office, that would be trespass, subjecting
34
‘He has to die.’
Sitting in his office at the Green Way International building in the centre of Cape Town, Severan Hydt was holding his phone tightly as he listened to Niall Dunne’s chilly words. No, he reflected, that wasn’t accurate. There was neither chill nor heat. His comment had been completely neutral.
Which was chilling in its own way.
‘Explain,’ Hydt said, absently tracing a triangle on the desktop with a long, yellowing fingernail.
Dunne told him that a Green Way worker had very likely learnt something about Gehenna. He was one of the legitimate workers in the Cape Town disposal plant to the north of the city, who had known nothing of Hydt’s clandestine activities. He’d accidentally got into a restricted area in the main building and might have seen some emails about the project. ‘He wouldn’t know what they meant at this point but when the incident makes the news later in the week – which it’s going to, of course – he might realise we were behind it and tell the police.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I’m looking into it now.’
‘But if you kill him, won’t the police ask questions? Since he’s an employee?’
‘I’ll take care of him where he lives – a squatters’ camp. There won’t be many police, probably none at all. The taxis’ll look into it, most likely, and they won’t cause us any problems.’
In the townships, squatters’ settlements and even the new
‘All right. Let’s move fast, though.’
‘Tonight, after he gets home.’
Dunne disconnected and Hydt returned to his work. He’d spent all morning since their arrival making arrangements for the manufacture of Mahdi al-Fulan’s new hard-drive destruction machines and for Green Way’s sales people to start hawking them to clients.
But his mind wandered and he kept imagining the body of the young woman, Stella, now in a grave somewhere beneath the restless sands of the Empty Quarter south of Dubai. While her beauty in life hadn’t aroused him, the picture in his mind’s eye of her in a few months or years certainly did. And in a thousand, she’d be just like the bodies he’d viewed at the museum last night.
He rose, slipped his suit jacket on to a hanger and returned to his desk. He took and placed a string of phone calls, all relating to Green Way’s legitimate business. None was particularly engaging… until the company’s head of sales for South Africa, who was on the floor just below Hydt’s, called.
‘Severan, I’ve got some Afrikaner from Durban on the line. He wants to talk to you about a disposal project.’
‘Send him a brochure and tell him I’ll be tied up till next week.’ Gehenna was the priority and Hydt had no interest in taking on new accounts at the moment.
‘He doesn’t want to hire us. He’s talking about some arrangement between Green Way and his company.’
‘Joint venture?’ Hydt asked cynically. Entrepreneurs always emerged when you started to enjoy success, and got publicity, in your chosen field. ‘Too much going on now. I’m not interested. Thank him, though.’
‘All right. Oh, but I was supposed to mention one thing. Something odd. He said to tell you that the problem he’s got is the same as at Isandlwana in the 1870s.’
Hydt looked away from the documents on his desk. A moment later he realised he was gripping the phone hard. ‘You’re sure that’s what he said?’
‘Yes. “The same as at Isandlwana”. No idea what he meant.’
‘He’s in Durban?’
‘His company’s headquarters are there. He’s at his Cape Town office for the day.’
‘See if he’s free to come in.’
‘When?’ the sales manager asked.
A fractional pause, then Hydt said, ‘Now.’
In January 1879, the war between Great Britain and the Zulu Kingdom kicked off in earnest with a stunning defeat for the British. At Isandlwana, overwhelming forces (twenty thousand Zulus versus fewer than two thousand British and colonial troops) and some bad tactical decisions resulted in a complete rout. It was there that the Zulus broke the British Square, the famous defensive formation in which one line of soldiers fired while another, directly behind, reloaded, offering the enemy a nearly unremitting volley of bullets – in that instance, with the deadly Martini-Henry breech-loading rifles.
But the tactic hadn’t worked; thirteen hundred British soldiers and allied forces died.
The ‘disposal’ problem that the Afrikaner had referred to could mean only one thing. The battle had occurred in January, the fiercely hot dog days of summer in the region of what was now KwaZulu-Natal; removing the bodies quickly was a necessity… and a major logistical issue.
The disposal of remains was also one of the major problems that Gehenna would present in future projects and Hydt and Dunne had been discussing it over the past month.
Why on earth would a businessman from Durban have a problem along these lines that required Hydt’s assistance?
Ten lengthy minutes later his secretary stepped into his doorway. ‘A Mr Theron is here, sir. From Durban.’
‘Good, good. Show him in. Please.’
She vanished and returned a moment later with a tough-looking, edgy man, who glanced around Hydt’s office cautiously, yet with an air of challenge. He was dressed in the business outfit common to South Africa: a suit and smart shirt, but no tie. Whatever his line he must have been successful; a heavy gold bracelet encircled his right wrist and his watch was a flashy Breitling. A gold initial ring too, which was a touch brash, Hydt thought.
‘Morning.’ The man shook Hydt’s hand. He noticed the long yellowing fingernails but did not recoil, as had happened on more than one occasion. ‘Gene Theron,’ he said.
‘Severan Hydt.’
They exchanged business cards.
Hydt reflected: an office in the capital of Congo, one of the most dangerous cities in Africa. This was interesting.
The man glanced at the door, which was open. Hydt rose and closed it, returned to his desk. ‘You’re from Durban, Mr Theron?’
‘Yes, and my main office is there. But I travel a lot. And you?’ The faint accent was melodious.
‘London, Holland and here. I get to the Far East and India too. Wherever business takes
