AWB’s strength.
Few, if any, knew that the
AWB
maintained another, more ominous organization-an organization whose members were scattered secretly throughout South Africa’s political and military elite. None attended the
AWB’s rallies or appeared on its voter lists. but all were committed to its vision of a divinely inspired, white-ruled state. Most remained ostensible members of the National Party and even the Broederbond-itself a vast, intensely secretive organization of the Afrikaner power structure.
So the world looked at South Africa and saw it ruled by the National
Party. In turn, those inside South Africa looked at the National Party and saw it guided by the shadowy hand of the Broederbond. And hidden deep within the Broederbond lay a hard core of men loyal only to the
AWB
and to Karl Vorster-their true leader.
After Muller left, Vorster sat silently, contemplating the opportunity given him by God and Capt. Rolf Bekker.
MAY
30-
CABINET
ROOM
,
THE
HOUSES
OF
PARLIAMENT
,
CAPE
TOWN
,
SOUTH
AFRICA
Frederick Haymans, state president and prime minister of the Republic of
South Africa, stared angrily across the council table at his minister of law and order.
Vorster hadn’t been his choice for the post. He’d been forced on Haymans by the National Party’s conservative wing, a group anxious to make sure that security policy remained in what it considered more trustworthy hands. Since then, he’d proved a constant thorn in the President’s side first by quarreling with established policies and now by outfight sabotage of those same policies.
“This little Zimbabwean adventure of yours has cost us damned dearly,
Vorster! I find it hard to believe that even you could act so stupidly.”
Heads nodded in agreement around the table. Few of Vorster’s colleagues liked or trusted him. And none saw any advantage in contradicting their president and party leader.
Vorster purpled.
“That’s nonsense and you know it! We haven’t lost anything of real value. In fact, we captured’ Nothing of value?” Haymans cut him off.
“Months of painstaking negotiations are about to go down the drain and you still say that! We need these talks with the
ANC
and the other black groups. And we need continued good relations with our neighbors.”
“More nonsense!” Vorster’s fist crashed onto the table.
“These talks you are so fond of citing have produced nothing but hot air and trouble. Why, the ANC’s terrorists even flaunt their weapons, jeering openly at our police. I tell you, we should never have allowed that collection of half-witted, bareassed, communist thugs out of prison!
“And as for Zimbabwe and the others… hah!” He dismissed the rest of
Haymans’s argument with a contemptuous wave of his hand.
“The socalled front line states have nothing we want and nothing we need. If we show continued strength, they will come begging to us-just as they always have!”
Silence greeted his tirade, a silence broken by the foreign minister.
“It’s quite true that the negotiations themselves have produced little of concrete value-”
“So, you admit I’m fight!” Vorster snapped “No.” The foreign minister’s irritation showed plainly on an urbane face normally able to hide strong emotion.
“These talks with the ANC’s and other black leaders have tremendous symbolic value-both for blacks here and for the financial superpowers abroad. They demonstrate our intent to continue making needed reforms. And to be blunt, gentlemen, we must show further progress soon if we’re to keep our economy afloat. ”
Others in the Cabinet Room muttered their agreement. South Africa’s inflation rate, unemployment rolls, and budget deficit were all rising at an alarming rate. Anyone with open eyes could see the prospect of impending economic collapse. The underlying and interwoven causes of this imminent disaster were equally clear.
Fed up with continued economic exploitation and white political domination, the nation’s black-led labor unions had
initiated a rolling series of crippling and costly strikes. At the same time, continuing conflicts with its neighbors forced South Africa to keep a large number of its reservist Citizen Force troops on active duty-draining both the civilian economy and the government’s treasury.
Even worse, the world’s banks and moneylenders, wary of entanglement with an unstable, oppressive regime, were increasingly unwilling to pour needed capital into the Republic of South Africa.
