by Mark Graham
Mansell heard the pounding of his own heart, felt the sweat beneath his arms. He uncovered six more M1191 Al..45-caliber pistols. And while Delaney photographed the contents with a thirty-five-millimeter camera, he set to work on another crate. Within minutes, he had unearthed a layer of M16 automatic rifles, oiled and gleaming.
A third crate contained two grenade launchers, and a fourth, ammunition.
Delaney shot a full roll of thirty-six pictures. Then Mansell began to repack. The original crates were easy. They rewrapped each gun, laid them neatly between layers of bubble paper, and nailed the lids closed.
The polyurethane was a different story. Delaney observed the irretrievable scraps of foam covering the floor.
“You’re not reporting this, are you, Inspector.” It was a statement. Concentration had long since replaced the initial shock of their discovery.
“I can’t. Not yet. It’s not enough. All we know,” Mansell answered, “is that someone has smuggled two hundred and fifty crates’ worth of American guns onto South African soil. What we don’t know is who. The people at this mine in the Transvaal could deny it out of hand. For all we know, someone’s using their name, and they don’t even know it.”
“And that someone is responsible for Ian’s death.”
“Exactly.”
Steven de Villiers focused in as the two hurried away from the rear of the shed. The binoculars brought him so close to the pair that he could see the burning ash on the tip of Mansell’s cigarette and the intensity etched in Delaney’s conversation. They were in there too damn long, he thought as perspiration formed a narrow ridge along his forehead.
De Villiers checked his watch. It was 11:17. As he reached for the telephone, he heard the door handle turning. He set the receiver down. He shuffled nervously into the shadows. The office door squeaked as it swung slowly inward. A figure bathed in darkness stepped past the threshold. The door closed.
The man stood a full head taller than de Villiers. He wore bib overalls and gloves. Sunglasses dangled from a chain around his neck. Haven’t I seen him before? de Villiers wondered. He opened his mouth to speak, but the man put a finger to his lips.
The man moved forward with long strides, saying, “A friend sent me.
De Villiers breathed. “Leistner?”
A smile cut across the man’s bony face. He reached out with his left hand. De Villiers assumed he wanted the binoculars, and he held them out. He gestured toward the window. The man snatched the glasses away. With his other hand, he grabbed de Villiers by the throat. He pressed the smaller man against the wall.
De Villiers gagged. “What? What are you doing?” he mouthed inaudibly. His arms flew into the air, resisting. A hand swept back, shattering the window. He cried out. “But they know, you fool. Don’t you see? They—”
The man drove the narrow end of the binoculars into de Villiers’s temple. Again. A third time. His body contorted, shuddered, and fell limp.
The man hung the binoculars around his neck. He slung de Villiers over his shoulder like a rag doll. The emergency stairs led down to an alleyway between the customs house and the Immigration Building. Parked there was a maroon Saab 900. The trunk was opened. He stowed the body inside, closed the lid, and locked it.
He drove the Saab without lights south along the railroad tracks. A narrow frontage road led to an entrance ramp onto the Settler’s Way overpass. The man switched on the headlamps. Observing the speed limits, he drove northeast fifty-four kilometers to the R32 exchange. Traffic dwindled as he entered the foothills. The terrain rose amid wild bush and lonely evergreens. The countryside grew choppy, mountainous. Aided by the light of a full moon, he spotted the dirt road just beyond Sheldon and turned right. The road paralleled the Fish River through wooded hills. He drove ten minutes and parked thirty meters from the bank. Before getting out of the car he changed into tennis shoes that were two sizes too small. Then he removed the body from the trunk.
A shallow grave had already been dug, hours earlier, ten meters from the river. He dumped Steven de Villiers in it. From the pocket of his overalls, he took the Colt Detective Special. Carefully, he pumped three bullets into de Villiers’s chest. Blood spread across the front of his shirt. The man tossed the gun into a clump of wild grass near the bank. It took five minutes to cover the body. Finally, the man formed a barrow of broken sod and rocks.
