SEPTEMBER I -JOHANNESBURG
The doorbell buzzed, waking Ian Sherfietd from a fitful, dream-ridden sleep. Another buzz, louder and longer this time. He opened his eyes reluctantly, fumbling for the bedside lamp switch. Two in the flipping morning, for God’s sake. Who the hell could that be? Johannesburg, like all of South Africa’s major cities, was under a midnight curfew.
Ian stumbled out of bed and struggled into a pair of jeans while hopping toward the front door. Pain flared briefly as he slammed a knee into a sofa. The tiny furnished flat he’d rented was reasonably priced and convenient, but he still hadn’t lived there long enough to navigate safely in the dark.
Three short, sharp obscenities helped dispel most of the pain, but he was still hobbling when he got to the door. He yanked it open, ready to vent some well-earned anger on the idiot who’d disturbed him.
It was Emily.
Even bundled in a long winter overcoat against the chill
night air, she was beautiful. A single suitcase rested on the floor behind her. She smiled shyly, looked down at herself, and then up at him, her eyes shining.
“Do I look like a ghost, maybe?”
Ian realized he was standing slack jawed, mouth open Re a drooling village idiot. He hastily closed it and pulled her into his arms.
Emily responded eagerly to his kiss.
When they came up for air, she stepped back slightly, a mock-serious look on her face.
“Well, Mr. Reporter, may I come in? Or shall I sleep here in your hallway?”
” Hmmm. ” Ian stroked his chin, as if pondering the question.
“I guess I could loan you some blankets and a pillow. Might get kinda cold out here, though. My neighbors might complain, too. I guess you’ll have to come inside. ”
Laughing, he dodged her kick and led her into the flat.
Emily wrinkled her nose at the decor, a failed mix of cheap framed posters, plastic flowers, dark-colored carpeting, and imitation Scandinavian-design furniture. Knowles had best characterized the place as a study in Twentieth
Century Bad Taste. Ian wished he’d thought to wash the dishes stacked in his small sink. His bachelor habits were often embarrassing.
She wagged a finger in his face.
“Clearly you are not fit to live alone,
Ian Sheffield. You need a good woman to look after you.”
That was too perfect an opening to pass up. He smiled.
“I’ve tried finding one, but I guess I’m stuck with you.”
She smiled back.
“Yes, perhaps that is so.”
Which raised an interesting question.
“What about your father? Does he know you’re here?”
Sorrow briefly touched her eyes as she shook her head.
“But Emily, he’ll…”
“Sshh.” She laid a soft, sweet-smelling finger across his lips.
“My father has not been home for these two weeks and more. He spends A his days in
Pretoria, organizing this … this butchery. ” Her words were clipped, angry, and he remembered that she’d been a student at the University of
Witwatersrand. Some of her friends or teachers might have been among those he’d seen lying motionless on the pavement-gunned down by the police her father commanded.
She paused for a moment and then went on, calmer now.
“Besides, I told that witch Vi1joen I was returning to Cape Town to stay with some friends there. They’ll cover for me if he should call.”
Ian nodded, deeply moved by the risks she was running to be near him.
She shrugged out of her heavy coat and sat down on the sofa. He sat next to her.
“Anyway, Ian, I have news that would not wait any longer. Unbelievable news!” Her words tumbled out over one another, anger turned to excitement.
As she recounted the story of her father’s party and the muttered conversation she’d overheard, Ian felt his own pulse speeding up. If he could prove that Vorster had advance warning of the ANC’s Blue Train ambush… My God! He’d make headlines around the U.S. Hell, around the whole world!
But how could he get that kind of proof? South Africa’s new rulers weren’t going to come clean just because he asked a few pointed questions. He frowned. This guy Muller Emily had mentioned was the key.
Muller. The name was somehow familiar.
Memories fell into place as long hours of study paid off. Erik Muller was some kind of cloak-and-dagger honcho. Ran South Africa’s Directorate of
Military Intelligence. Rumor said he handled most of the government’s dirtiest jobs surveillance blackmail, even assassinations. Just the kind of man you’d expect to be one of Karl Vorster’s favorites, Ian thought.
