and washed down with a pot of black coffee. His stomach started to eat itself from inside. ”Please...”

Piet eyed his men and saw the beginning of mutiny stirring. He'd been negligent; they hadn't had a real meal in forty-eight hours. He pulled the woman over to the bed and secured her to the frame with his handcuffs.

”Half an hour,” Piet said.

Emmanuel handed Hansie a plate piled high with three kinds of meat and a fat slice of bread on top. The Security Branch crew hoed into the feast served up by Mrs. Ellis and King himself, who'd donned a servant's ap.r.o.n for the occasion. Winston served coffee and tea with the oily charm that melted the knickers off English girls and made men dig deeper into their pockets for a tip.

”Take this to the man guarding the bedroom,” Emmanuel told Hansie. ”Tell him the lieutenant said to eat it in the kitchen while you stand guard.”