It was Sam Knowles’s turn to look surprised.
“Emily’s idea.” Ian gestured toward the door.
“In case Muller had any telltales rigged to see if somebody came snooping when he was out. You know, hairs stuck in the door and that kind of stuff.”
Knowles smiled.
“So now all he’ll know is that the maid came in and turned down his bed for him. Cute. Real cute.” The smile grew into a full-fledged grin.
“It’s no wonder that you and this Miss van der Heijden make such a perfect couple, boyo. You’re both as sneaky as they come under those goody two-shoes exteriors. By God, it makes me proud to know you both.
”
Ian laughed softly and pushed him out the door.
“Save the bullshit for later, Sam. We’ve still got a lot of work to do before Muller gets back here with his little friend from the
ANC
. ”
Half an hour later they were completely ready. Two video monitors flickered in opposite corners of their room-each showing a different view of Muller’s empty hotel room. And though the pictures coming back through the light tubes were grainy and dim, they were acceptable. Digital enhancement on the studio’s computer-imaging system could remove any blurring and brighten anything too dark to be clearly seen.
Without breaking back into Muller’s room, Knowles couldn’t do a sound check, but he was confident that they’d be able to pick up enough audio.
And if need be, the computer could be used to enhance voices, too.
Ian paced back and forth, glancing at the monitors from time to time.
They were set. Now where was Muller? Had he decided to hold his secret meeting somewhere else in Sun City after all?
The phone rang. He jumped over a tangle of cabling and picked it up on the second ting.
“Hello?”
Emily’s soft voice caressed his ear.
“He’s back. And he’s not alone.
There is a black man with him.”
Yes! Ian couldn’t hold back a small whoop of triumph. He’d guessed right.
“Wait until they’re in the elevator and then come on up. You won’t want to miss this.”
“I certainly don’t.” A faint trace of doubt warred with the joy in
Emily’s voice.
“But the other man seems awfully young to be someone of high rank in the
ANC
, Ian. ”
He shrugged and then remembered she couldn’t see him.
“I’ve heard that some of their guerrillas start training as young as fourteen. And some of those kids throwing rocks in Soweto are even younger.
“Perhaps…” She paused and then came back on the line.
“They’re in the lift. I’m on my way.”
The phone went dead.
Ian turned to his companions.
“It’s showtime, guys.”
Knowles squatted by his equipment, hastily making one last check through slitted eyes. Siberia sat carefully in a chair facing the monitors, much calmer and obviously fascinated by the ease and assurance with which the
American handled his hightech gear.
Motion on one of the monitors caught Ian’s attention and he saw the door to
Muller’s room swing open. Muller himself entered, followed by a very short, very skinny black youth. Despite his earlier words to Emily, Ian was puzzled. Though it was tough to tell for sure from the flickering, grainy picture, Muller’s companion didn’t look as though he could possibly be more than sixteen or seventeen years old.
A light, hesitant tap on the door to their room brought him to his feet.
Emily came in through the half-opened door, gave him a quick kiss, and sat on the bed-all the while staring at the scene unfolding in the next room.
Ian joined her.
Muller could be seen standing near the chest of drawers, apparently counting out pieces of paper into the young black man’s outstretched hand.
Ian squinted at the wavering picture, trying to make out the details. Were those pieces of paper money? Probably. The Afrikaner must be paying for more information on the ANC’s operations.
But he didn’t like the expression on Muller’s narrow face-an odd mixture of contempt, self-loathing, and something even stranger. Something very strange indeed. Was it anticipation?
Apparently satisfied, the other man abruptly nodded and fumbled the thick wad of rand notes into his pants pockets. He muttered something indistinct.
Muller spoke for the first time.
“No words, kaffir!”
Shit. Ian leaned forward, suddenly anxious. Could the South African intelligence officer have spotted one of their camera leads after all?
