his seat to beckon to Isabella where she sat in the main passenger-cabin.
She unfastened her seat-belt and went up to the cockpit, and Icant over the back of Garry's scat.
'OK, Bella. Let's hear it. What else can you tell us?' She looked across at Sean in the co-pilot's so-at.
'Do you remember the night at the Chicamba river when Nicky tried to escape and you and I ran back to catch him?' Sean nodded and she went on: 'You remember the guerrilla officer in the first truck, the one who supervised the clearing of the road-block? Well, I got a really good look at him and I knew I had seen him before. I was absolutely certain of it, but it didn't make any sense, not until now.' 'When and where had you seen him?' 'He was with Ben - and they were going into Michael's farm at Firgrove.' 'Michael?' Garry cut in. 'Our Michael?' 'Yes,' she confirmed. 'Michael Courtney.' 'You think Michael is mixed up in this?'
'Well, don't you think so? Otherwise what would he be doing with that ANC terrorist commander - and Ben?' They were all silent thinking about it for a while, then Isabella went on: 'Garry, you obviously suspect that Ben has stolen a cylinder or two of Cyndex. If he's mixed up with terrorists, how do you think they would use it? Spray it from an aircraft perhaps?' 'Yes, that is the most likely way.' 'Michael has a plane at Firgrove.' 'Oh shit,' Garry whispered. 'Please don't let it be true. Not Mickey please, not Mickey.' 'Michael has been publishing that commie rag of his for years,' Sean pointed out grimly. 'And he's got very chummy with a lot of the uglies in the process.' Nobody answered him. Garry said: 'Bella, get us each a Coke, please.' She went back to the refrigerator in the bar and brought two cans. They drank, and Sean lowered the can and belched softly. 'The Rand Easter Show opened this morning,' he said, and Garry looked at him.
'What the hell has that got to do with it?' 'Nothing.' Sean grinned at him wickedly. 'The Rand Easter Show - the biggest, glitziest show in the country. Half a million people all in one place. All of industry showing its products, the farmers, the businessmen - every goddam tinker, tailor and Indian chief will be there. The grand opening this evening at eight o'clock, the fireworks display, and the military tattoo and the stock-car racing and the show jumping. The prime minister making a speech, and all the big shots in their dark suits and carnation button-holes. Hell, of course, it means nothing.' 'Don't fool around, Sean,' Garry grated at him.
'You're absolutely right, Garry.' Sean kept on grinning. 'I mean, at heart the ANC are really decent civilized fellows. Just because they let off a few car bombs, and put burning motor-car tyres around people's necks, doesn't mean they don't have beautiful souls. Hell, don't let's judge them too harshly. A Russian limpet mine in a crowded supermarket is one thing, but they'd never dream of spraying the Rand Easter Show with Cyndex would they?' 'No.' Garry shook his head. 'I mean, Ben and Mickey are our own brothers.
They wouldn't - no...' His voice trailed off, and then he said angrily: 'Damn it, if only we had the Lear, we'd be there by now.' The radio squawked, and Garry adjusted his headphones.
'Charlie Sierra X-Ray, this is Jan Smuts Information. I have a relay for you from Capricorn. Are you ready to copy?' 'Go ahead, Information.' 'Message reads: All stocks and serial numbers tally. Message ends.' 'Thank God,' Garry breathed.
'Tell them to check what's inside the cylinders,' Sean suggested mildly, and Garry's expression altered..
'Information, please relay to Capricorn. Message reads: Take samples from all containers. Message ends.' Garry removed his headphones. 'I want so badly for it not to be true,' he said. 'But you're right, Sean. They aren't idiots. It would be simple enough to stamp a couple of empty cylinders with false numbers and substitute them in the stock-room.' 'How much longer?' Garry checked his navigation. 'Another hour - thank the Lord for this tail-wind.' Sean looked round at his sister. 'Do me a big favour, sweetheart. Next time you fancy a little bit of nooky, pick somebody a mite tamer - like Jack the Ripper.' The Capricorn airstrip was marked by the gigantic figure of the goat laid out artistically in white quartz. It stood out clearly on the brown veld from a distance of five miles. Garry touched down smoothly and taxied to the hangar building where four vehicles and a group of Capricorn employees headed by Paul, the managing director, were waiting to receive them.
As Garry and Sean jumped down from the Queen Air 55e and turned to give Isabella a hand, Paul rushed forward.
'Mr. Courtney, you were right. Two of the small canisters contain only carbon dioxide gas. Somebody has switched them. There are ten kilos of Cyndex out there somewhere!' They stared at him in total horror. Ten kilos could wipe out an army.