And just the kind of man who’d know the truth about the Blue Train massacre.
So somehow he had to get a hook into this Muller character. Find some way to either force or persuade the man to come clean. That wasn’t going to be easy…. Reality reared its ugly head.
“Damn it!” He slammed a clenched fist into his thigh.
“What’s wrong?” Emily looked concerned.
“I forgot that Sam and I probably have our own spy tagging along with us wherever we go.9′
He filled her in on their suspicions of Matthew Sibena.
“Personally, I think the kid’s being forced to inform on us. Sam isn’t so charitable.”
“Then get rid of him. Fire him, and hire another driver.”
“Who will come from the same place as Matthew.” Ian shook his head.
“No,
I think we should hang on to him. He seems like a good kid, and I really believe he hates Vorster as much as we do.”
He shrugged helplessly.
“Anyway, Matt’s reasons don’t matter much. The fact is, if I start sniffing around Muller’s tail, the bastard’s going to get wind of it before I’ve even properly started. And then, whoosh,
Sam and I are out of the country on the next jet leaving Jan Smuts
International. ”
He lapsed into a depressed silence, only looking up when Emily lightly tapped his knee.
“You’re forgetting something else, Ian Sheffield. Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Me!” She leaned closer to him, completely serious now.
“I have a journalism degree, too. I know how to do research. How to interview sources. How to track down the truth. And I am a Transvaaler, just like this Erik Muller.”
She took his hand.
“Let me hunt this man for you while you and Sam lead these spies on a wild-goose chase. Please?”
Ian looked down at their intertwined fingers. Everything she said made perfect sense, but… “It could get dangerous. Muller’s supposed to be a killer by trade.”
Emily nodded.
“True. ” She smiled wryly.
“But remember that I am just ‘a weak woman’ to most of my countrymen. No self-respecting Afrikaner man could ever see me as a serious threat.
”
She had a point there. Ian felt his excitement returning. They might just be able to pull this off after all! He leaned forward, scrabbling on the glass-topped coffee table in front of the sofa for a piece of notepaper.
“Okay, here’s how we’ll work this…. We’ll need some background info first. The Star’s probably the best place to start… ”
Emily reached over and gently took the piece of paper out of his hand.
Her fingers slid between his again, rubbing slowly up and down in a familiar erotic rhythm. She looked up at him with warm, almost glowing eyes. ” I think such planning would be best left until morning, don’t you?”
Oh.
She rose and pulled him willingly toward the bedroom,
SEPTEMBER
2-
PRESIDENTS
OFFICE
,
THE
UNION
BUILDINGS
,
PRETORIA
Karl Vorster watched the flickering image on his television closely, working himself into a towering rage. Gideon Mantizima’s “Nightline” interview had been videotaped the day before by South Africa’s Washington embassy and flown posthaste to Pretoria via London. From there the tape had bounced upward through the Foreign Ministry like a red-hot potato until at last it landed on Vorster’s desk.
“Kaffir bastard!”
Mantizima’s prerecorded image took no notice. The Zulu leader was a short, broad-shouldered man who wore his perfectly tailored Savile Row suit with natural authority. And when he spoke, his precise, well-modulated voice reflected an accent acquired during several years of advanced study at the London School of Economics. He sat comfortably in a chair, framed by a plain, pale-blue studio backdrop-apparently un flustered by the knowledge that his words and picture were being broadcast to several million television sets all across the United
States. As the leader of Inkatha, one of South Africa’s largest black political organizations, Mantizima was used to the exercise of power in all its forms.
The screen split, showing “Nightline” ‘s New Yorkbased anchor. Polite skepticism tinged the anchor’s own precise voice.
“As you know, Chief
Mantizima, many leaders of the
ANC
and other anti apartheid organizations have said that you’re nothing more than an apologist for Pretoria’s racial policies. Surely your continued opposition to Western economic sanctions seems likely to reinforce those charges?”
Mantizima shook his head vigorously.
