Autobiography of an Assassin:: The Family Read online

  From a township near Rivonia, a suburb of Johannesburg, they had come to the quiet town of Springbok, on a recruitment drive. Although the majority of the inhabitants of the Northern Cape were classified as being ‘coloured’ by the then ‘white’ South African Apartheid Government, the ANC had desperately needed to increase its power base throughout the whole of South Africa, not just the predominantly ‘black’ territories. Establishing strong support for the ANC, in the Northern Cape Territory, would have provided them with a network of political activists and reactionaries, furnishing the MK with safe houses en-route to their terrorist training camps in South-West Africa, now Namibia, and across the border into Angola. To secure the support of the black minority, in Springbok, had been a fairly easy task for the five man strong MK delegation to achieve.

  It is generally quite a straight forward process to radicalise those ethnic groups who believe themselves to be oppressed.

  The coloureds, of Springbok, however, had been a different matter, entirely. Generally better educated; with better jobs, homes and a higher standard of living than their black neighbours, they had been far more reticent to join the ANC. So, the five man MK delegation had resorted to intimidation, instead. And what better way is there to intimidate than to set an example of what happens to those who don’t conform. Through their newly established predominantly black Springbok ANC membership, they had duly formed a People’s Court – its purpose to root out and punish members of the community who had been considered to be collaborators with the Apartheid Regime. Collectively, with a certain amount of direction from the five man MK delegation, they had concluded that their Police Sergeant had been the most active collaborator in the whole of Springbok – and, accordingly, had sentenced him to death. The following morning, just after sunrise, a group of about thirty blacks, including the five man MK delegation, armed with an assortment of improvised weapons, had descended on the Police Sergeant’s bungalow on the outskirts of town. Some had charged in through the front door, forcing it off its hinges – others had broken the side windows to get in. Buoyed up with a night of homemade alcohol, they had rampaged through the neat house, smashing and destroying everything in their path. But the target of their raid, the Police Sergeant, had not been there. He had still been on night duty at the small Springbok police station, two miles away – but his wife had been there, though. They had dragged the small diminutive woman, kicking and screaming out of the house, throwing her down on to the dirt road, outside. This could have represented monumental embarrassment and humiliation to the five man MK delegation. They had been at the head of a mob, which they had stirred up into a frenzy of hate – a mob that was baying for blood. A petrol soaked car tyre – the ANC prescribed instrument of execution – had been carried all the way from Springbok. But the object of their supposed hate, the Police Sergeant, had not been at home. It had been then that one of the five ANC MK men had delivered an inspired speech. With all the oratory rhetoric that he could muster, he had told the gathered mob that ‘necklacing’ was not just to punish those who were collaborators with the white apartheid fascist regime, but to punish their relatives and families, as well. He had seen the look of hesitancy and uncertainty, on the faces of those around him, as they had realised what he had been extolling them to do. So, he had then called upon their undying patriotism…their undying struggle against fascist apartheid oppression – stirring up their emotions with passionate war cries and shouts. He had then told them all that the ‘Great Mother’ of the ANC, Winnie Mandela, herself, had given her full blessing and had truly endorsed the execution of all collaborators and their families. That, regrettably, had provided the sufficient justification that the mob had needed. Standing her up, they had bound her arms tightly around her waist, frequently punching her as they did so, in an attempt to subdue her violent struggle. Picking up the petrol soaked tyre, they had thrust it over her head and shoulders. But the tyre had been intended for her husband and, instead of it stopping at her chest; the tyre had fallen straight down her slender frame, down on to the floor. As one of the MK men had bent down to pull the tyre back up, she had kneed him full in the face, breaking his nose. This time they had nearly beat her to unconsciousness. Getting some fencing wire, the MK men had forced the tyre once more over her head. Tying the wire round her neck, they had used it to hold the tyre firmly in position around her upper chest. Then, the MK man, with the bleeding broken nose, had taken a box of matches from one of his colleagues and had ignited the ‘necklace’, fixed firmly around the woman’s small frame. While the tyre had burnt, the mob had skipped round Joshua’s wife; taunting her as she had danced in agony. Every time that she had tried to drop to the floor, in a desperate attempt to roll over and smother the flames out in the dust, they had pulled her up to her feet again.

