Welcome to South Africa
By Kat Fenn
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters…as countless others before me, I have borrowed them as I hear their voices in my head!
Author's note: PS: I have tried to keep this in the era of the late 80's, so the technology is rather dated.
P.P.S As per some of my reviews I have tried to flesh out String's character a bit and I've tried to do this from his POV. I promise I've worked in some action towards the end – although be warned for die-hard Airwolf fans…the Lady isn't involved in much…sorry!
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Chapter 7
A dull throbbing ache at the base of his skull woke him. String couldn't tell if his eyes were open or shut – everything around him was pitch black. He carefully levered himself up to a sitting position. Aside from his sore head nothing else seemed to be hurt. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness around him, he could make out the outline of a small, high window, and the stretcher-like contraption he was sitting on. A door or doorway was to his right, and the room he found himself in was barely 6 feet by 3 feet, or so he supposed.
Taking a deep breath, String stood up, and almost immediately bumped his head on the low ceiling. Moving more carefully, he decided to explore his little prison.
His fumbling fingers confirmed his suspicions. There was nothing in the little room other than the stretcher camp bed, not even a light fitting. He tried to feel his way around the little window, wondering why no light had come through, and soon discovered that a thick cardboard-like material covered the outside of the window. He wondered what time it was and how long he had been unconscious. He could feel his watch still around his wrist, and he patted his back pocket of his jeans. His wallet was also untouched. He suspected that they were after the information disc that he had, and was even more puzzled as to why they had left his belongings untouched.
After what seemed to be hours, the door opened, letting a bright shaft of light into the little room. String shielded his eyes with his right hand, blinking as his pupils slowly adjusted to the assault of bright light. Two men pushed him back down onto the camp bed, one gripping his upper arms and pulling them behind his back, and the other putting his knee on String's right thigh in an attempt to get him to stay seated on the camp bed. Before String could open his mouth to shout, a grimy rag was thrust into his mouth. "God, that tastes awful," thought String to himself. The two men trussed his arms to his back and pushed him onto his feet. With some manoeuvring, the two men managed to get him out of the little room and into a passageway that seemed to be wide enough for all three of them to walk side by side, but not before repeatedly bumping his already-sore head against the low ceiling. String took a few deep breaths through his nose and tried to concentrate on where the men were taking him, and tried to keep a burgeoning headache at bay.
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"I'm not in the mood to play games! Where the f*&% is that bloody disc?" thundered a booming voice.
String shook his head to try and clear it. His ears were ringing somewhat from the blows his assailants struck in an effort to get him to talk. His left eye was slowly closing and he could feel a trickle of warm blood dripping from his left nostril and landing on his shirt. He hadn't told them a darned thing. He remembered his training, and let his mind wander. He fixed his mind firmly on the notes of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony.
"We know who you are, and what you came for! And don't even think about bloody trying to escape – where would you run to? You are in deepest, darkest, Africa, American. A bloody dangerous place for spies!"
String stopped in the middle of the third movement. His tormentors had left, shutting the door behind them. "Rank amateurs," he thought scornfully to himself, "they didn't search me or do anything other than rough me up." He tested the bonds which tied his arms behind his back. He grinned silently to himself. "Well, they don't know about my trick shoulder." Pulling hard on his left elbow, a satisfying 'pop' signalled that he succeeded in dislocating his left shoulder. Swallowing tears of pain, he quickly freed himself from his bonds and looked around, trying to figure out how to escape.
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He had done it. He had disposed of the one man that had come back into the room intending to drag him back to the little room he had been imprisoned in. Grabbing his captor's gun, he had carefully made his way down the passage, trying to keep to the shadows, hoping to find a way out of the building he found himself in. He was in luck, as it would appear. The second doorway he peeked into had a door which was bolted with a simple, and large, padlock. Remembering the letter opener that he had been given, he pocketed the gun and tried to reach the letter opener in his other pocket. A spasm of pain shot through his left shoulder. Realising that the quickest way was for him to 'pop' his shoulder back in, he braced his left side against the doorway and put every ounce of strength he could muster into righting his shoulder. 'Pop' went his shoulder, just at the point where he thought he wouldn't be able to stop blacking out from the pain. He worked his shoulder experimentally. "Yup, it's definitely back in. But f&*% that's sore!" he thought to himself.
Using the letter opener in his right hand, he managed to jimmy the lock using some of the decorative filigree metal work that he pulled off the letter opener. As the padlock sprang open, he worked the latch open and hefted the gun in his right hand once more.
Poking his head out into the darkness, String looked around carefully before heading out into the nearest clump of bushes. He could see lights in parts of the building he had left, and tried to avoid them. As he hid himself in the bushes, he could hear shouts from his captors. "Ok, they've finally figured out I've disappeared! About time, guys," he thought sarcastically to himself. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see a moped almost directly in front of him. Deciding that his best option was to get back to his hotel, and jumped onto the moped with due care for his sore left shoulder. Moving more by feel than sight, the groping fingers of his right hand pulled out a nest of wires. Twisting together a few different combinations of wires, the motor roared to life. String twisted the throttle and prayed he could find his way out of wherever he was.
