Mabasha both hated and admired Kleyn. Kleyn's absolute conviction that the Afrikaners were a chosen people combined with a total disregard for death impressed him. He always seemed to have his thoughts and emotions under control. Mabasha tried in vain to find a weakness in Kleyn, but there was no such thing.
On two occasions he carried out murders for Kleyn. He performed satisfactorily. Kleyn was pleased. But although they met regularly at that time, Kleyn had never once shaken his hand.
The lights of Johannesburg faded behind them. Traffic on the motorway to Pretoria thinned out. Mabasha leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He would soon discover what had changed Kleyn's decision that they should never meet again. Against his will, he could feel his own excitement building. Kleyn would not have sent for him unless it was a matter of great importance.
The house was on a hill about ten kilometres outside Hammanskraal. It was surrounded by high fences, and Alsatians roamed loose to ensure that no unauthorised persons gained entry.
That evening two men were sitting in a room full of hunting trophies, waiting for Mabasha. The curtains were drawn, and the servants had been sent home. The two men were sitting on either side of a table covered by a green felt cloth. They were drinking whisky and talking in low voices, as if there might have been someone listening despite all the precautions.
One of the men was Kleyn. He was extremely thin, as if recovering from a serious illness. His face was angular, resembling a bird on the lookout. He had grey eyes, thin blond hair, and was wearing a dark suit, a white shirt and a black tie. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, and his way of expressing himself restrained, measured.
The other man was his opposite. Frans Malan was tall and fat. His belly hung over his waistband, his face was red and blotchy, and he was sweating copiously. To all outward appearances they were an ill-matched couple, waiting for Mabasha to arrive that evening in April, 1992.
Kleyn glanced at his wristwatch.
"Another half-hour and he'll be here," he said.
"I hope you're right," Malan said.
Kleyn started back, as if somebody had suddenly pointed a gun at him. "Am I ever wrong?" he said. He was still talking in a low voice. But the threat was unmistakable.
"Not yet," Malan said. "It was just a thought."
"You're thinking the wrong thoughts," Kleyn said. "You waste your time worrying unnecessarily. Everything will go according to plan."
"I have to hope so," Malan said. "My superiors would put a price on my head if anything went wrong."
Kleyn smiled at him. "I would commit suicide," he said. "But I have no intention of dying. When we have recovered all we have lost during the last few years, I will withdraw. But not until then."
Kleyn had enjoyed an astonishing career. His uncompromising hatred of everyone who wanted to put a stop to Apartheid policies in South Africa was well known, or notorious, depending on one's point of view. Many dismissed him as the most dangerous madman in the Afrikaner Resistance Movement. But those who knew him were aware that he was a cold, calculating man whose ruthlessness never pushed him into rash actions. He described himself as a "political surgeon", whose job was to remove tumours forever threatening the healthy body of South Afrikanerdom. Few people knew he was one of the NIS's most efficient operatives.
Frans Malan had been working more than ten years for the South African army, which had its own intelligence department. He had been an officer in the field, and led secret operations in Southern Rhodesia and Mozambique. When he suffered a heart attack at the age of 44, his military career came to an end. But his views and his abilities led to his being immediately redeployed in the security service. His assignments were varied, ranging from planting bombs in the cars of opponents of Apartheid to the organisation of terrorist attacks on ANC meetings and their delegates. He was also a member of the Afrikaner Resistance Movement. But like Kleyn's, his role was behind the scenes. They had worked out a plan together, which was to be realised that very evening with the arrival of Mabasha. They had been discussing what had to be done for many days and nights. Eventually, they reached an agreement. They put their plan before the secret society that was never known as anything other than the Committee.
It was the Committee that gave them their current assignment.
It all started when Nelson Mandela was released from the prison cell he had occupied on Robben Island for nearly 30 years. As far as Kleyn, Frans Malan, and all other right-thinking Afrikaners were concerned, the act was a declaration of war. President de Klerk had betrayed his own people, the whites of South Africa. The Apartheid system would collapse unless something drastic was done. A number of highly placed Afrikaners, among them Kleyn and Malan, realised that free elections would inevitably lead to black majority rule. That would be a catastrophe, doomsday for the right of the chosen people to rule South Africa as they saw fit. They discussed many different courses of action before deciding what needed to be done.
The decision had been made four months earlier. They met in this very house, which was owned by the South African army and used for conferences and meetings that required privacy. Officially neither NIS nor the military had any links with secret societies. Their loyalty was formally bound to the sitting government and the South African constitution. But the reality was different. Just as when the Broederbond was at its peak, Kleyn and Malan had contacts throughout South African society. The operation they had planned on behalf of the Committee and were now ready to set in motion had its roots in the high command of the South African army, the Inkatha movement that opposed the ANC, and among high-placed businessmen and bankers.
They had been sitting in the same room as they found themselves in now, at the table with the green baize cloth, when Kleyn had suddenly asked them a question.
"Who is the single most important person in South Africa today?"
It did not take Malan long to realise to whom Kleyn was referring.
"Try a little thought experiment," Kleyn went on. "Imagine him dead. Not from natural causes. That would only turn him into a martyr. No, imagine him assassinated."
"There would be uproar in the black townships on a scale far in excess of anything we have seen so far. General strikes, chaos. The rest of the world would isolate us even further."
"One more step. Let's suppose it could be demonstrated that he was murdered by a black man."
"That would increase the confusion. Inkatha and the ANC would go for each other in an all-out war. We could sit watching with our arms crossed while they annihilated each other with their machetes and axes and spears."
