Free Kruger's Alp by Christopher Hope Page A

vain of the name of the mobile fighting unit venerated by the Boers.’
    â€˜Well, it makes a kind of sense, I suppose. Tony was in the Government.’
    â€˜Not exactly. He was a Civil Servant. And besides, if you’re going to assassinate someone why pick on an accountant?’
    â€˜Well, who then?’
    â€˜There is another lot, home based, with the same initials – the Afrika Straf Kaffir Brigade. Both are mysterious outfits–the Strike Kommando claims to have infiltrated the country to carry out executions of enemies of the people. The Straf Kaffir Brigade is a group of right-wing maniacs who claim to protect the white man’s way of life, motherhood and freedom – whether all of those, or you take your pick, I don’t know. Despite their name it is not actually blacks they’re after, it’s white men who they believe are destroying the soul of the Afrikaner. The Regime, needless to say, denies the existence of both groups. The Brigade has claimed responsibility for shooting up the houses of liberal lawyers, painting swastikas on the houses of selected targets like the local rabbi, which incensed him no end as it turned out he is a fervent supporter of the Regime. They go about generally making a nuisance of themselves.’
    â€˜I remember seeing the name,’ Blanchaille said. ‘Didn’t they release syphilis-infected mice in several of these new casinos these entrepreneurs are opening in all the Bantu homelands, in the hopes of spreading the pox among white gamblers?’
    â€˜The same. They are demented. But why should even a bunch of madmen who ostensibly at least support the Regime, assassinate one of its officials? Equally, why should the Azanian lot murder Ferreira? He was no big noise, no minister, no target. It seems to me that the question we ought to ask is not which of these groups carried out the killing but why they should bother to remove a remote financial official who spent his time locked away with the ledgers poring over the figures?’
    Blanchaille knew the old priest had to some extent at least answered his own questions. He suspected, as anyone would who knew Ferreira, that the answer lay in those figures.
    â€˜Do you believe in these organisations?’
    â€˜Believe? Of course I do! Whether they exist or not is anotherquestion. But certainly I believe, just as I believe in the Kruger millions.’
    â€˜And the city of gold?’
    â€˜Naturally. It is a question of faith which I cling to with Augustinian ferocity. May God help you with your unbelief, poor Blanchie. Sadly I do not have time to explain my allusion.’ He walked to the window and beckoned Blanchaille. ‘Those lights over there – the flashing red and yellow neon, do you see? That’s the Airport Palace Hotel. Ask to see the manager when you arrive. He’ll handle things. Leave here as soon as you can.’
    â€˜What, now?’
    â€˜Certainly. The very instant your watchers settle down for the night.’
    â€˜But I’m not ready – not right now, anyway.’
    â€˜What? Not ready? Your sainted mother gave you your wonderful French passport. Your dead friend has supplied you with funds. Your bags are packed, I take it?’
    Blanchaille nodded and pointed to the three tartan suitcases.
    â€˜What more do you want?’
    He thought hard. ‘I have no air ticket.’
    Lynch tapped his nose and winked. ‘Faith, my son.’ He drained his brandy and rose. ‘It will be taken care of. Now I’m on my way.’
    â€˜But you haven’t said yet who you think killed Ferreira. Straf Kaffir Brigade, or Azanian Strike Kommando?’
    Lynch regarded him unblinkingly. What he said next made Blanchaille’s head spin: ‘Or both?’ he said.
    Blanchaille went over to his chair, the same blue plastic garden chair on which he must have sat many a night and on which he was sitting when I first saw him in my