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Not daring to turn on the headlights, String went as quickly as he could. The narrow one lane road, although tarred, was pot-holed and bumpy. He made his way carefully towards what he thought was the main road, stopping to check for signs of pursuit, every once in a while, over his right shoulder. His left shoulder was starting to ache, and his headache was starting up again. He could barely see out of his left eye. String gripped the handlebars firmly and hoped he could find somewhere that he could recognise.
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String finally pulled over at a petrol station. The early dawn light cast a soft glow on the surrounding landscape. Parking the moped behind the carwash, he hoped that it would remain inconspicuous long enough – otherwise he would have a very nasty surprise if the cops suddenly showed up to arrest him for theft. Although he had heard of the inefficiency of the cops in South Africa, he could not take a chance. He had absolutely no idea where he was, and the only person he knew he could count on for help was Karen. Checking his watch, he decided that it was a little early to wake Karen up. He walked into the petrol station's shop and asked if he could use the restroom.
Looking at himself in the mirror, String took stock. His left eye was almost swollen shut , the eyelid puffed up and a rich shade of purple. When he prised his eyelid open, the steel blue eye within had seemed perfectly fine, and no trace of redness in the whites of his eyes. So he had a black eye – wouldn't have been the first time. He bathed it in cold water and left it alone. String used toilet paper to stem the bleeding from his left nostril. He wiggled his nose experimentally – nothing seemed to be broken. And his nose looked more or less normal. There was a bruise on his left cheekbone but again, nothing seemed to be broken. Turning on the cold water tap again, String cupped his hands and threw cold water on his face. "Not too bad, actually, I look like I've been in a bar brawl but nothing worse," he thought to himself.
String locked himself in a toilet stall, pulled the lid down and sat down to think. There was nothing in his carry on case or duffel that he desperately needed – except his passport. His air ticket was in his carry on case, but he supposed that he could get another flight home. He didn't know if it was safe for him to go back to the hotel. Even though his assailants did not use his name, he was sure that they knew who he was – otherwise how would they have known who to grab at the Military History Society meeting? He still had the gun he stole from one of his assailants tucked into the back waistband of his jeans. He had his light jacket on, his wallet, and his watch. He had given the bottle of wine he was given the previous night to Karen, and he had the bits of the letter opener in one of his pockets. Further scrutiny revealed bits and pieces of paper, receipt stubs and bits of fluff in his pockets. He pulled out his wallet and checked that the little black dot was still in place on Dom's business card. He shook his head in disbelief – to think that he had gotten away that easily…maybe the people who were hired to get him weren't really professionals; or maybe he was just plain lucky.
He checked his watch again. 7am. "OK, time to wake Karen up," he thought to himself, "I could really use some TLC right now." He unlocked the stall door and peered out. Noone was in sight. He walked back into the shop and asked if there was a payphone that he could use. The attendant stared at him, and asked if he was alright, before pointing in the general direction of the payphone at the back of the store.
String strode off to the phone. As he picked up the receiver, he realised that he did not have the correct change. Scowling, he slammed the receiver back onto its cradle and stalked back to the attendant at the counter. He asked for the correct change and pulled out a R200 note. "Sir, I don't have that much change – do you have anything smaller?" said the attendant apologetically.
String rummaged through his wallet and produced a dark brown R20 note. "Will this do?"
The attendant took the note from him and gave him a handful of unfamiliar coins. "Thanks," growled String, making his way back to the phone.
"Karen speaking, hello," said a sleepy voice.
"Karen? It's String here."
"String? Isn't this a bit early for you? Did you want to meet for breakfast or something?"
"Errr…breakfast sounds good, but I actually rang because I need some help. Is there any chance you can pick me up?"
"Sure, String. Where are you?"
"I'm at a petrol station somewhere. Hang on, let me ask the attendant." String left the receiver swinging as he trotted to the front desk.
Armed with the address of the petrol station, he made his way quickly to the phone. "Karen? You still there?"
"I'm still here, String. Where are you?"
String gave her the address he obtained from the attendant.
"String, what the heck are you doing that deep in Soweto? Are you out of your mind? You could be killed! Look around – how many white people do you see around you? You stay put, stay inside the shop, I'll be there in about 30 or 45 minutes. In the meantime, watch your back. A rich white American wandering around the streets of Soweto is just asking to be mugged or killed!" Karen slammed down the phone and scrambled into her clothes. In a matter of minutes, she gunned the motor of her little red golf and took off in the direction of Soweto, hoping that String was alright.
String kept a sharp eye out for Karen's little red golf. He kept a wary eye on people coming into and leaving the little shop, trying to keep his cool and remain inconspicuous. After what seemed to be a lifetime, he spotted Karen's car pulling into the parking lot of the service station. He jogged out towards the car, first checking if he was being watched.
Karen had the door unlocked and waiting. String swung himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door shut. "Where are we going, String?"
"I don't know Karen, just drive us somewhere where we can talk. I really need your help."
