The Blockade Runners Read online

  The Blockade Runners

  Peter Vollmer

  © Peter Vollmer 2018

  Peter Vollmer has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Acknowledgement

  Firstly, I wish to thank my copy editor, David Baclaski. He worked his usual magic while interacting with me until we both were satisfied with the result. He has done a splendid job. Secondly, my agent in London, Thomas J. Cull, who was always there when needed unrelentingly works hard at getting my work published. Finally, my daughter, Dr Lindi Murray, who was always willing and ready to lend her support.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  CHAPTER 58

  CHAPTER 59

  CHAPTER 60

  CHAPTER 61

  CHAPTER 62

  CHAPTER 63

  CHAPTER 64

  CHAPTER 65

  CHAPTER 66

  CHAPTER 67

  CHAPTER 68

  CHAPTER 69

  CHAPTER 70

  CHAPTER 71

  CHAPTER 1

  David returned the security guard’s greeting with a nod. He strode through the opened steel security door and entered the rear of the main banking hall. It was only eight o’clock but already a few of the early birds had arrived. This was not unusual. These people drove in by car, some from afar, and wanted to miss the morning rush hour traffic. He, as usual, had caught the commuter train. From Park Station, he had walked the six blocks to the main branch of the Republic Bank, which took up the ground and mezzanine floors of the fourteen-storey building.

  David was in his early thirties, six foot two in his socks, and broad shouldered. His chiselled features and square jaw complemented his rugged looks. He had an unruly mop of black hair, which required copious amounts of hair conditioner to maintain some degree of control, which belied his career as a banker.

  He lived in the sprawling Witwatersrand Metropolitan complex. This megacity with Johannesburg at its centre was similar to any other major urban sprawl in the world, one city adjoining another as they expanded over time.

  His apartment overlooked a lake with a golf course on the opposite shore but, unfortunately, the building’s proximity to a major feeder thoroughfare did not qualify it for the degree of elitism he had sought. Had the highway not passed below his sixth-floor balcony, the apartment’s price would have been almost double.

  David had chosen banking as his career, but only after common sense prevailed. Compulsory military training after school saw him opt for the Air Force, signing on for a seven-year stint, which included the conflict in Angola. He did well, emerging as a captain with wings and getting time on a host of different aircraft. He also qualified as a helicopter pilot. Once this was over, he gave up everything to acquire the necessary academic qualifications, including drinking and women, except for the occasional one-night stand. The sacrifice paid off and he graduated with a degree in accounting and a good, if boring, job in banking.

  Huge armoured glass panels surrounded the banking hall on three sides, stretching from floor to ceiling, on the mezzanine floor. The building took up half a block, with the bank’s executive and administrative head office occupying the remaining floors.

  As usual, he bought the morning paper, the Rand Daily Mail, from the corner newsvendor on his way in to work and then ducked into a small coffee shop he religiously visited before starting his working day.

  He nursed a cup of tea and scanned the headlines. The confrontation between the British government and Ian Smith’s Rhodesian Front in Southern Rhodesia was intensifying. He skimmed the article. Smith was adamant that majority rule in his country would not occur during his lifetime, irrespective of what others demanded. David sighed. Such a statement was tantamount to throwing down a gauntlet. The British Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, demanded inflexibly that Smith’s government consider an immediate move away from the current representation disparity in the country, where whites had 95% of the votes in national elections although they represented only 5% of the population. The political situation was volatile. The pressure from the Commonwealth countries was intense. Certain recently fully-independent African countries demanded Britain resort to military intervention, threatening to break away from the Commonwealth if she did not. David wondered what the outcome would be. It seemed that Ian Smith’s Rhodesian Front party was not about to capitulate but would stand its ground. What would Smith do – break away from Britain as he threatened?

  Wilson was correct morally, of course. But how often do morals play a role in political power games? Those holding power invariably have a problem relinquishing it. Eventually the will of the majority would prevail and history would repeat itself. David was comfortable with the way things were. The concept of power-sharing with blacks left him with a feeling of unease. He enjoyed his privileged life and hoped that the whites would remain in power in Southern Africa. He preferred not to see a change in his lifetime. Worry about any disproportion later was his attitude.

  Most whites in both Rhodesia and South Africa shared these sentiments.

  Every day at nine sharp, the bank’s doors opened to the public. Upstairs on the first floor, the foreign exchange dealers sat hunched over their adding machines, out of the public’s eye, forever poring over incoming telexes, which revealed the slightest fluctuations in exchange rates, and drafting new messages to be dispatched urgently. Their continuous striving to improve and secure the bank’s financial lot was a quotidian paper war.

  David had recently been appointed the sub-accountant of the Foreign Department and was responsible for its activities and the performance of his fifty-six staff members and senior clerks. This was the bank’s biggest branch.

