‘Hold on, Doctor. Let me get the particulars. Who are the passengers?’
‘One passenger, myself - and the pilot is Roger van Deventer as usual.’
I dictated while the constable on the other end took it down in laborious shorthand. Until finally he said: ‘That’s okay, Doctor. Have a good flight. I’ll give your clearance to control.’
I hung up and smiled at Timothy.
‘All clear.’ I stood up. ‘Let’s go.’ And I led the way out of the office. The engines of the Dakota were ticking over. The three black ground crew inexplicably left their positions beside the landing gear and began walking rapidly towards me.
‘Doctor!’ Timothy’s voice behind me, and I turned back towards him. It took me four or five seconds to realize that he had a short-barrelled Chinese model machine-pistol in his uninjured hand and the muzzle was pointing into my belly, I gaped at him.
‘I am sorry, Doctor,’ he said softly, ‘but it is necessary.’
The ground crew closed in on each side of me, they gripped my arms.
‘Please believe me, Doctor, when I tell you that I will not hesitate to kill you if you do not cooperate,’ He raised his voice without taking his eyes off me. ‘Come.’ he called in Venda.
Five others came through the outer door of the hangar. I immediately recognized two of the young Bantu assistants from the Institute, and one of the girls. All of them carried those stubby, lethal-looking machine-pistols and between them they supported a badly wounded stranger. His feet, dangled loosely, and blood-soaked bandages covered his chest and neck.
‘Get him into the plane,’ Timothy ordered crisply.
All this time I had stood dumbly, paralysed with shock, but now the party carrying the wounded man squeezed past between my captors and the side wall. They were blanketing each others’ line of fire, the whole group was off balance and at that moment I regained my wits. I braced my legs, leaned forward slightly and heaved. The men on my arms shot forward like thrown darts, crashing headlong into Timothy and knocking him down in a floundering heap.
‘Roger!’ I shouted, ‘Radio! Get help!’ Hoping my voice would carry over the sound of the aircraft engines. The third ground crew leaped on my back, one arm locking around my throat. I reached up, took him at wrist and elbow and wrenched against the joint. His elbow went with a rubbery popping sound and he screamed like a girl, his arm loose and flabby in my grip.
‘Don’t shoot,’ shouted Timothy. ‘No noise.’
‘Help!’ I screamed, the engines drowning my cry. They dropped the wounded man and came at me. I ducked and went in low. I kicked for the groin of the leader, and felt my boot sock into him, fleshy and soft. He doubled over and I swung my other knee up into his face. It crunched as the gristle of his nose collapsed.
Timothy and the ground crew were scrambling to their feet.
‘No shooting.’ Timothy’s voice was desperate. ‘No noise.’ I went for him. Leopard-mad with rage, hating him for this betrayal, with the full strength of my being, wanting to see his blood splash and feel his bones break in my hands.
One of the girls hit me with the steel butt of the machine-pistol, as I brushed past her. I felt the sharp edge of it cut into the flesh of my scalp, it threw me off balance. One of the ground crew grappled with me, and I took him to my chest and hugged him. He screamed, and I felt his ribs buckling in my grip.
They hit me again, steel biting into the bone of my skull. Blood poured warmly down my face, blinding me. My arms went soft, I dropped the man I was crushing and turned to charge into the others. Blinded with my own blood, my maniacal roars deafening me, they hit me again, crowding around me as I flailed and groped for them. The blows rained on my head and my shoulders. My knees collapsed, and I went down. I was still conscious, hot waves of anger buoying me. The boots started then, crashing into my chest and belly. I doubled up, blind, rolled into a ball on the cold oily concrete, trying to ride that storm of booted feet.
‘Enough, leave him.’ Timothy’s voice, ‘Get him to the aircraft.’
‘My arm. I’ll kill him.’ The voice pig-squealing with agony.
‘Stop that,’ Timothy again, and the sound of a palm slapping against a face. ‘We need hostages. Get him into the plane.’
They dragged me across the floor, many hands. I was lifted and thrown heavily onto the metal floor of the fuselage. The door slammed closed, muting the engine noise.
‘Tell the pilot to take off,’ Timothy ordered, ‘Get the Doctor into the radio compartment.’
I was hustled down the length of the aisle. Blinking the blood out of my eyes, I saw the white ground engineer and his black ground crew lying bound and gagged against the wall of the fuselage. They were stripped of their overalls, which the gang had used to impersonate them.
Rough hands forced me into the steel chair in the radio compartment, and they tied me so tightly that the ropes bit painfully into my flesh. My face felt swollen and numb, and the taste of my own blood was thick and metallic in my mouth.
I turned my head, looking into the cockpit. Roger van Deventer was at the controls. There was a livid red swelling under his eye, and his grey hair was rumpled, his face pale and terrified. One of them stood over him with the muzzle of a machine-pistol pressed firmly against the back of his head.
‘Take off,’ instructed Timothy, ‘Observe all routine procedures. Do you understand?’
Roger nodded jerkily. I felt sorry for him, I had guessed he was not cast in the heroic mould.
‘Sorry, Doctor,’ he tried to explain. ‘They jumped me the moment I stepped aboard.’ His full attention was on the job of taxiing the big aircraft out onto the still dark airfield. He did not look at me. ‘I didn’t have a chance.’
‘That’s all right, Roger. I didn’t do so good either,’ I replied thickly. ‘I only got in two good licks.’
