Chapter 14

Noordhoek Cottage.

The morning dawned crisp and clear, with just a few wispy clouds stretching across the deep blue sky. Blue sky meant cold, and sure enough, the south-easterly breeze had a sharp edge to it. The sun was trying, though—bright but sluggish, like an old man warming his hands over a slow-burning fire. It would take a while before it managed to shake off the chill and get to work heating the land.

Fiona and I sat on the patio, nursing mugs of coffee, the steam curling up and vanishing into the morning air. She wrapped her hands around hers, fingers half-buried in the sleeves of her sweater.

“I need to go to UCT,” she said, lifting the mug to her lips. “There are some colleagues I need to meet.”

I took a slow sip of my coffee. “I was hoping you’d tag along with me to the airport.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What for?”

“Gotta check if Princess Leia is ready.”

She paused mid-sip, lowering the mug with a frown. “The what now?”

“My 1978 Cessna T210M Turbo Centurion II.”

Fiona blinked. Once. Twice. Then her eyebrows shot up. “Hold on — you have an aircraft?”

I chuckled. “Yeah, it’s old but in mint condition.”

She exhaled, shaking her head. “Of course. Of course, you have a plane. And, naturally, you named it Princess Leia. As in Star Wars, Princess Leia?” She gave me a look. “I assume she’s the woman in your life?”

I grinned. “Jealous?”

She snorted, and muttered under her breath. “Please. I’m just wondering if I should start wearing an itsy bitsy teeny weeny polka dot bikini to get your attention.”

But I heard her and nearly choked on my coffee.

She smirked. “That’s what I thought. Some metal woman in your life...”

“Uh ... anyway,” I coughed, recovering, “I keep her at Stellenbosch. CTIA is the closest Air Maintenance Facility for that kind of inspection for me.” And I had this image of Fiona in an itsy bitsy teeny weeny polka dot bikini in my mind. Not bad! Not bad at all! Brrrr. Not good for some part of me. Then I dragged my mind out of the gutter.

She nodded, then narrowed her eyes. “So why do you need to check on it? Something wrong?”

“Nah. Just had to get the spar cap, wing-spar, wing-spar carry-through and wing inspected.”

“Why?”

I let out a short laugh. “Because it could ruin your day badly if one, or both, of your wings decide to take a leave of absence in mid-flight.”

Fiona raised an eyebrow.

“In May 2019, a Cessna T210M lost its right wing in flight. Turns out fatigue cracks had started from a tiny corrosion pit on the wing-spar carry-through. Not exactly what you want happening at 10,000 feet. Textron put out a mandatory service letter after that, making the inspection a requirement. So now, every six months or so, I have to make sure my wings stay attached.”

“Yeah, I suppose a plane doesn’t fly too well without wings,” Fiona said with a smirk.

“Exactly.” I downed the last of my coffee and set the mug aside. “So, do you want me to drop you at UCT, or are you taking the Landie?”

“I need to run the Landie,” she said, stretching her legs out under the table. “Battery might not last otherwise.”

“Oh, come on, Fee, a week without driving isn’t gonna kill the battery.”

She gave me a pointed look. “The battery’s four years old.”

I winced. “Ah. Right. And a new one costs...”

“ ... More than I want to spend right now.”

“Especially for a Land Rover.”

“Exactly.”

I grinned. “You sure you don’t want to come see the Princess Leia instead?”

Fiona rolled her eyes but smiled. “I want to! It’s exciting. But maybe next time. I need to talk to Dr. Rothman at UCT. She might help us find the Star.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Dr. Rothman? She’s an archaeologist?”

“Yes, and a geologist. She lectures at both UCT and Stellenbosch. Very competent in her field. Specialises in minerals and gems — diamonds, mostly. She’s worked with De Beers in Namibia and a few smaller mining consortiums.”

“And how does that help you?”

“She and her husband found a wrecked World War II German submarine in the Namib Desert using ground-penetrating radar.” (Author’s note: See Desert Rose.)

I blinked. “You don’t say. That’s impressive.”

“She knows her stuff. I’d love to pick her brain.”

“Where’d you meet her?”

“At a conference here in Cape Town.”

