Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

  And then there were new rumours in the press that the government was training a secret battalion of Zulus on the Caprivi Strip as a massive hit-squad to be let loose on the ANC. The government again denied it, but one day truckloads of heavily armed Zulus in war regalia came up from the lowlands on to the highveldt around Johannesburg without the police making any effort to stop them. All hell broke loose in Soweto and the other black townships as pitched battles raged between the Zulus and the ANC battalions, machine guns rattling, flames leaping, smoke barrelling, roadblocks thrown up, houses burned down, thousands killed and injured.

  ‘This proves there’s a Third Force,’ Josephine cried. ‘Why didn’t the police and army stop those truckloads of Zulu warriors? Because they were the hit-squads that the government has been training on the Caprivi Strip …’

  And, oh God, Harker wanted out, wanted to wash his hands of the CCB, of the whole goddam South African army. He was a soldier, a professional, not a spy, not a cloak-and-dagger man, certainly not a Third Force man who associated with instigators of civil war. And, dear God, he wished he could fax off his resignation to Pretoria, tell them he wanted to retire right now …

  But, alas, he could not do that – for one very compelling reason: Harvest. If he resigned he would lose Harvest House, and he loved the place. Jack Harker wished he’d chosen publishing as a career a hundred years ago when he graduated from high school – wished he’d studied English Literature instead of goddam military science. He had studied battles instead of books, enemies instead of authors, politics instead of poetry. In short Jack Harker had discovered he was a square peg in a round hole. In a treacherous hole, a black hole of unofficial and deniable murder and mayhem, if Josephine and the left-wing press were to be believed. And now secretly he believed them. And, God, he wanted out. But he could not, for three reasons: money, money and money.

  Firstly he needed the salary Harvest House – or Military Intelligence – paid him. Secondly, he needed the apartment that Military Intelligence provided for him. Thirdly, he needed the expense account that the military allowed him in order to run a publishing house in New York: he had never abused this, but he had grown accustomed to the good life it permitted. But more important than all that: when the CCB was disbanded, as it surely one day would be when apartheid collapsed, Harvest House would be sold: in terms of his deal with the CCB he would have first option to buy it at a fair price, and there was no way he was going to forgo that golden opportunity by quitting the army prematurely – he had built Harvest House into a prosperous publishing company, for Chrissakes, and he loved every stick and stone of the place, every dollar it had in the bank.

  But these days Josephine never allowed Harker to read any of her book. ‘I want it to be as perfect as possible before you advise me on it …’ That was just fine with Harker – the less he knew about that book the better, and with a bit of luck he might not have to have anything to do with it because Josephine’s new literary agent, Priscilla Fischer, was a flashy, fleshy, hard-boiled Jewish lady who specialized in books by hard-boiled authors of feminist persuasion. She represented one of Harker’s authors and what he knew of Priscilla Fischer he didn’t much like. ‘Piranha Fisch’ she was called in the publishing business, and particularly in Harvest House. Harker considered her the wrong agent for Josephine, though he didn’t say so. But Piranha Fisch also didn’t much like Jack Harker and so she probably would not suggest he publish Josephine’s book. And certainly Piranha would get Josephine the best deal in town, beyond Harvest’s budget – which was what Harker wanted. It was almost the truth when he answered Dupont:

  ‘Look, you can forget about that bloody book, her agent hates my guts and if it’s publishable at all she won’t give it to Harvest. And I haven’t a clue what it’s about except it’s anti-apartheid. So what? With all the anti-South African literature around what difference does one more half-assed book make?’

  ‘She’s a goddam troublemaker.’

  ‘She’s just another starry-eyed liberal.’

  ‘She,’ Dupont said, ‘is a thorn in the flesh and I want you to get some dirt on her! How much do you see of her?’

  It really surprised Harker that Dupont didn’t know about his relationship with her yet. But then he, Harker, was supposed to be in charge of espionage in New York, not Dupont. ‘I see her,’ he said, ‘at the yacht club. We meet for drinks and dinner occasionally, we’re on friendly terms but she doesn’t confide in me.’

  ‘Well, get on confidential terms,’ Dupont commanded, ‘even if you’ve got to fuck the bitch – that shouldn’t be much of a hardship. And what about her Anti-Apartheid League’s activities?’

  ‘I’ve sent you everything I know. They’re an open book, they shout it from the rooftops, it’s in the press. They’re fund-raising for the ANC, stuffing leaflets though letterboxes, picketing the South African consulate and preaching to the converted – so what’s new?’

  ‘They’re lobbying congressmen across America to pressurize Ronald Reagan into pulling out of Angola, that’s what. And to impose sanctions.’

  ‘Sure, that’s in the press too.’

  ‘Pretoria wants it,’ Dupont said, ‘from the horse’s mouth before her friends swing into action across America, so that our diplomatic boys can try to do something about it before it gets to Congress. That, Major, is what Intelligence is all about! So get on to this woman with whatever blandishments are necessary – offer to publish her fucking book right now, if necessary – but find out! Join the fucking League yourself, attend their meetings, get elected to the local committee …’

  Harker did join the Anti-Apartheid League, but it was Josephine who persuaded him to do so, not Dupont. Lying in the whirlpool bath one night that autumn, she said, ‘That first time I slept with you and woke up in the middle of the night so angry with myself? Well, one of the reasons – apart from feeling I’d made a tart of myself – was that I suspected you were a racist. The next morning, I realized I’d probably been unfair. Now, of course, I know you’re not a racist.’

  He wondered where this conversation was heading. ‘Thanks, pal. So?’

