Carte Blanche - Jeffery Deaver [78]
‘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.
Eugene J. Theron
President, EJT Services, Ltd
Durban, Cape Town and Kinshasa
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 me. Now, “Theron”. The name’s Huguenot, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘We forget Afrikaners are not always Dutch.’
Theron lifted an eyebrow as if he’d heard such comments since he was a child and was tired of them.
Hydt’s phone trilled. He looked at the screen. It was Niall Dunne. ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said to Theron, who nodded. Then: ‘Yes?’ Hydt asked, pressing the phone close to his ear.
‘Theron’s legit. South African passport. Lives in Durban and has a security company with headquarters there, with branches here and in Kinshasa. Father’s Afrikaner, mother’s British. Grew up mostly in Kenya.’
Dunne continued, ‘He’s been suspected of supplying troops and arms to conflict regions in Africa, South East Asia and Pakistan. No active investigations. The Cambodians detained him in a human trafficking and mercenary investigation because of what he’d been up to in Shan, Myanmar, but let him go. Nothing in Interpol. And he’s pretty successful, from what I can tell.’
Hydt had deduced that himself; the man’s Breitling was worth around five thousand pounds.
‘I just texted a picture to you,’ Dunne added.
It appeared on Hydt’s screen and showed the man in front