He returned to his car and retraced his steps to R32. He drove hard all night, and by dawn, he was back in Johannesburg.
****
Nigel Mansell returned home well after midnight. A plan was formulating, but he didn’t want to think about it. Fatigue buzzed about like an annoying fly inside his skull. A burnt-out porch light left the house dark, lifeless. He was surprised to find the front door unlocked.
Inside, a dank stuffiness overwhelmed him. He cracked the front window and switched on the attic fan. He walked halfway through the house before turning on the hallway light. He peeked into the bedroom. The bed was still made. The darkroom was locked. He called out Jennifer’s name, but there was no answer.
He turned. The aquarium cast a dim blue haze over the dining room. He switched on the brass overhead. Light fell across the table. A bouquet of cut daisies drooped in a porcelain vase, tired and browning. A note was propped up against the vase, and Mansell reached for it.
My dearest Nigel,
I couldn’t bear to tell you in person. I just couldn’t face you. I’m sorry, so sorry, but I must leave you, Nigel. And this house and this city and a thousand memories. I must. Please forgive me. I need something out there, something inside me. Something. Peace of mind, a new beginning. I know it sounds childish. I thought we would find it together, that something. But I feel time slipping past me, Nigel, and I’m so frightened. I thought you would feel it in time too, but your work, your life, they seem to be enough for you. We’ve missed each other somewhere along the line, haven’t we? You were right. Oh God, I’ll miss your handsome face and your laughter.
I’ll stay with Harriet and Jarrad, at least until I settle on something else.
Stay well,
Jen
Mansell read it again. Then he folded it slowly into the palm of his hand, crushing it until his fingers cried out from the pressure. He buried the crumpled paper in his pants pocket.
He walked numbly into the kitchen, stopping at the refrigerator. He opened the door. Cold air rushed over him. An involuntary shiver stung the back of his neck.
He had never called her “Jen.” “Jennifer” had the sound of a spring flower blossoming, the heartbeat of a distant river on a summer’s night.
The refrigerator was bare. He snatched a bottle of White Crown beer from the shelf and twisted the cap off. He flipped the cap toward the wastebasket, missed, and watched it tumble to the floor. The cap circled meekly on its rim, hesitated, and then collapsed.
Mansell told himself that he felt lighthearted, a lie poorly sold. He sipped cold beer, and anger and hurt welled up inside him. His stomach bunched into a thousand tiny knots. He sucked in air, staving off panic. The air escaped in a rush, and he hurried into the study, reaching for the telephone. With increasing fever, he dialed the Pruitts’ number. But after a single ring, he slammed the receiver down and shouted, “Fuck you.” And then quietly, “Fuck you, Jen.”
Chapter 8
Using his private line, a hung-over Mansell dialed long- distance direct to Springs, an industrialized city on the East Rand. The switchboard operator at the Eighty-fourth Police Station answered, and Mansell asked to speak with Captain Richard Noore.
The station commander came on the line sixty seconds later.
“Mansell?” he shouted. “What’s this? The major or the inspector?”
“It’s the punk kid—Nigel,” answered Mansell. As teen-agers, Dick Noore and Mansell’s father had fought side by side in Italy at the tail end of World War II. Together they had attended the police college in Pretoria, graduating at the top of their class. Frank Mansell had been grant
ed an early retirement last September. Noore was due in three months. “Haven’t they chased your tail out of there yet, you old man?”
“Old man? Hey, kid, when I go out this whole force will probably fall apart,” the captain replied. “So how’s your papa doing, Inspector?” “Ornery as ever. You know the major.”
They exchanged amenities for a few minutes. At last, Noore asked, “So, is there a business side to this conversation, Inspector Mansell?”
“A week ago Monday, Dick, two blacks were arrested in your East District. They were accused of raping a sixteen-year-old white girl. They were also carrying handguns and ANC cards,” said Mansell. “Recall?”
“We were treated rather rudely by Security Branch on that one. Yeah, I remember,” Noore answered brusquely. “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh to Jo’burg.”
“We’ve heard the case is under a ministerial decree.”
“You heard right, kid.”