  Death had been a long time coming.

  By the time that Joshua had returned to their small neat home, his wife had been dead for a number of hours. Birds and other carrion had taken her eyes, and small animals had gnawed at her charred flesh. She was dead and there had been nothing that he could do for her. With his arms carefully placed underneath her badly burnt shoulders and back, he had gently cradled her head, talking softly to her…looking down into her blistered distorted face – telling her how beautiful she was and how much he loved her. He had still been talking lovingly to her as the cool chill twilight of dusk had begun to fall…talking lovingly to a stiffening corpse.

  ***

  Joshua had made an ideal and willing recruit for the South African National Intelligence Service, the NIS. He had been recruited as a sergeant into the South West Africa Police Counter-Insurgency Unit, SWAPOL-COIN. Based in the then South-West Africa Province, later called Namibia – Joshua had been actively involved in Koevoet, which was Afrikaans for ‘Crowbar. Operation ‘K’, as it had been officially known, was the systematic identification and ruthless removal of insurgents and ANC activists from the Province.

  If Joshua had been involved, then their removal had indeed been ruthless…invariably fatal – in point of fact.

  The South African National Intelligence Service had a list of known SWAPO insurgents and ANC activists, and they believed that it would be beneficial to State security to have them removed, permanently – and Joshua had happily obliged. So successful had Operation ‘K’ been, that many SWAPO insurgents and ANC members had fled from South-West Africa, north into Angola, and the comparative safety and protection of the sympathetic Marxist government there. But that did not stop the South African government, though. Using the South African Defence Force, the SADF, to carry out selective raids into neighbouring countries, South Africa had maintained its policy of attacking guerrilla bases and ANC safe houses, where ever they had found them. But, with the disapproving eyes of an Anti-Apartheid world firmly upon them, they had needed to be more discrete in the implementation of their chosen policy of ‘removals’.

  And that is where I had become involved – I can do discrete.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In the late seventies, during the Rhodesian Bush War, I had been commissioned directly by the Rhodesian Internal Security Services, to carry out some ‘work’ for them. This in turn had brought me to the attention of the South African Bureau of State Security, BOSS, later to be replaced by the National Intelligence Service, the NIS. And, it had been in the late spring of ’83 when the NIS had approached me to do some work for them, also.

  It had been pretty much similar to the work that I had carried out for the CIA, in Vietnam. Attached to raiding South African Defence Force units – as they had launched their attacks on guerrilla bases, or safe houses, I had patiently waited by the ‘back door’. Invariably, like most terrorist organisations, their intellectual leaders had never stayed to fight, always leaving that to willing martyrs to do for them, while they had made a rapid exit out of a back door or from a bolt-hole – straight into my waiting arms. However, in South West Africa, and later, in Angola, I had collected hands for finger print identificat
ion, rather than heads…unlike Vietnam, some years previously – a lot more convenient. I had also been asked if I could assassinate certain Cuban military advisors, in Angola, but had declined – you never know whose tomorrow’s client might be. Initially, these raids on the training camps and safe houses had been very successful, netting me quite a few ‘hands’. Nonetheless, as time had gone by, SWAPO and ANC activists had wised up to these SADF raiding tactics. And, as was the case in Vietnam, even a relatively small unit of armed men can leave a discernible trail, or unintentionally announce their presence by their numbers. A change of approach had been required. And that was when I had been introduced to Joshua.

  My first impressions of Joshua had been good. His proud stature and impeccable manners had created their own presence. Here was a man with an intrinsic level of self-reliance, which had been capably supported by the substance of his experience and personal endeavour. He had been taken aback slightly when I had held out my hand. But his hesitation had only been momentary, as he had taken hold of my right hand in his own, shaking it firmly.

  “Sir,” he had greeted, in that deep rich voice of his – no submissive squeaky whimper of ‘Baas’, from him. This was Joshua, son of a Massai lion killer; he was black and intensely proud of his heritage. As if to emphasise this fact, his long hair had been woven into thinly plaited braids, in the style of his ancestors.