He started to turn toward Knowles to ask … And Muller erupted into action, viciously smashing a clenched fist into the young black man’s stomach. As the kid doubled over in agony, the
Afrikaner followed up with a short, stabbing jab to the face. Other blows landed in rapid succession, driving the young man down onto the carpet in a crumpled, groaning heap. Blood spattered from his broken nose and cut lower lip.
For a second, Ian sat still, shocked into immobility. Then he was on his feet and moving toward the door. This wasn’t what he’d thought to see, and he’d be damned if they’d sit idly by and watch this murdering bastard
Muller beat some poor kid half to death. To hell with the reporter’s role as impartial observer! Sam Knowles was right behind him.
But Emily got there first and stood blocking the door. Her face was deathly pale but determined.
“Let me past, Em. ” Ian could feel the adrenaline roaring through his bloodstream.
“No.” She shook her head firmly.
“We’ve come too far to throw this chance away on a gallant whim. Trying to help that poor boy in there will only result in our deaths or imprisonment. You know that Muller is far more than a simple thug. We must follow your original plan.”
“And besides, the kid’s just a black anyway, is that it?” For the first time, Ian found himself wondering how much of the Afrikaner racial beliefs Emily had unconsciously absorbed.
She colored angrily.
“That is not fair, Ian Sheffield, and you know it!”
Knowles cleared his throat.
“I think she’s right, boyo. We’re playing for big stakes here. Bigger than what happens to any one person.”
Ian glowered from one to the other. Knowing that they were both right didn’t make it any easier to contemplate doing nothing as they watched
Muller indulge his private sadism.
“Oh, my God .” Matthew Siberia’s horrified whisper yanked their attention back to the scene still being played out on the video monitors.
The beating had stopped as suddenly as it had started. Now the young black man lay curled in a fetal position on the floor, moaning pitiably through a bruised throat. One eye was already swelling shut. And Muller, so full of rage a moment before, now knelt beside him, softly caressing his battered face!
Ian felt his stomach heave as the Afrikaner bent down and kissed the young black’s torn lips, smearing the other man’s blood over his own face. He felt cold. This couldn’t be happening!
Through ears that seemed stuffed full of cotton, he heard Emily muttering to herself.
“Of course, now I see it. The defrocked minister. Poor dead
Gabriel Tswane. October twenty-second. It all fits. This is like a ritual for him…. Oh, how
tupid of me!”
Ian couldn’t look away from the monitors long enough to ask her what she meant. His image captured by both hidden cameras, Muller lifted the black teenager in his arms and carried him over to the bed. Then the Afrikaner stepped back and started unbuttoning his shirt.
God… Ian looked away, feeling sick. They’d failed. All their hard work and all their hopeful planning-all for nothing. No
ANC
mole. No truth about the Blue Train massacre. Nothing. Just a sordid, anonymous homosexual encounter. Just another (lead end.
He turned back to the monitors. Muller had all his clothes off now. He grimaced.
“Shut it down, Sam. We don’t need to see any more.”
“No. Leave the cameras on.”
Ian looked at Emily, astounded by the stern, grim note in her voice.
“C’mon,
Em. Why waste more time here? We can’t use this—he gestured toward the bodies writhing on the twin screens—this pornography.”
She shook her head stubbornly.
“Yes, we can. We must.
His face must have shown his confusion because she went on, “That man and his master, Vorster, knew of the ANC’s plans in advance. They must have! Nothing else could explain what has happened to my nation.”
“Agreed. ” Ian spread his hands.
“But how did they know? And how do we prove it?”
Emily stared off into space for a moment and then snapped her fingers.
“The attack on Gawamba!”
Gawamba? Of course! Ian felt his excitement returning, along with a healthy dose of humility. The truth had been sitting right there in front of him all the time. He’d known that the
ANC
base inside Zimbabwe had been an important command center-a place where guerrilla operations inside South Africa were planned and supervised. Precisely the kind of place where you’d expect to find documents describing upcoming missions-missions such as the scheduled attack on South Africa’s president and his cabinet.
And the South African paratroops who’d blown the shit out of Gawamba must have found those plans. Plans that had gone straight back to Erik Muller without passing through any of the normal
SADF
intelligence channels.