“Which ministry, Dick, do you know?”
“Justice. Why?”
“I think there’s a connection with a case we have going down here,” Mansell replied offhandedly. “They’re holding information I could use but I’d rather not ask for. You know how that goes.”
“So ask me,” Noore retorted.
Mansell gave the veteran policeman a brief picture of the Steiner case, and then said, “He was killed with the same American gun your ANC friends were carrying.”‘
“Yeah, the M1 something or another, wasn’t it?”
“That’s it. Do you remember the condition of the guns?”
Noore laughed. “I should have pistols so clean,” he said. “You tell me, Inspector, where does a migrant pick up a gun that glistens like a Kruggerrand and shines like a Kimberley diamond? And I can tell you, Security was more than a little curious about that one, too.”
“Curious or ecstatic,” Mansell replied, encouraged by the answer. “Also, Dick, they were both en route to mining jobs somewhere in your area. Do you happen to remember where? The Labor Bureau’s not handing out a thing.”
“I can make a call.”
“I’ll wait. Thanks.”
Mansell waited five minutes, smoking, massaging bloodshot eyes, studying the train routes between Port Elizabeth and the Transvaal.
At last, he heard Noore say, “I’ve got your answer, kid. It’s a `small.’ Real small evidently. I’ve never heard of it. It’s called East Fields.”
****
Delaney sat on the deck of the Harborhouse Tearoom. She watched rail workers shunt a single boxcar alongside the loading platform in front of storage shed 4D. Again she checked the schedule sheet for outbound freight. The East Fields cargo was due for hookup and departure at 11:45.
When a fleet of one-ton forklifts entered the shed, Delaney made her decision. She left R2.50 on the table alongside an uneaten pastry and a forgotten mug of tea. She walked down to the waterfront, where she caught the harbor shuffle. The shuttle entered downtown at Produce Street. Delaney jumped off at the next corner. She walked a block west on Military Avenue to the police station.
Delaney had heard about the walkout last night at Ford’s Neave plant and about the firebomb that set off the riot. She knew for certain that one policeman had been badly injured and that at least a dozen arrests had been made, and by 8:20, the Pit was waist-deep in bodies.
She took the front stairs to a subdued second floor. The door to Nigel Mansell’s office was open. The chief inspector sat motionless at his desk, textbooks stacked like hastily constructed guard towers at each corner, a cup of coffee cradled between two hands. “You look terrible,” she said.
He glanced up. “Thank you. It always seems fitting that the visual impression attests to the state of physical discomfort. Personally, I strive for balance at all times.”
“A head-to-head bout with the bottle?”
“I lost.” Mansell fell back in his chair. Bloodshot eyes studied Delaney without embarrassment. She wore faded blue jeans, a cotton smock of Indian cut and color, and a solid blue scarf tied in her hair. It looked frightfully abstract and completely in vogue. She wore the ensemble, he thought, like a fashion model challenging her audience with a new style. He said, “You, on the other hand, look stunning this morning.”
“Well, since I wasn’t invited to the celebration last night, I was forced to seek comfort in my own pillow. I guess I should be thankful.” Delaney pushed a straight-back chair alongside the desk and sat down. “And what was the occasion?”
“Freedom,” Mansell answered at once. No, he realized, shaking his head, this was detachment, not indifference. Whiskey, he thought, has a marvelous way of miscoloring emotion. “Well, maybe it’s a little soon to send out a declaration. Call it a celebration of survival.”
“Very profound,” Delaney replied, watching him. Mansell made an effort to avoid the cigarettes in his breast pocket. He was certain her oval eyes were looking right through him, but she surprised him, asking, “You okay, Inspector?”
He offered a qualified nod. “I’ll make it.”
Mansell knew why Delaney had come. He had thought about it himself since last night. Arms smuggling was a direct breach of internal security, and internal security took precedence over the murder investigation of three individuals. That was the law.
Yet within the delicate framework of his investigation, there were subtleties. The smuggled arms were another subtlety added without his control. If the subtleties were upset, he felt, the investigation disintegrated. If news of the arms shipment leaked, the investigation would be handed over to Security Branch, and his killer would be lost. Mansell wasn’t prepared for that just yet.