I nodded. “Alright, you head to UCT, and I’ll check on the Princess Leia.”

“Are you going to be a long time at the airport?”

“About an hour, give or take. If the plane’s ready, maybe a bit longer. Why?”

“I’ll be with Angelique for about an hour. After that, I could pop over to the airport.”

I smiled. “I’ll wait for you.”

Fiona giggled. “Thanks! I’d love to see the Princess Leia.” She shot me a playful look, fluttering her eyelashes. “Maybe ... mooch a ride?”

“Okay!” I said. “I’ll wait for you. Go in through the west service entrance, tell security you’re heading to Triton Aviation, and they’ll direct you to the hangar.”

“Got it! Now, let me get moving. Catch you later.”

She pushed herself up from the deck chair and disappeared into the cottage, leaving the faint scent of coffee and her perfume lingering in the cool morning air.

I watched Fiona’s Land Rover disappear around the S-bend, its brake lights flickering a second as she slowed down for the bend in the road through the trees before vanishing onto the main road. She was on her way to UCT, books and dreams packed in the passenger seat, none the wiser about the errand I had to run before heading to the AMO at Cape Town International. An errand she didn’t need to know about, but one that would benefit her in the long run.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and thumbed through my contacts, finding the number I needed. The call barely rang three times before it was answered.

“Ahweh, Bro!”

“Hello, little brother. Are you keeping well?”

“Level with da gravel. You know mos.”

“Sweet. Now, no names. I need you to run an errand for me.”

“Djy knows mos, Bro. Lay it on me.”

I glanced around out of habit, though there was no one within earshot. “That Lanie from Gauteng, staying out at that hotel in Athlone? I want your errand boys to pay him a visit. Remind him he still owes me a piece of paper, a deed to a farm out on the West Coast.”

A beat of silence, then a knowing chuckle. “I can dala that. When? This morning?”

“The sooner, the better. And let him know the next reminder might come with a little more persuasion.”

Another chuckle. “Ja, I believe he’s already feeling some persuasion. The fuzz picked him up the other day. He spent a night in Pollsmoor.”

“Did he now?” I smirked, rubbing my jaw. “Then make sure this time you send more than two messengers. He’ll be awake now.”

“Leave it to me to drive your point across. Must we ‘gently persuade’ him to hand over the paper?”

I exhaled, shaking my head. “I doubt he’d have it on him.” A dark chuckle. “But do your best. Best is to take him to go fetch the deed.”

“Sweet, Bro. I’m on it.”

“Ahweh, Bro.”

“Ahweh, my Lanie Brother from another mother...”

The line went dead. I slipped the phone back into my pocket, my fingers brushing against my car keys. Time to grab my flight bag and get to the airport.

Flight bag? More like a glorified shoulder carry bag. Practical, nothing fancy. Inside: two iPads (because one always finds a way to go bones up when you least expect it), my ID, logbook, a small first-aid kit, aviator sunglasses, a multi-tool, two extra chargers, and a couple of energy bars. The sectional paper maps needed for navigation were in the aircraft. Together with the maps, the Pilot Operating Handbook and airworthiness certificate that never leaves the aircraft, were in the side pocket of the left side door.

Yes, I was set. If Fiona wants to “mooch a ride,” I was prepared, unless of course the AMO found a problem with the inspection.

Cape Town International was its usual mix of efficiency and mild chaos as I pulled up to the security gate. I rolled down the window, flashed my ID tag, and signed in to the guard’s logbook. The guard, a familiar face, gave me a quick nod before waving me through.

The air side roads were quiet this morning — just a few ground crew in orange vests and a catering truck lumbering along. I found a spot in the visitor parking at the AMO and stepped out, stretching my back before looking over at my aircraft.

ZS-MCZ sat on the grass apron in front of the hangar, gleaming under the mid-morning sun. The old girl looked good. If there had been a serious issue with her wing spar, they wouldn’t have her sitting out here like this. I walked over, ran my fingers along the fuselage, then popped open the right-side door and tossed my little flight bag inside. Satisfied, I shut the door with a solid thunk and made my way to the hangar. I smiled at the sight of the angry Scrooge McDuck face painted on the side of the aircraft.

“Hello, Roy!”