  He settled himself into his accountant’s box. This was wood-panelled, slightly raised on a platform about a foot higher than the general banking floor, the top half of the glass allowing him unfettered vision. It contained a low, highly polished wooden cabinet, executive desk and three chairs; and, giving evidence of his status, carpet. It was only the more important clients who would be directed to his box and then take a seat opposite his desk.

  He poured his
own tea. Everyone else had to collect his from an urn on a trolley. David’s was brought to him on a silver tray with a teapot, milk jug and bowl; and three cups made of fine porcelain. This, even more than carpeting, gave him intra-office cachet.

  It was four-thirty and David had just finished signing his name to a host of documents when an accountant approached and, without invitation, pulled out a chair and sat down opposite him.

  ‘David, they want to see you on the fourteenth floor.’

  The statement caught him by surprise.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘They didn’t say, just that they wanted to see you.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to wear my best suit tomorrow, won’t I?’ After the sarcasm, he smiled to mask his concern.

  ‘Sorry friend, it’s now. Immediately. Not tomorrow,’ the accountant said. He leaned back in the chair, a grim expression on his face.

  ‘Know any reason why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Christ. That’s serious. Okay, I’m on my way.’

  ‘Done anything wrong lately? Not another air hostess, I hope. God, the lengths a man will go just for a piece of skirt,’ the accountant sneered with a lecherous grin.

  ‘Not unless it’s that piece of fluff I took home Friday night.’

  ‘Could be. I hear she was a screamer. Maybe somebody complained.’

  ‘Fuck off, will you?’ David grimaced and rushed off to the men’s room to check his appearance.

  A letter invariably advised a promotion in the bank and documents setting out revised scales of remuneration and benefits. Dismissals were different. You were summoned. But that was to a lower floor, the domain of the Personnel Department. He was puzzled. With a sense of foreboding, he entered the lift and requested the fourteenth floor from the operator.

  David had been summoned to the top floor once before during The Infamous Airhostess Hubbub. Just thinking about that now made him cringe. He had noticed her in the banking hall, standing at the Information counter, dressed in an air hostess uniform. That she was beautiful was undeniable. His hormones reacted instantly. He just had to have her; she was an opportunity not to be missed. After she conducted her business and left, he requested her signature card from the junior clerk behind the counter. Using these details, he contacted her and soon he persuaded her to have dinner with him. One thing led to another and a short, but passionate, affair followed. When he dumped her some months later, she had gone to Head Office and reported that he had used the personal details from her account opening form to trace and contact her, a serious breach of information and confidentiality.

  Fortunately, the General Manager – Personnel did not consider his actions serious and merely verbally admonished him. No letter of reprimand followed and nothing appeared on his file. Maybe, he thought, they realised they had already invested heavily in him and probably believed there would be no repetition of romantic relationships based on information gleaned from the bank’s records. Of course, the story leaked out, and he was labelled as quite a ladies’ man, not true really, but now there was little he could do about it. He was sure that whenever he walked into the Waste Department, where scores of young women sorted the host of cheques that passed through the bank daily, the women pulled their short mini-skirts down, an involuntary reaction when confronted by a womaniser, and were probably convinced he was a voyeur or some other rake.

  As the elevator doors slid open, David stepped out into the vast, opulent reception area. The wall-to-wall carpets were deep and dark green, the walls wood-panelled, and the reception area taken up by two clusters of leather sofas, armchairs and coffee tables. The two large paintings adorning the walls were by a renowned South African artist, worth a fortune, befitting the executive division of the bank. A few discreet flower arrangements were the only other decoration.

  Margaret Stewart, private secretary to Robert Muller, the managing director, sat behind her desk. She was in her mid-thirties, a tall beautiful blonde with legs that seemed to go on forever. She always dressed in a dark suit and matching shoes. In the banking hall, she was known as Miss Stewart. Rumour had it that she was more than just a secretary to the MD, but no one knew whether this was true or said out of spite. This had given rise to a number of jokes and every time David saw her the best came to mind. Once, the bank was held up and the robbers forced management to render themselves starkers and lie on their stomachs. Miss Stewart, returning from lunch, walked in on the scene and, without any prompting, stripped and lay down on her back next to the MD.

  ‘This is a hold-up, not a staff party,’ Muller deadpanned.

  David suppressed a laugh and smiled.

  She returned his smile.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Tusk. You seem in good spirits. Just a moment please.’ She winked and he wondered about its significance. She always seemed to play him. Maybe she also knew about the air hostess contretemps.

  She disappeared through a door marked ‘Boardroom’ in some fancy script. She reappeared, holding the door open for him.

  ‘You can go in now,’ she said and gave him another wink.

