by Mark Graham
“I wanted you to love me that very first day in my office,” she said afterward. “It seems like an eternity since then.”
The tips of her breasts were still hard with fever. Mansell touched her lightly in the hollow below her ribs. “You didn’t look up when I stopped at the door. I felt like a schoolboy standing there, but I wanted that more than anything.”
Her eyes closed. “I couldn’t,” she said. “You were the enemy.”
The sheets lay upon them like the cool ripples of a lake never ended. Delaney sipped champagne, wanting him again.
“You were wrong, you know,” he said. “Policemen aren’t policemen every minute of every day. Look at me.”
“You are different. Yes, but . . .”
“But what? Tell me.” He kissed her hair, her shoulders, her neck.
“I know about the warrant for your arrest.” Her voice was low, turbulent, cautious. “I’ve pictured Steven de Villiers’s face a hundred times lying there in that grave.”
“And do you believe it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they tell you why?”
“Why?
“Because I’m close. Close to their secrets. Which is why we shouldn’t be here, together. Because if they find out how close, and if they find out about this . . .”
He wanted to tell her. Needed to.
“Today,” he whispered slowly. “I almost died today.”
“Nigel . . . ?”
He touched her lips, assuring her. “A friend saved me. You know, I’m not sure I couldn’t have faced it then.” He touched her breasts, wanting her. “Now I feel like I never want to face it. You saved me from that.”
The first songbird offered a subtle hint of the impending break of day
At last, Delaney told him about the arms, and the film, and the long arm of Security. But she resisted mentioning the minister. Why? she asked herself. Wasn’t it too late?
“I went back to the motel. The film was gone. Linder had followed me, expecting it to be there, too.”
“Meaning Security doesn’t have the film either,” Mansell suggested. “Meaning they haven’t seen it.”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I’m sorry.”
Then why do I have it? he asked himself. Why do I have the film? Could she know? Could Delaney know?
Chapter 11
From twelve midnight until five A. M., Blue Strike Team conducted underground maneuvers, perfecting their skills with electric cable cars, winch-rope transports, and shaft-elevator operations.
After a breakfast of powdered eggs and canned fruit, and an hour-long briefing, the fifteen-hundred-man unit was given the morning off.
Detective Merriman Gosani left the barracks at 7:25. He wandered into an office complex whose main floor had been converted into a recreation hall. Despite the hour, men lingered everywhere, bored warriors awaiting the call of the bugle. Card games flourished beside improvised crap games. Darts, chess, and daydreaming. The level of noise testified to the fact that zero hour was still a day and a half away.
A lecture hall had been converted into a movie theater. Merry stepped over and around bodies squashed together like sheep at shearing time. Cigarette smoke formed thick columns against the ceiling. The smell of stale beer hung in the air. The movie was American, presented in English. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Merry wondered how many in this largely Bantu audience understood the language. No one seemed to care.
He waited ten minutes in line for a beer, watched the movie until Butch and Sundance sailed off a cliff into a raging river, and then slipped out a side door onto a courtyard that led to the control tower.
Merry peeled the paper off his last toothpick. Guards, in teams of two, patrolled without any apparent pattern. Had they seen Merry, or cared, the beer and toothpick would have seemed a sufficient explanation. No one questioned him. They were, after all, on the same side; the thought came upon him without warning and felt too good to dismiss.
Still, he crossed the courtyard with a certain caution.
Beyond the control tower were three huge cooling tanks made of concrete. Between the tower and the tanks lay a patch of brown grass and a stand of naked fruit trees. Here, three black Africans dozed in the grass, while a fourth read. Merry propped against the trunk of a tree. He sipped beer and studied the lay of transmission lines that crisscrossed the facility, noticing, as he had yesterday, that a single line was strung to a small, freestanding house located to the south just beyond a bank of storage units. As far as he could tell, the storage units had been abandoned; the patrols, by and large, ignored the area.
Merry went back to the movie room for a second beer. When he returned, he sat beneath the same tree, slack and relaxed, his eyes forever busy.