The destination of the crates in storage shed 4D, he believed, was vital to his investigation. It was also vital to the security matter created by so large an amount of arms. Times five other shipments? Mansell wondered if he could achieve one end without destroying the other. Was it enough to believe the East Fields superscription at the top of a shipping manifest? There were a dozen remote stops between here and the East Rand where the transfer of the weapons would be a simple matter. He knew that. Delaney, he realized, would know it as well.
Intent on using the dilemma, he said, “Your train leaves at eleven forty-five, does it not?”
Surprise registered ever so briefly on her face. “They’re holding a spare cabin for me in the crew’s car.”
“And you’re going, why? Why would you be willing to risk your neck over this thing?”
“Because my union has a special interest in anything so illicit as arms smuggling on our rail system, that’s why. Especially arms smuggling that might involve one of our own leaders.” Delaney toyed with her walking stick, avoiding his eyes. “Ever since the unions became legal, Inspector, the Transport Service has been looking for some excuse to pull the rug out from under us. You know that. And the government would love it. We’ve worked too hard to let that happen.”
“Then you’ve told your people about the guns?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Mansell studied her. He shook his head. “It’s Elgin, isn’t it?” “I was with him the night he died. I feel . . . responsible.” “Don’t be melodramatic. It’s not that simple.”
“And if news of the guns gets out, then what?”
“Then you can forget about finding out who is responsible.”
“I can help, and you know it.” The lines around Delaney’s eyes softened. “I need to do this.”
Mansell drew a deep breath. “I’ll send Joshua with you.
“Joshua couldn’t get near that train. They’d know in a minute. No one will give me a second glance, Inspector.”
There was some truth to what she said, Mansell knew that. Self-monitoring of union projects and employees was a stipulation of trade-union law, and spot supervision by union officials was commonplace, even desirable. A union official spends a day observing the stevedores at the harbor in Durban. A union official tours a gold mine in Welkom or a diamond pit in Kimberl
ey. A union official spot checks the computerized signaling system between Port Elizabeth and Jo’burg. She was right. It wouldn’t raise an eyebrow.
“The railroad police can’t know. Only Joshua will know here,” he said. “This is a dangerous business, Delaney, and I won’t be able to offer much help along the way.”
“Yes, I know.”
He passed her an I.D. card. “The train reaches Bloemfontein tomorrow at four-thirteen. If anything happens before then, call. Otherwise, we’ll expect to hear from you then. Talk to Joshua or myself, no one else.”
Delaney stood up, embracing a cherrywood cane. “Count on it, Inspector.”
He walked her to the door. “You know, one of these days you’re going to call me Nigel,” he said. “I can feel it.”
She flashed an expression of exaggerated shock. “Really?”
While Delaney packed a small carry-on for her journey, Nigel Mansell bought a carton of cigarettes, two candy bars, and a London Times at the gift shop in H. F. Verwoerd Airport.
He booked a flight on South African Airways scheduled to depart for Johannesburg at 10:59.
The flight lasted two hours and ten minutes. As the plane banked for its descent, Mansell studied a skyline so dense with skyscrapers and high rises that an American journalist had once called the city South Africa’s Manhattan Island. Other sobriquets were equally apropos. The natives called it Egoli, the City of Gold. English speakers called it the City of Big Deals and Fast Bucks.
From the air, Mansell counted sixteen derrick cranes hovering above new buildings. For every brick or adobe bilevel he saw in the city proper, he saw two shacks made of sheet metal and cardboard in outlying townships.
At 1:10, the plane set down at Jan Smuts International, east of the city. Mansell hailed a taxi. He gave the driver an address in lower downtown, and they set out. The cabby switched on the radio. While they drove, Mansell gazed blankly at the scenery and wondered at the circumstances that must have led Ian Elgin’s fellow conspirators to consider him either a liability or an expendable. Purpose, if purpose could be placed on an act of murder, was taking shape.