"Right. But think yet one step more. That the man who murdered him was a member of the ANC."
"The movement would collapse in chaos. The crown princes would slit each other's throats."
Kleyn nodded enthusiastically. "Right. Think further!"
Malan pondered for a moment before responding. "In the end, no doubt, the blacks would turn on the whites. And since the black political movement would be on the brink of collapse and anarchy by this point, we'd be forced to send in the police and the army. The result would be a brief civil war. With a little careful planning we should be able to eliminate every black of significance. Whether the watching world liked it or not, it would be forced to accept that it was the blacks who started the war."
Kleyn nodded.
Malan gazed expectantly at the man opposite him. "Are you serious about this?" he said.
"Serious?"
"That we should actually kill him?"
"Of course I'm serious. The man will be liquidated before next summer. I'm thinking of calling it Operation Steenbok."
"Why?"
"Everything has to have a name. Have you ever shot an antelope? If you hit it in the right spot, it jumps into the air before it dies. That's the jump I'm going to offer to the greatest enemy we have."
They sat up until dawn. Malan could not help admiring the meticulous way in which Kleyn had thought the whole thing through. The plan was daring without unnecessary risks. When they walked out onto the veranda at dawn to stretch their legs, Malan voiced one last objection.
"Your plan is excellent," he said. "I can see only one possible snag. You are relying on Mabasha not to let us down. You are forgetting that he's a Zulu. They are like the
Boere
in some respects, Zulus. Their loyalty is to themselves, in the last resort, and the ancestors they worship. You are placing an enormous amount of faith in a black man. You know they can never feel the same loyalty as we do. Presumably you are right. He will become a rich man. Richer than he could ever have dreamed. But still, the plan means we are relying on one black man."
"You can have my answer right away," Kleyn said. "I don't trust anybody at all. Not completely, at least. I trust you. But I'm aware that everybody has a weak point somewhere or other. I replace this lack of trust by being extra cautious. That naturally applies to Mabasha as well."
"The only person you trust is yourself," Malan said.
"Yes. You'll never find the weak point I'm speaking of in me. Of course, Mabasha will be under constant watch. And I'll make sure he knows that. He'll get some special training by one of the world's leading experts on assassination. If he lets us down, he will know he can look forward to a slow and painful death, so awful he'd wish he'd never been born."
When the car came to a halt outside the house on the hill, Malan tethered the dogs. Mabasha, terrified of Alsatians, remained in the car until he was certain he would not be attacked. Kleyn was on the veranda to receive him. Mabasha could not resist the temptation to hold out his hand. But Kleyn ignored it and asked how the journey had been.
"When you're sitting in a bus all night, you have time to think up any number of questions," Mabasha said.
"Excellent," Kleyn said. "You'll get all the answers you need."
"Who decides that?" Mabasha said. "What I need or don't need to know?"
Before Kleyn could reply, Malan emerged from the shadows. He did not offer his hand either.
"Let's go inside," Kleyn said. "We have a lot to talk about, and time is short."
"I'm Frans," Malan said. "Put your hands up over your head."
Mabasha did not protest. It was one of the unwritten rules that you gave up your weapons before negotiations could begin. Malan took the pistol and then examined the knives.
"They were made by an African armourer," Mabasha said. "Excellent both for close combat and throwing."
They sat down at the table with the green baize cloth. The driver went to make coffee in the kitchen.
Mabasha waited. He hoped the two men would not notice how tense he was.
"A million rand," Kleyn said. "Let's start at the end this once. I want you to bear in mind the whole time how much we're offering you for the job we want you to do for us."
"A million can be a lot or very little," Mabasha said. "It depends on the circumstances. And who is 'we'?"
"Save your questions for later," Kleyn said. "You know me, you know you can trust me. You can regard Frans, sitting opposite you, as an extension of my arm. You can trust him as you can trust me."
Mabasha nodded. He understood. The game had started. Everybody was assuring everybody else how reliable they were. In truth, nobody trusted anybody but themselves.
"We thought we'd ask you to do a little job for us," Kleyn said, making it sound to Mabasha's ears as though he was asking him to get a glass of water. "Who 'we' are in this context doesn't matter as far as you're concerned."
"A million rand," Mabasha said. "Let's assume that's a lot of money. I take it you want me to kill somebody for you. A million is too much for such an assignment. So let's assume it's too little - what's the explanation?"
"How the hell can a million be too little?" Malan said, in annoyance.
"Let's just say it's good money for an intense but brief assignment," Kleyn said.
"You do want me to kill somebody," Mabasha said.
Kleyn looked at him for a long time before replying. Mabasha suddenly felt as if a cold wind was blowing through the room.
"That's right," Kleyn said, slowly. "We do."
"Who?"
"You'll find out when the time is ripe."
Mabasha suddenly felt uneasy. It ought to be the obvious first move, giving him the most important piece of information. Who he would be aiming his gun at.
"This is a very special assignment," Kleyn said. "It will involve travel, perhaps a month of preparations, rehearsals, and extreme caution. I will only say that it's a man we want you to eliminate. An important man."
"A South African?"
Kleyn hesitated for a moment before replying. "Yes," he said. "A South African."
Mabasha tried to work out who it could be. And who was this fat, sweaty man sitting hunched up in the shadows on the other side of the table? Mabasha had a vague feeling he recognised him. Had he met him before? If so, in what connection? Had he seen his photograph in a newspaper? He searched his memory frantically, but in vain.