At 10:30, the first lunch whistle sounded.
At the sound of the second whistle, fifteen minutes later, Merry clambered to his feet. He crossed beneath the steel supports of the cooling tanks to the storage area. Shuffling between two units, he slipped along the rear walls and stopped. He pressed against the cool brick and waited sixty seconds.
Then, hands in his pockets, he strolled across thirty meters of drive to the flat-roofed house. He peered through the front window. The door was locked. He circled the house, checking for patrols with lazy side-glances. On the west side, furthest from the plant, he paused. The windows were metal-framed. No screens. Merry tugged at the first, expecting it to be locked, and it was. As was the second.
He stripped off his shirt. He wrapped it tightly about his fist. With the flick of his wrist he punched at the lower corner of the window. The glass splintered. He tapped at it again, and the shards fell silently onto a carpeted floor inside.
Hurriedly, Merry pushed aside the bolt. The window opened without protest. He climbed through, closed the window behind him, and drew the shade.
Perfect, Merry thought. He sat on the floor for a moment surveying the remains of an old medical clinic. Two narrow beds, in whose mattresses inquisitive rats had ripped gaping holes, were shrouded in flakes of white paint. Sterilization paper, now yellow with age and curling at the edges, still covered the examination table. A medicine cabinet had fallen prey to hopeful thieves. Water dripped from a rusted faucet, and the basin was stained yellow.
Merry came to his feet. He scurried from this room into a tiny cubicle that had once surely been a reception area.
Beyond a narrow counter lay the office. An overturned file cabinet blocked the doorway from the inside, so Merry scrambled over the counter. A sign-in board and two yellow files were stacked neatly next to an adding machine and a forgotten coffee mug. Along one wall was a metal desk, an empty in/out tray, a burnt-out desk lamp, and two telephones.
Merry picked up one of the receivers and a severed cord swung disconsolately in the air. Feverishly, he tried the other, and the sweet sound of a healthy dial tone filled his ear. He dialed the number Mansell had given him. It rang three times, and the answering machine at the Clavers’ came on the line asking the caller to leave a message at the sound of the tone.
Beads of sweat glistened on Merry’s brow. He pounded the desk top.
Finally, he heard the tone and said, “Nigel, you were right. Some group is planning a major military operation against the four gold mines surrounding this joint. Targets: Highland Vaal, Homestake, White Ridge, and Brakpan Holdings. Mode of operation: underground infiltration. Fifteen thousand men, maybe more. It’s incredible, pal, and well planned. But there’s something here. Something . . . Christopher Zuma’s behind it, Nigel. I saw him. I heard his plan. It might work. I’m not so sure it shouldn’t, man. You know where Zuma stands. I . . .”
Merry heard the outer door slam. Footsteps, running. Voices, shouting. He wheeled around. Two men appeared at the counter; one pointed a submachine gun directly at him.
“All right, you. Put the phone down,” he yelled. “I order you to put the—”
“Nigel,” Merry shouted. “It’s not what you—”
****
Jaap Schwedler consulted his copy of A Veteran’s Guide to Fellow Vets. It was a thin volume distributed every five years by the South African Defense Force to veterans of wars gone by. The forgotten remembered; the hidden uncovered.
And therein lay the irony. The irony of overplanning. The irony of overcompensation. For there were no more than three places in the country where Justice Minister Cecil Leistner’s private residences or telephone numbers were actually listed. The numbers were not listed with the phone company. Neither Leistner’s residence in Pretoria nor his country estate in the mountains near Kruger National Park was listed in any government directory. Not fifteen people, close friends only, knew the estate existed at all.
Certainly Leistner was listed in Who’s Who, and in the South African Year Book, and the Pretoria Social Register, and in another hundred different government and social guides. But by name and title only.
The Veteran’s Guide was an exception. In South Africa, the war veteran was inviolate, sacrosanct. The last bastion of the Voortrekkers and the Boers.