“Your information is out-of-date,
Mr. Thorgood. It is true that I once opposed
sanctions as counterproductive-as bound to hurt our own people while discouraging constructive talks on South Africa’s future. But that was before this madman Vorster came to power. I had hoped that the Haymans government would someday see reason. I have no such hope for this new government dominated by thugs and murderers.”
The anchorman sat forward, visibly interested.
“Are you suggesting that you now support tighter economic sanctions?”
Mantizinia nodded once, his jaw firm.
“Yes, Mr. Thorgood. That is exactly what I am saying. And that is the message I intend to carry to both your
Congress and your president. In fact, I now believe that sanctions alone will not suffice. ”
For once, “Nightline” ‘s top-rated moderator looked confused.
“But what other…”
Mantizima’s once-smiling eyes grew cold.
“Direct intervention. Only the full application of all the power in the hands of the Western democracies can put an end to this man Vorster’s genocidal reign of terror. ”
Silence filled the airwaves for what seemed an eternity. Gideon Mantizima had done what no other politician or pundit had ever been able to do. He’d left “Nightline” ‘s veteran anchorman speechless.
“Off! I want that verdomde machine off! Now!” Vorster’s shout echoed around the wood-paneled walls of his office. From one corner, a pale, visibly frightened aide scurried to obey. The other men clustered around the television set shrank back into their chairs.
Mantizima’s image vanished in mid-sentence.
Vorster rose from behind his desk, his face grim.
“Treason! Treason so black that it stinks in my nostrils. ” His hands balled into fists.
“We’ve treated this, this skepsel—he used the Afrikaans word meaning “creature -almost as if he were a man for years. Allowed him to administer his own tribe land even. And this is how we are repaid!”
He turned to face the foreign minister.
“I want Mantizima’s passport revoked immediately, Jaap. ”
The foreign minister, more skeletal than ever, sat wrapped in a heavy overcoat. He looked troubled. “is that wise, Mr. President? Why not simply arrest him on his return?”
Vorster shook his head decisively.
“No. Imprisonment or execution would only make him a martyr for Zulu hotheads. ” He smiled unpleasantly.
“By cutting him off from his followers, from his base of power, we will make this Mantizima just another wandering black beggar without a voice. He’ll wither away without troubling us further.”
Jowly Marius van der Heijden looked up, an ambitious gleam in his eye.
“And what of KwaZulu, Mr. President? Which black will you appoint to rule the homeland in Mantizima’s place?”
The others nodded. Van der Heijden had a good question. KwaZulu consisted of patches of separate territory scattered throughout Natal Province-most on or near the road and rail lines linking the province with the rest of
South Africa. And that meant Pretoria could not risk prolonged disorder in the homeland. Someone would have to fill the leadership vacuum left by Mantizima’s de facto exile.
“None! As of this moment, KwaZulu’s special status is ended. All administrative and police matters in the area will come under our direct supervision.
“This socalled warrior tribe will again learn to fear the lash, the gun, and our righteous anger-as they did in the days of our forefathers.”
His advisors murmured their approval.
South Africa’s 6 million Zulus would pay in blood for their chief ‘s arrant treachery.
SEPTEMBER
4-
NEAR
RICHARDS
BAY
,
NATAL
PROVINCE
,
SOUTH
AFRICA
The Uys family farmhouse lay sheltered in a small valley meandering southeast from the Drakensberg Mountains toward the Indian Ocean. A shallow, gravel-bottomed creek bur bled gently past a large, one-story stone house, attached
garage, and shearing pens. Sheep wandered the hillsides above the valley, moving with docile stupidity from one patch of tall, green grass to the next.
It seemed the very picture of peace and tranquillity. But that was an illusion.
Piet Uys held the phone in shaking, work-gnarled hands, listening to the first three unanswered rings with mounting panic.
“Richards Bay police station. ” The voice on the other end was dry and businesslike-almost disinterested.
Uys took a quavering breath.
“This is Piet Uys of two Freeling Road. I want to report a theft in progress.”
The voice grew more interested.
“What kind of theft, Meneer Uys?”
“I have seen several blacks prowling around my sheep pens. They want my sheep!” Fear crept into the elderly farmer’s voice.
“We need the police here, as quick as you can. Please! ”