  In the hot confines of the Pretoria Central office of the South African National Intelligence Service, you could have heard a pin drop – but instead of a pin, it had been the sharp intake of breath from some of the assembled whites that could be heard. The strained bigoted atmosphere of that Pretoria Central office had been oppressive – not in the least conducive to conduct a relaxed briefing in. So, I had asked Joshua, much to his surprise, if he had known of a bar where we could both get a drink. ‘Surprise’, because, apart from the International Hotel, at the airport, the only other bars that we could drink at had been those that had been designated for ‘blacks’ only – something that whites didn’t do. Jumping into a cab, the bar that Joshua had taken me to had been several blocks south and several blocks east, of Pretoria Central. In a predominantly black area, set in the middle of a small row of shuttered and fortified shops – their fronts covered with everything from bars to barbed wire – had stood the bar. Like its neighbours, the front had long since been boarded up to prevent thieves from ‘steaming in’ and looting the place. Only the crudely painted sign in bright green paint: ‘Abby’s Bar’, had indicated what had been beyond the multicoloured strips of plastic, which had hung limply down from the door frame. Standing outside the bar, the loud gabbled noise of myriad conversations could clearly be heard. This cacophony of sound had instantly dropped to a selection of muted whispers as soon as Joshua had walked through the doorway. However, these whispers had stopped abruptly on my entrance. I could clearly feel that all eyes had been on me – the only white man likely to have been in that bar before would have been a policeman.

  They probably wouldn’t kill a white policeman – but they might have had a mind to kill me.

  “What’s the best beer you’ve got, Mother?” I had directly addressed the small fat woman, standing behind the bar – it could have been Abby herself, for all I knew.

  “Castle – Castle Larger,” she had replied, her wide brow screwed up into tight furrows. “And I ain’t your MOTHER!”

  I had turned to look at the other occupants of the bar, about thirty in number – could be interesting if they decide that I’m not a policeman and they fancy their chances, I had silently reflected. I’m good – but not that good.

  “How many bottles you wanting, Baas?” she had snapped impatiently – well at least she was going to serve me.

  “How many bottles have you got, Mother?” I don’t know what had annoyed her the most. Me asking how many bottles she had or me still calling her mother.

  “I got fokken cases of it – no kaffer got money to by the fokken beer,” she had snapped back, her brow creased in furrows again.

  “I’ve got money, Mother,” I had replied, throwing down a thick clip of ten rand notes on to the sticky surface of the bar – back then, a Rand had been worth about a dollar. “I have got money to buy beer, Mother.”

  Her eyes had widened at the sight of the bills – probably along with thirty other pairs of eyes, also. “How many bottles you wanting, Baas?” she had softly sung – her mood changed.

  “My friend Joshua and I would like two each, to start with, Mother. It’s a warm day and friends need a good drink.”

  “OK, Baas.” She had dived beneath the counter of the bar, retrieving and placing four bottles of beer on to the counter surface.

  Someone at sometime had screwed a piece of angle iron crudely to the inner edge of the counter. Against this, she had placed the underside of the bottle top, placing the pressed cap directly against the corner of the angle iron. With a mere slap of her hand, she had nimbly flicked off the pressed metal cap. She had gone on to repeat this action three more times, placing the four open bottles in front of me.

  “That may not be enough, Mother,” I had said loudly, so that all in that small dingy bar could clearly hear me. “It’s a warm day and friends need a good drink, Mother.” I had then turned my back to the bar, directly addressing the rest of the bar’s occupants. “It’s a warm day and friends need a good drink – do I have any other friends who want to drink with me?”

  You bet I fokken did!

  The beer, while fresh and tasty, had been tepid – no refrigerators or means of keeping beer chilled in black bars, back then. Having asked Abby to keep Joshua and myself stocked up with a supply of fresh beers, and to also keep my new found ‘friends’ stocked up, as well, I had found a secluded table in a darkened corner at the rear of the bar. There, I had briefed Joshua, frequently having to pause, as a new ‘friend’ would come up and make themselves ‘known’ to me. Several bottles and several Rand later, I had covered everything that I had wanted Joshua to know.

  “Are you interested in being my guide, Joshua?” I had asked, having outlined, in principle, how we would operate.

  “Yes, Sir – very much so,” he had replied, his brilliant white teeth had been set in a warm smile.

  “Good, I’m very pleased that we’re going to be working together. But there is one thing you must remember, Joshua.”