He frowned. The paratroops had to have removed the information without leaving a trace or else the
ANC
would simply have canceled the whole operation. Was that possible? He shook his head irritably. It must have been possible. Nothing else fit the facts.
But again, how could they prove it? Nobody in the world would believe the story without seeing some kind of evidence. And nobody connected with such treachery would ever dare admit it. He said as much to Emily.
She nodded toward the monitors.
“Erik Muller will prove it for us. I’m sure he has copies of those documents still. As insurance should Vorster find a new favorite. ” Contempt sharpened her words.
“So it is simple.
We will use these videotapes to force him to give us those documents.”
Blackmail. An ugly word and an uglier idea. He hadn’t become a journalist to twist people’s hidden weaknesses and vices against them. Catching Erik
Muller conferring with a South African spy inside the
ANC
leadership was one thing. Using the man’s strange sexual preferences against him was quite another. Ian stared at her.
Emily was implacable.
“I loathe the idea as much as you do, Ian. But it is what we must do. We have no choice.” For an instant, her selfcontrol slipped and her voice wavered.
“Please… my whole nation is being destroyed before my eyes. Thousands are already dead and thousands more will die. And all because of monsters like that!” She pointed a shaking finger toward the closest screen.
Her voice sank, failing to a soft, sad whisper.
“What choice do we truly have, Ian? We have been given a tool that could help put an end to all this madness. How can we refuse to use it?” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
“How can we? No matter how it taints our own souls with its evil.”
Without thinking, he reached out and took her in his arms, stroking her soft, sweet-smelling hair as she sobbed quietly. Over her shoulder, he saw the twinned images of Muller and his catamite writhing on the hotel bed.
She was right. They didn’t have any choice.
He stared grimly into the video monitors. Very well. They’d find out just how this bastard Erik Muller would react to the threat of having his secret sins laid out for all to see -to the threat of full exposure.
OCTOBER
24-
DIRECTORATE
OF
MILITARY
INTELLIGENCE
,
PRETORIA
Erik Muller stared at the television screen in horror. What had seemed so natural-so wonderful-in that Sun City hotel room looked so sordid and depraved when seen on videotape. He shivered uncontrollably, feeling both feverishly hot and ice-cold at the same time. His worst nightmare had come to life and shown itself in broad daylight.
The tape had been delivered to his office earlier in the day-enclosed in an unsealed manila envelope and marked only by a typed card specifying that it was “personal and confidential.” His idiotic secretary could remember nothing beyond the fact that it had been dropped off by a courier from one of the city’s many delivery services.
As Muller watched, the grainy, half-lit black-and-white images vanished, replaced by a buzzing, static-filled test pattern that showed the tape was over. He sat motionless for several minutes, feeling sick and completely unable to summon up the energy needed to reach over and shut off the
VCR
. His thoughts were far away, reaching back over time to the moment when surrendering to his, physical needs had laid him open to this treacherous attack. Who could have known? And what did they want-his death or disgrace, or something else entirely?
Muller fumbled for the receiver as his phone rang.
“Yes?”
“A call for you, Director. Something about that videotape. ”
He tried to suck in air and failed. The monster of darkness and blood he had feared for so long and so long denied had come for its payment at last.
The monster he himself had created. And now death or worse stared him full in the face.
“Director?”
Through a roaring in his ears, Muller heard his own voice answera voice made harsher by unsuppressed panic.
“Put the call through.”
A new voice came on the line. A woman’s voice speaking fluent Afrikaans.
“Director Muller?”
“What do you want?”
“Copies of the documents seized by your special intelligence team during the commando attack on Gawamba. ” The woman paused briefly.
“The documents revealing the ANC’s intention to attack our president’s train. ”
The Blue Train? Muller hadn’t thought it possible that anything else could shock him. He suddenly realized that he’d been wrong. Dead wrong. An unexpectedly analytical part of his brain evaluated the woman’s choice of words and decided that she was educated and probably a native-born