I looked up to see Garry striding toward me, his hand outstretched. His blue overalls were suspiciously clean — not a single grease stain in sight. I raised an eyebrow.

“Hi, Garry. What’s up? Your overall still looks fresh — did you even touch an engine today?” I laughed, shaking his hand.

“Not much going on,” he sighed, scratching the back of his head. “Just waiting on a Caravan to come in. Five-hundred-hour inspection on that PT6 engine.”

“Oh, you’ll have fun with that.” I smirked. “How’s my bird?”

“Perfect! Good for another six months. Let me grab the keys for you.”

“What about that horrible coffee of yours?” I grinned. “I’ve got a PAX inbound, but not for another hour or so.”

Garry chuckled, already heading toward the office. “You want us to top you up while you wait?”

“If you can, that’d be great. Saves me a trip to the fuel station.”

“Hey, George!” Garry bellowed toward the back of the hangar.

A figure popped up from behind the prop of a Cessna 182, wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag.

“Yes, Garry?”

“Go and fuel up Mike Charly Zulu for Mister Reasor if you don’t mind, and don’t get grease all over the upholstery!”

George grinned. “Sure thing, Boss! I’ll just pull her over with the tractor.” He tossed the rag aside and scrubbed his hands at the washbasin in the corner before heading out.

Garry saw me watching and smirked. “He’s a licensed pilot, if you were wondering. Cessna 150, 172, 180, 182, 210, 208, and 414, else he would not be allowed to taxi an aircraft on this airport.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And he’s playing mechanic?”

“Oh, he’s a qualified mechanic. Loves to tinker. Plus, sometimes I need someone to collect and deliver aircraft before and after servicing. That makes him an asset, and that’s why he gets the medium bucks around here.”

I chuckled. “Good to know.”

“Come on, let’s get some coffee.”

We climbed the metal stairs up to his office, which overlooked the massive hangar. The space was cluttered but functional, stacks of maintenance logs, a half-eaten bag of biltong on the desk, and an old calendar featuring a Piper Cub in some dramatic sunset lighting. Garry’s coffee machine sat in the corner, looking like it had seen better days but still gamely chugging along.

He poured us two cups and handed me one. I took a cautious sip and winced. “Still tastes like aviation fuel.”

Garry grinned. “Keeps the engine running, doesn’t it?”

I shook my head, took another sip, and leaned back. Another day in aviation paradise.

Hotel near the Airport.

Anderson did not feel safe. The walls of the hotel lobby seemed to close in on him, the air thick with an unshakable sense of unease. Though Jimmy and Alf were there, their presence did little to quell the creeping dread gnawing at the edges of his nerves. Something was off. There had been no word from Jimmy’s contact about whether the hit on Reasor had been carried out successfully, and that silence spoke volumes.

Instinct dictated that he move. A better location, a safer vantage point, was necessary. The Victoria & Alfred Hotel at the Cape Town Waterfront Pierhead was his choice — a luxury establishment where discretion came at a price. At ZAR 6814 per night per room, Anderson considered it a bargain.

The trio, Anderson, Jimmy, and Alf, had returned their rental car and now waited in the lobby for their transport. The low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses at the hotel bar did nothing to soothe Anderson’s frayed nerves. He had already decided he would rent a better vehicle once they were settled in their new accommodation.

The Waterfront was bustling, a hive of activity with shops, restaurants, and tourists milling about. It had not occurred to Anderson that by relocating, he would be placing himself within sight of the cargo harbour, and thus, in sight of his impounded ship, a mistake he might come to regret.

Anderson sat in one of the plush armchairs, his gaze flicking over the pages of a newspaper, though his mind barely registered the words. A voice cut through his distraction.

“Mister Anderson? Mister Anderson, sir? Your transport is here.”

A man dressed in the standard attire of an Uber driver stood at the entrance. Anderson barely acknowledged him, letting Jimmy take charge. Jimmy gestured to the driver to assist Alf with the luggage cart before turning back to Anderson.

“Our wheels are here, Boss.”

Anderson folded the newspaper, dropping it onto the polished wooden table beside him. “Then let’s go,” he said, rising to his feet. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

He strode out onto the street, the cool morning air brushing against his skin. As directed, a white Cadillac limousine sat idling at the curbside, its polished exterior gleaming under the morning sun. Anderson allowed himself a moment of appreciation.