  “What is that, Sir?”

  “It’s not ‘Sir’ – it’s Martin.”

  We had shaken hands on the arrangement and had left a bar full of happy new ‘friends’.

  Time to get busy.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Compared to other pieces of work, which I had previously been commissioned to undertake, and work that I have undertaken since, our ‘modus operandi’ had been relatively simple…I much prefer simple – less things to go wrong.

  From information obtained from collaborators and informants, the South African National Intelligence Service had compiled a list of ‘targets’, and where they might be found.

  There had been a surprising number of blacks and coloured, who had been only too willing to ingratiate themselves with the white Apartheid regime. An endless supply of informants, prepared to sell out their neighbour for a month’s wage – or imprisoned detainees, who had the information kicked out of them.

  Armed with this list, and a few days’ rations of dried or smoked meat, glucose tablets, water and water purification tablets – and my ‘tool bag’ – Joshua and I had set out on safari. Issued by La Légion – and still very much in use – my tool bag, fitted with broad shoulder straps and double reinforced grab handles, had in fact been a very much modified, lengthened and strengthened canvas kitbag with zippered side openings. Inside, separate internal padded compartments had been fitted. These compartments had contained my M14 rifle with its Russian PSO-1 telescopic sight, my Uzi sub-machinegun, my Browning Hi-Power and my Colt Combat Commander, along with a plentiful supply of ammunition and spare magazines – oh, and the oblig
atory tapanga machete. My snub nosed Colt Cobra, along with my skinning knife, I had carried on my person. The preference of the South African National Intelligence Service, whenever it had been at all possible, had been for us to make the assassinations appear to be the work of a rival SWAPO or ANC faction. Hence, the tapanga – as it had long been the traditional weapon of choice for the ANC. Compared to the machete that I had inherited in the Congo – crude and primitive, beaten into shape from the hardened metal of vehicle leaf springs – the tapanga had been a factory mass produced shop bought product. Some forty-five centimetres long, ideal for chopping, its heavy, distinctive, broad blunt blade sharpened along its leading edge. Intended primarily as an implement for cutting crops and clearing brush, it had been easy for the ANC to obtain – and to use. Even so, if you have ever seen someone hacked to death with a tapanga – which you most probably have not – you would observe that the blade was used in similar way to that employed when chopping wood. Using as little effort as possible, the only effort expended had been lifting the machete up in the air before allowing it to fall, under its own weight and gravity, on to the hapless victim. Consequently, it became a fairly sloppy affair, several blows being required to kill the victim. And, on occasions, despite multiple blows, intended victims have actually managed to survive the onslaught by feigning death. Nevertheless, unlike combat situations where, in the heat of the battle, you might slash out wildly and blindly – with the correct application of technique and power, the tapanga is an efficient, if not somewhat messy tool to use. Once ‘close up and personal’, if the target had their back turned towards me, with the tapanga in my left hand, I would strike at the left hand side of the neck, slicing straight through the carotid and vagus nerve – effecting instant death. If facing me, then I would switch hands, using my right so that the razor sharp blade could cut through the same vulnerable area of the target’s neck. On some occasions, Joshua had carried out the attack, using his own tapanga. And, on a couple of occasions, he had actually used his great-great grandfather’s knobkerrie; a strong wooden club, with a large rounded knob of hard wood mounted at the end of a slim, springy wooden shaft. Purported to have been used by his great-great grandfather, during the Zulu wars against the British, it had been devastatingly effective in Joshua’s hands. Definitely a ‘one hit’ weapon, with its own unique, distinct crunchy sound. Afterwards, if time and circumstances had permitted, we would then hack the target about a bit, post-mortem, to give all the appearances of a typical SWAPO or ANC attack; before cutting off their hands and placing them into chemically impregnated evidence bags, to take back with us to Pretoria for fingerprinting and identification. If we could not get up close and personal, then I would kill from a distance, using the M14 – Zoom-zoom…Bang-bang…Bye-bye! Or, if there had been multiple targets; such as a small meeting, or small gathering, I would use the Uzi initially, ensuring fatalities by executing a ‘coup de grace’ with my Colt 45 automatic, afterwards. Then, again, if circumstances permitted, we would collect the hands.