Faced with this situation on taking office, Haymans and his colleagues had implemented a modest series of reforms. They’d dismantled many of the last vestiges of “petty” apartheid in cities across South Africa-policies that had banned interracial marriages, restricted black movement, and vigorously maintained “whites only” beaches, restaurants, buses, and parks. They’d moved to improve relations with neighboring states. They’d even freed captive
ANC
leaders and un banned organizations they’d once labeled “terrorist. ” And all these reforms had been capped by talks aimed at finding some acceptable form of political power-sharing with the country’s black majority.
Haymans’s reforms had shown signs of paying off. Some labor unions had come back to the bargaining table. Hostile press coverage had faded away.
Overseas investors had seemed more willing to provide affordable capital for major construction and development projects. And leaders from other countries across Africa had readily agreed to meet South Africa’s new president.
Now everything they’d accomplished seemed at risk, thanks largely to
Vorster’s bloodthirsty clumsiness.
As the others argued, Haymans shook his head wearily. He had to find a way to repair the damage done by the raid on Gawamba. He had to make concessions that would salvage his negotiations with the country’s black leaders. Concessions that would dominate the world’s newspapers and television broadcasts. Concessions that could provide a cloak of respectability for those willing to meet South Africa halfway.
He looked up and met the foreign minister’s steady gaze. They’d already discussed what must be done. They would have to accept publicly the inevitability of some form of “one man, one vote” government for South Africa. They would also have to accept the ANC’s demands for a thorough overhaul of the security services and an impartial investigation of past police activities and practices. Neither man especially liked either prospect, but neither could think of any reasonable alternatives.
“Gentlemen!” Haymans interrupted a fierce exchange between two men who were ordinarily close friends. Quiet settled over the crowded Cabinet
Room. He noticed Vorster’s rough-hewn face tighten into an expressionless mask.
“This bickering won’t get us anywhere. We haven’t time for it.” He paused.
“One thing is very clear-clear to me at least. And that is the need for dramatic action if we’re to make further progress. ”
His allies nodded their agreement. Those few who’d sided with Vorster sat motionless with folded arms and dour looks.
Haymans pressed on.
“Therefore I propose that we publicly announce our willingness to accept two of the African National Congress’s latest proposals. Specifically, those concerning eventual majority rule and immediate restrictions on the security services.” He stared Vorster right in the eye as he went on.
“In addition, I intend to honor their request for a new and more open-minded inquiry into alleged police brutality. ”
Shocked murmuring broke out around the table, quiet noises of astonishment suddenly drowned out by Vorster’s thundering, outraged voice.
“Treason! What you propose is treason, Hayinans!”
Other cabinet ministers joined the fray, most shouting Vorster down.
“Silence!” Haymans rose out of his chair.
“I will have order in this meeting!”
As the shouting died away, he sat back.
“That’s better. Remember, we are leaders-not some group of hooligan schoolboys. “All the more reason why we should defeat these lunatic ideas of yours,
Haymans.” Vorster’s powerful hands closed around the edge of the conference table as he fought for selfcontrol.
“The
ANC
is nothing more than a communist front,
a cadre of self-proclaimed terrorists and murderers. We should kill them, not kneel in surrender to them!”
Haymans ignored his redfaced minister of law and order, focusing his rhetoric instead on the other men crowded around the table. ” I do not suggest that we surrender unconditionally to these people, gentlemen.
That would be lunacy.”
Vorster started to speak, but Haymans’s calmer, more measured tones rode over his angry words.
“But we must be seen to be reasonable, my friends.
The Gawamba disaster has cost us dearly. We must try everything in our power to retrieve the situation. If these talks fail, the world must blame the ANC’s intransigence-not ours. On the other hand, continued discussions will bring obvious benefits.”
He ticked them off one at a time.
“Reduced tensions both externally and internally. More overseas credit. Lower military expenditures. And the hope that we can move the
ANC
away from its ridiculous insistence on a strict system of majority rule. ”
Most of the others around the table again nodded their agreement, though many with obvious reluctance.