The elder Schwedler found his copy among dusty volumes of L’Amour westerns, the poetry of James Matthews (disguised in brown slipcovers), Alan Paton’s Cry, the Beloved Country, the plays of Athol Fugard, and the Bible. These were Jaap’s personal escapes from a world that had kicked him around for too many years.
It took the old man nearly an hour to summon the courage to dial the number in Capital Park, and he was on the verge of hanging up when a stern voice answered.
“Yes?”
“If I could speak with Cecil, please,” Jaap said, clearing his throat. “I mean Minister Leistner.”
“The minister is not available, I’m afraid. Who’s calling, please?” “This is Jaap Schwedler from Pampoenpoort. We fought in Korea together. He’ll remember. He’ll remember.”
When Leistner first heard the name, he was puzzled, irritated. And then the knot formed in his throat. History swept before him like the windblown pages of a lost book. A thousand hours of forsaken study welled up in his brain.
“Jaap Schwedler,” he said in a hardy voice. “Jaap Schwedler, my old comrade. How are you, Jaap? How are you?”
“Old and decrepit, Cecil,” he answered. “ ‘Minister,’ it is now.” “Not to you, old friend.” Leistner loosened his collar.
“Sure. Thanks,” replied the veteran. “It’s been since the fire, hasn’t it? No, before. You didn’t come back.”
What’s this all about? Leistner wondered. Why is he calling me?
He said, “Sometimes you can’t, Jaap. So what can I do for an old friend?”
Schwedler stammered. “Well, it’s about that personal file. The one they’re doing on you, Cecil. Some of the things I said. Well, I mean about the camps and all. I mean, I was caught off guard and . . . and I sure didn’t mean no harm to you or—”
“Hold on, old friend. Slow down.” Leistner felt the heat building on the back of his neck. “Now, what in the blazes are you talking about, Jaap? Personal file? What personal file?”
“Well, you know, the investigator from Internal Affairs or something. The one you sent down here to do the update on your life. He said you couldn’t remember about Korea. Drugs or some such thing.”
“Oh, that. Christ, Jaap, of course. It slipped my mind.” Think now, Leistner ordered himself. Think. An investigator in Pampoenpoort? “Can’t remember the man’s name, Jaap. What was it?”
“Manson, I think, or Mansell maybe. Some bloody English name or another. You know some of those. Anyway, about the war. I didn’t mean to imply that you might have—”
“Jaap, Jaap,” said the minister in a soothing voice that masked the shock waves flooding his brain. “Of course you didn’t, old friend. War, Jaap. It was war. We were all just trying to get out with our skins intact. I know that.”
“That’s right, isn’t it?” Relief filled Jaap Schwedler’s voice. “Thanks, Cecil. Thanks for listening.”
The minister of justice forced himself into a straight-back chair. He gripped the armrest with such force that blood vessels surfaced in protest. How? he asked himself. It was perfect. It was goddamn perfect.
****
A chauffeured limousine took Leistner directly to the helipad on Church Street. The Westland-TL landed at the Springs County airport twenty-five minutes later.
The airport manager met the minister at the gate and escorted him to a private lounge above the main terminal. Minutes later, Jan Koster arrived wearing blue jeans, a denim work shirt, and circles beneath his eyes.
Leistner skipped the amenities. “Chief Inspector Mansell has been to Pampoenpoort. There can only be one reason.”
“I agree,” replied Koster. So, it’s begun, he thought. He ordered himself to move with caution. He gestured to a table overlooking the airfield. “I need coffee. Can I pour you some?”
“Tea,” Leistner answered.
“How much can he find out?” Koster implored, glancing at the implant scar on Leistner’s upper jaw.
“Enough to cause problems, especially now. He’s got to be stopped.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop there, I’m afraid,” Koster announced. “We have a second problem. And it’s certainly related. We’ve been infiltrated.”
Leistner’s head jerked up in response. Tea sloshed over the rim of his cup onto his fingers, but he seemed oblivious.
“Explain,” he said.