“1986 model,” he murmured to Jimmy.

Jimmy smirked. “You know your cars, Boss.”

“That’s because I have three of them at home.”

The driver, silent and efficient, opened the back door. Anderson slid into the plush leather interior, Jimmy right behind him. Alf took the front passenger seat.

As Anderson settled into the seat, a prickle ran down his spine. Something wasn’t right.

Jimmy let out a strangled gasp. “What? Who are you?”

Four men sat across from them, their faces cast in shadow, their expressions unreadable. The moment Anderson turned his head, he heard the distinct click of the automatic locks engaging. The driver pulled away from the curb smoothly, as if nothing unusual were happening.

The tallest of the four men, a burly figure with a calm, measured tone, leaned forward. “Why, Mister Anderson, we are your security detail. We’re here to ensure you arrive safely at your destination.”

Anderson’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t order any security.”

The man chuckled; the sound as smooth as it was menacing. “No, you didn’t. But since you still owe our employer a deed to a farm on the West Coast, he thought it’s necessary to ensure you stay safe and hand over that document — without delay.”

Anderson’s stomach twisted. His jaw clenched as a low curse escaped his lips. “That fuckin’ paper-boy. Won’t he ever stop?”

The four men exchanged knowing looks before one of them smirked. “Sit back and relax, Mister Anderson. We’ll take good care of you. Unless, of course, you don’t want to play along and hand over the document.”

The limousine rolled on, its tinted windows reflecting morning sun. The air-conditioning hummed softly in the background.

Anderson’s pulse pounded in his ears. He was trapped.

FACT or Cape Town International Airport.

I pulled out my phone and fired off a quick text to Fiona. Calling her was out of the question—she was knee-deep in some research with a professor at UCT, and the last thing I wanted was to be the reason she got side-eyed in a lecture hall. But I knew she’d check her messages eventually, so I typed:

”I need to get the bird to Stellenbosch. Can you meet me at the Stellenbosch airfield?”

With that sorted, I turned back to the AMO crew, offering a quick wave as I stepped away. “Thanks for the help, guys. See you next time!”

I wasn’t ten paces from the Cessna 210 when my phone buzzed in my hand. Fiona. That was fast.

“Hey, didn’t expect you to call,” I said as I answered. “Didn’t want to disturb you—”

She chuckled. “It’s okay, we’re nearly done here. Besides, Dr. Angie said she has to go to Stellenbosch anyway, so she’ll show me the way.”

That gave me pause. “Eh, Fee, the airport’s way over near Somerset West. That’s a bit of a hike from University of Stellenbosch.”

“Yeah, I know. But she’s going to the airport. Her husband’s there, tending to their new toy.”

Now that caught my interest. “Oh? She flies too?”

“Oh yes!” Fiona said, a grin evident in her tone. “And you won’t believe what she flies. I’ll tell you when I get there.”

I smirked, shaking my head. “Alright, I’ll be at the coffee shop when you guys get in.”

“Okay, Roy. Bye!”

“Bye, Fee.”

Just as I was about to disconnect, I heard her voice, slightly muffled but still clear enough to catch:

“He’s going to crap himself when he finds out what you fly...” In the background there was a girlie giggle.

I blinked. What the hell did she mean by that?

Curiosity gnawed at me, but there was no point in guessing now. Shaking my head with a smirk, I tucked my phone into my pocket and focused on the task at hand.

The 210 sat waiting, sleek and ready for the short hop to Stellenbosch Airfield. I ran my hand along the fuselage, feeling the familiar cool metal under my fingertips as I started my pre-flight.

First order of business was to get into the cockpit and remove the control lock. Check that the magnetos were off. Master switch on and check gauges and lights, then master switch off.

Looking down between the seats I checked the fuel quantity and the fuel selector switch was in its OFF position, and the park brake was set.

Getting out again I started my walk around of the aircraft, checking covers were off, latches and hatches locked and secured. I distinctly recall a SAPS BO-105 returning to base after a service and had an engine cowling go through the main rotors. Not good.