“I don’t see this proposal as a panacea for all our troubles, gentlemen.”
Haymans shook his head slowly.
“Far from it. But I do believe that it is a necessary political move at this point in our history. We can no longer survive by the simpleminded use of military power. Instead, we must continue the search for a compromise that protects both our people and the peace,”
He noticed Vorster’s face change as he spoke. The look of barely suppressed rage vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stare.
“Will you allow us to fully debate this proposal?” Vorster’s tone was surprisingly formal-almost as if he no longer cared whether he won or lost.
“Time is too short, Minister. ” Haymans matched Vorster’s formality.
“We must act soon if we are to save these vital negotiations, and I believe we’ve already fully explored all the relevant issues.”
I I I see. ”
Haymans could scarcely hide his astonishment. Vorster giving up, almost without a right? It seemed so out of character. Still, the President had learned long ago never to waste opportunities given him by opponents. He leaned forward.
“Then, gentlemen, we can bring this matter to a vote. Naturally, I expect your support for my proposal.”
Haymans watched the quick show of hands calmly, confident of the final tally. With the exception of Karl Vorster and two or three others, all those around the table owed their current positions and power to Haymans and his National Party faction. All were wise enough to avoid unnecessary political suicide.
Haymans smiled.
“Excellent, my friends. We’ll make the announcement tomorrow, after we have had time to contact the
ANC
and the other black groups.” He avoided Vorster’s unwavering gaze.
“If there’s nothing further to discuss, we’ll adjourn this meeting.”
No one spoke.
Ten minutes later, Karl Vorster strode out the front doors of the
Parliament building and climbed into a waiting black limousine. His unopened briefcase still held the captured
ANC
operations plan called
Broken Covenant.
MAY
30-IN
THE
HEX
RIVER
MOUNTAINS
,
SOUTH
AFRICA
Riaan Oost’s three-room cottage lay deep amid the sharp edged mountains of the Hex River range. Forty acres’ worth of grapevines climbed the steep hillsides above his cottage -vines that Oost and his wife tended for their absentee landlord. Six years of hard, unremitting labor had brought the vines to the point at which they would soon produce some of the world’s finest wine grapes.
But Riaan Oost’s need to work ceased at nightfall, ending as shadows thrown by the Hex River Mountains erased all light in the narrow valley.
Now he sat quietly in the front room of his small home, reading by the dim light thrown by a single electric lamp. When the phone rang, it caught him by surprise. He cast his
book aside and answered on the third shrill ring, “Oost here. Who’s calling?”
“Oost, dye say? I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Piet Uys. Isn’t this oh five three one, one nine three six five?” The caller’s crisp, businesslike voice sent chills up Oost’s spine.
He spoke the words he’d memorized months before.
“No, it isn’t. This is oh five three one, one nine three six eight. You must have the wrong number.”
The telephone line clicked and then buzzed as the caller hung up.
Oost followed suit and turned to face his wife. She stared worriedly up at him from her needlework.
“Who was it, Riaan? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed, feeling the first surge of excitement pounding through his veins. It had been a long wait.
“It was them, Marta.
They’ve put things in gear.”
She nodded slowly, knowing that the moment she’d both prayed for and dreaded had come at last.
“You’ll be needing help, then?”
He shook his head.
“No. I’ll do all the moving myself. Less chance of trouble that way. You stay here and tell anyone who calls that I’ve gone to bed… that I’m feeling a bit under the weather. Can you do that for me?” He was already pulling on his jacket.
“Of course, darling.” She clasped her hands together.
“But you will be very, very careful, won’t you?”
Riaan Oost paused by the door, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Don’t worry, Marta. If anybody stops me, I’m just the simple colored boy running errands for his master. They’ll never think to look closely at what I’m carrying.” He blew her a kiss and went outside toward the too] shed attached to his cottage.