'It's time to call in the police. They've got to pick up Ben Afrika. Do we have his address?' Sean asked.
'I have already sent somebody to his home,' Paul cut in. 'He isn't there.
His landlady says she hasn't seen him for the last few days. He hasn't eaten or slept there.' 'Firgrove,' Isabella said softly.
'Right,' Garry snapped. 'Sean, you'd better get out there right away. Take Bella with you to show you the way and to identify Ben if you run into him.
I'll run things from this end. I'll be in the boardroom. Call me as soon as you get to Firgrove. I'll get police back-up for you and raise hell all round. We've got to get hold of those missing canisters.' Sean turned to Paul. 'I need a car - a fast one.' 'Take mine.' He pointed to a new BMW parked next to the hangar. 'The tank is full. Here are the keys.' 'Come on, Bella. Let's go.' They ran to the BMW.
'Don't get stopped by the traffic cops, Fangio,' Bella warned him, as he pushed the BMW hard along the highway. 'We should have sent the cops out to Firgrove before we left Cape Town. God, it's three o'clock already.' 'We couldn't do anything until we were sure that someone had ripped off a couple of Cyndex tanks,' Sean pointed out.
He leant Across and switched on the car radio. Bella glanced at him enquiringly.
'Three o'clock news,' he explained and turned to Radio Highveld. It was the third item on the newscast.
'Since this morning record crowds have been passing through the gates of the Rand Easter Show. Today is the opening day. A spokesman for the show committee stated that by noon today more than two hundred thousand visitors had already entered the grounds.' Sean switched off the set and then slammed his clenched fist against the dashboard of the BMW.
'Michaelp he shouted. 'It's always the bleeding hearts that are capable of the wildest excesses. How many innocents have been tortured and murdered in the name of God, peace and the fellowship of men?' He hit the dashboard again, and Bella reached across to touch his arm.
'Slow down, Sean. You take the next exit right.' Bella hung on to the door-handle as he swung the BMW into the bend.
'How much further?' 'Only a couple of miles.' Sean pulled back the tail of his coat and drew the Smith & Wesson from his belt. With his thumb he spun the chambers.
'What are you going to do with that?' Bella asked nervously. 'Ben and Mickey-' 'Ben and Mickey have got nice friends,' he said, and slipped the revolver into his belt.
'There it is.' Bella leant forward in the seat and pointed ahead. 'That's the gate to Mickey's place.' Sean slowed the BMW and turned off on to the dirt track. He drove sedately through the blue-gum plantation until they glimpsed the buildings ahead.
Then he stopped and reversed the BMW across the track.
'Why are you doing that?' Bella asked.
'I'm going in on foot,' Sean told her. 'No point in announcing my arrival.' 'But why are you parking across the road?' 'To stop anybody trying to leave in a hurry.' He pulled the keys from the ignition and jumped out. 'You wait here. No, not in the car. Hide in the trees over there, and don't even stick your head up until I call you out, do you hear?' 'Yes, Sean.' 'And don't slam the door,' he told her as she slipped out of the passenger- seat. 'Now, give it to me. Where does Mickey keep his plane?' 'Behind the house at the end of the orchard.' She pointed. 'You can't see it from here but you won't miss it. It's a big corrupted-tin shed, all rusty and ramshackle.' 'Sounds like our Mickey,' Sean muttered. 'Now, remember what I told you.
Stay out of the way.' He began to run.
He stayed off the track and kept the trees of the orchard and the chicken-shed between him and the buildings. It was only a few hundred yards to the veranda of the main house. There were chickens clucking and scratching around his feet as he crouched behind the wall and quickly surveyed the building. The front door and all the windows were wide open, but there was no sign of the occupants.
Sean vaulted easily over the wall and slipped through the front door. The sitting-room and kitchen were empty, although dirty dishes and glasses were piled in the sink. There were three bedrooms, and all of them had been recently occupied. The beds were unmade, and there was discarded clothing on the floor and men's toilet items in the bathrooms and on the dressing- tables.
Sean picked up a shirt and turned the collar. A name-tag embroidered in red thread was stitched into the inside of it: 'B. Afrika.' He dropped the shirt and ran back silently to the kitchen door. It stood open on to the orchard of scraggly insectravaged fruit trees. Beyond them rose the corrugated-iron roof of a large shed, and from a stubby roof-mast a sadlooking wind-sock drooped like a used condom.
Sean darted into the orchard and dodged between the fruit trees until he reached the wall of the shed. He flattened himself against it and laid his ear to the thin corrugated