  David stepped through the door and halted, surprised. He quickly got a hold of himself. Every chair in the boardroom was taken. The MD sat at the head of the table, the rest of the executives seated along both sides. Clearly, they had been there for a while as papers, files, cups and glasses littered the table. Some had even removed their jackets. This had obviously been an all-day session.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he croaked.

  ‘Come in, Tusk. Take a seat. Somebody please find the man a chair,’ Robert Muller said, ‘Coffee or tea?’

  ‘Tea, please,’ David stammered.

  Muller waited until David was brought a cup of tea and then made himself comfortable, not that David felt comfortable. His sense of foreboding was strong.

  ‘I take it you have heard Rhodesia proposes to announce a unilateral declaration of independence and Britain will not recognise it. Let me rephrase that. We believe this is about to happen and that there is no saving the situation between the two countries,’ Robert Muller said quietly. He stopped, waiting for a comment from David, his fingers tapping the table.

  ‘Well, it would seem to be highly probable. Or so the papers say.’

  ‘Have you a personal view on this?’ Muller raised his eyebrows.

  Was this a trick question? Why would they ask me this? Best take a neutral stance, he thought. He knew the Bank’s board and general management tended to lean to the right.

  ‘I’m a South African. They’re doing no more than we did in 1961, when we declared a republic and broke away from the Commonwealth. There was no way then that we would accept majority rule and we were not about to let anybody coerce us into it. In retrospect, it would seem the government foresaw what would eventually occur. Although belated, Rhodesia appears to be following the same logic we chose. I suppose I’m comfortable with that.’

  The Human Resources Director gave him the faintest of nods, indicating David said the right thing. It was he who got him off the hook with the neurotic air hostess.

  Muller did not respond but glanced around the table, a meaningful look, which was acknowledged and returned by a few. He picked up a file from the table and opened it.

  ‘You speak four languages. That’s impressive. I see that you spent time in England and France?’

  ‘Yes. I’m actually of German extraction. My mother’s second marriage was to an Englishman. They live in Paris. I spent time with them and went to the Alliance Française for about a year.’

  ‘A seven-year stretch in the Air Force. You’re a captain and you do your annual stints to maintain your reserve status?’

  ‘Yes, I’m a captain,’ he replied and grew puzzled by the direction of Muller’s questioning.

  There was a lot more to it. His Air Force training had been comprehensive and, while never in command, he had co-piloted clandestine flights into Cabinda and Angola. This information was top secret and would remain so.

>   ‘It says here that you are a helicopter pilot.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘But as an officer, you are bound by your secrecy oath? You attended the Air Force College?’

  What was this man getting at?

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s right.’

  ‘Good,’ Muller said, ‘Now, Tusk, listen carefully. All the other commercial banks of note in South Africa have British shareholders. In fact, Great Britain itself holds substantial shares in these banks. This is not the case as far as we are concerned. We are truly a South African bank.

  ‘A unilateral declaration of independence by the Rhodesian government will have severe consequences for their country. Their assets will be seized. Their foreign currency reserves, if any, will be frozen. Although I’m sure the Rhodesians would have foreseen this and cleaned out the foreign accounts.’ He paused to allow the subdued laughter from the table to die.

  ‘Rhodesia needs to continue to function as a country. British-controlled banks in South Africa and Rhodesia would have to abide by their majority shareholders’ directives and would not be able to assist the Rhodesian government to circumvent the financial sanctions the British will impose. We propose to be Rhodesia’s banking ally. What do you say to that?’

  ‘You want my opinion?’ David was surprised.

  ‘Yes.’

  He thought for a few seconds, wanting to say the correct thing.

  ‘Well, we are already represented in their country as the Rhodesian Commercial Bank which, I understand, is wholly owned by us and which we manage as an extension of our bank here. In fact, we run their branches as if these were branches of our division. Staff transfers and all loan and overdraft facilities are approved from here, that sort of thing. During my stint in the Advance Department in Head Office, I dealt with large Rhodesian overdraft applications, all approved in Johannesburg. They’re really no different from any other branch, other than by name.’

  ‘Impressive. You seem to be well informed. Well, we wish to put you in charge of a new division whose main function would be to keep the doors of trade open, allowing Rhodesian goods to be exported and enabling them to buy and import essential goods on the world markets. We believe it’s a foregone conclusion that a trade embargo will be slapped on their country by the British as well as the United Nations. How this will eventually relate to the rest of the world, we don’t know; but we propose to be ready for this. As far as your banking activities are concerned, you will report directly to Mr de Groot, our general manager in charge of our Foreign Department, and to Mr Butler, the Rhodesian Minister of Trade and Industries. Of course, not directly to him, but you would follow prescribed protocol. As you adjust, you will become a Rhodesian operative as it were, but ultimately you are still in our employ and whenever this mess is resolved, you would return to the fold.’