Koster did so, adding, “We found the real Uzo Egonu outside the property at about eleven this morning. He had the impersonator’s I.D. The bad news? He was a P.E. cop.”
Leistner shook his head. “And has Blue Strike Team been briefed in the last thirty-six hours?”
“Saturday. So he knew plenty,” answered Koster. “We know he made his connection, and we know Mansell was the target; he used his name. But the call was picked up by an answering machine, and we’re fairly certain he didn’t finish his message.”
“How reassuring.” Leistner sucked vigorously on the tip of his pipe, strumming at the tabletop with his fingers. Aggravated lungs revolted in a spate of harsh coughing. “All right, if he did make his connection, then you should’ve been able to trace the call. Has that been done?”
“It came through just as I was arriving here.”
“And?”
“And it’s a private residence on Northview Avenue in Port Elizabeth. The owner’s name is John Claver. Records indicate that he and his family have been out of the country since June twenty-seventh. But the house is just six doors down from Mansell’s own place and—”
“Good God, man.” Leistner set aside his pipe and jumped to his feet.
“There’s a squad of policemen standing by in P.E. right now. They’re waiting for orders.”
Leistner set out for the door. The porter was stationed outside in the hall, and the minister of justice ordered a telephone brought to the room at once.
****
The house smelled of bacon and eggs.
It was ludicrous. Mansell knew that. Yet it all seemed so natural. They awoke an hour before noon. They made love, leisurely at first, like a sailboat on a still lake, pushed by a gentle breeze; a gentle breeze that grows with each passing breath, becomes a wind, and then a storm, which, at its peak, stretches each sail to its outer limits.
Mansell threatened her with his “famous” french toast, as he called it, but Delaney boasted about her matchless omelets. Impossible to pass up. Mansell brewed tea. They sipped day-old champagne. While Delaney cracked eggs into the pan, Mansell kissed the back of her neck and ran his hands over the gentle slopes of her hips.
“Don’t you realize what a delicate operat
ion this is?” she said, pushing him away.
“But we’re on vacation,” he replied. “Free-floating balloons sailing over the ocean. A magic carpet leaping from castle to castle over the snowy peaks of the Alps. Mere mortal eggs would never think of burning. Not today, at least.”
Delaney faced him. Her downturned mouth confessed to the fact that such fantasies were difficult for her to imagine. But last night was no fantasy, she told herself, as Mansell bounced from cabinet to cabinet seeking teacups. Delaney watched him, caught in a thousand confusing thoughts. She moved nearer. She put her arms around his waist and kissed him lightly.
“Not today, at least,” she whispered. “Shall we eat these merely mortal omelets before they get cold?”
They carried paper plates and champagne into the family room. They huddled on the floor around a mahogany tea table.
“Music,” Mansell said suddenly, jumping up. Stereo components and album-filled racks lined one wall. Mansell thumbed through the records and selected two. He held them up. “Debussy or Juluka? ‘Tis the fair lady’s choice.”
“Debussy, of course.”
“After all,” he said, laughing. It was then that he saw the telephone and the answering machine, on a stand next to the stereo. He hesitated, shaking his head.
Delaney noticed. “Business before pleasure. I know the feeling. Go ahead.”
Mansell cued the replay. The tape ran for ten seconds, blank. He was reaching for the stop button when the tone sounded. The connection was poor, obscured further by the sound of labored breathing, but the voice was unmistakable.
“Nigel, you were right. Some group is planning a major military operation against the four gold mines surrounding this joint. Targets: Highland Vaal, Homestake, White Ridge, and Brakpan Holdings. Mode of operation: underground infiltration. Fifteen thousand men, maybe more. It’s incredible, pal, and well planned. But there’s something here. Something . . . Christopher Zuma’s behind it, Nigel. I saw him. I heard his plan. It might work. I’m not so sure it shouldn’t, man. You know where Zuma stands. I . . .”
Merry’s voice faded. Mansell touched the volume control. Delaney reached for her walking stick and stood up. Suddenly, they heard another voice. “All right, you. Put the phone down. I order you to put the—”