  ‘Well, would you consider addressing one of our meetings? Just a short speech, say twenty minutes, about the realities of apartheid. You coming from South Africa, and being a publisher to boot, would make it most interesting to our members.’

  Harker reached for his wine glass. No way did he want to get involved with her anti-apartheid activities, what he didn’t know he couldn’t be expected to report to Dupont. ‘From what I’ve heard, your members know all about apartheid, there’s nothing new I can tell them.’

  ‘But you’ve got inside experience. You’re articulate, and witty. Knowledgeable. And,’ she grinned, ‘good-looking.’

  ‘Flattery will get you nowhere.’

  ‘And,’ she trailed her finger up his thigh, ‘all the ladies will double their donations.’

  ‘This is a fund-raising meeting?’

  ‘All our meetings are fund-raisers in that we pass the hat around. But where I’m actually asking you to make a speech is at our big annual fund-raising dinner in December.’ She looked at him hopefully: ‘Black tie and all.’

  No way. ‘Josie, there’re plenty of better speakers than me for a big do like that. I’m not a public speaker, I’m just used to shouting at troopers.’

  ‘And a publisher. With years of experience in Africa.’

  ‘If I relate some of my experiences in Africa they will think I’m a racist, like you first did.’

  ‘Not,’ Josephine said, ‘if you join the League. Look, all I’m asking is that you consider it, it’s a long way ahead yet. But I’d be so pleased if you’d come along to our meeting next month and meet some of our members. It’s even fun – we have a bit of a cocktail party afterwards, everybody brings a bottle or two. Will you do that?’

  He did it for Josephine, not for Dupont. And it was exactly as he had expected: from a Military Intelligence point of view it was worthless and so tr
ansparent that the proceedings were reported almost verbatim in the Village Voice.

  The church hall in Greenwich Village was full. Harker signed up as a member at the door, and sat with Josephine in the front row. There were about three hundred people present, about fifty of whom, he learnt from the outgoing chairperson’s speech, were newcomers. ‘Let’s make 1988 a bumper year for new members!’ Applause. Then the minutes from the last meeting were read – the usual stuff about funds raised … special thanks to … a resounding resolution to redouble their efforts (Applause) in particular by mobilizing League branches to pressure congressmen to widen sanctions against South Africa, redouble efforts to induce the American government to withdraw from Angola – ‘We’re going to sock it to ’em!’ Applause. Then the committee formally resigned and elections were held for a new one. Every member was re-elected except the chairperson who declined to stand again due to pressure of his professional work: the person unanimously elected in his place was Josephine Valentine.

  The applause was prolonged. Harker knew she was popular, but this popular? He felt proud of her as she made her way up to the platform, beaming and beautiful and businesslike. She made a brief but ringing acceptance speech in which she promised her members a vigorous leadership and pledged her committee to fulfilment of all the worthy resolutions passed: and, being also New York State’s delegate to the League’s National Executive Committee, she promised to ‘kick ass in Washington and Pretoria!’ Thunderous applause. And, thought Harker, the meeting was about to break up and adjourn to the trestle tables for cheese and wine when Josephine, with her most dazzling smile, announced that there was a special new member present tonight, somebody from South Africa itself, whom she would like to call upon to say a few words: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jack Harker …’

  Harker was taken aback by her treachery. He glared up at her through the applause, but she was grinning at him mischievously. Blushing, he rose to the occasion – Dupont was going to love this … He mounted the platform, desperately trying to marshal some thoughts. He took the microphone from a grinning Josephine and faced the audience.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it ill behoves me, as a new member, to tell you how to go about your worthy work, and I don’t intend to do so. And I want to say at the outset that I agree with you entirely that apartheid is an unjust, cruel political system, and every effort must be made to end it – we are all in absolute agreement on that. But, that said, there are two things we heard tonight that worry me. The first concerns the tightening of economic sanctions against South Africa.’ He paused. The audience was entirely silent. ‘Like Margaret Thatcher, the British Prime Minister, I worry that sanctions are counter-productive because when the economy falters the first to suffer are the workers. I mean blacks. They are poor people who cannot afford to lose their jobs, and more and more will do so if the sanctions are tightened. I respectfully suggest you reflect upon those black jobs.’

  Harker paused again. The hall was silent. He glanced at Josephine, who was staring at the table with a small smile.

  He continued: ‘The second point that worried me tonight was about America’s involvement on the side of South Africa in the Angolan war against the communist government and Cuban–ANC alliance …’ He held up his palms: ‘I understand the sentiment – you good people want the ANC to overthrow apartheid. But I ask you to remember that Cuba is Russia’s cat’s-paw in this war, communist Russia’s surrogate, and no matter how much we sympathize with Nelson Mandela and his ANC there are precious few of us here tonight who are communists. So although we all want apartheid to fall we do not want South Africa, that last bastion of civilization on the continent, to become another communist basket case.’ He paused again, looking over the little sea of faces. ‘As sensible Americans you surely don’t want that. But that is what Russia and Cuba intend. Ah – but there is good news here, as everybody who reads the newspapers will know: Russia is in economic trouble and cannot afford this war in Angola much longer, and their new president, Gorbachev, knows it. My bet is that he will soon pull out, to save money, and the Angolan war will splutter out, and then South Africa will withdraw from the territory because she can’t afford the war either. Indeed, there are unconfirmed rumours already of secret peace talks …’

  A man jumped up in the audience. ‘So you’re saying that we should not campaign against America’s involvement in her pro-apartheid war?’

  ‘America is not fighting for apartheid, sir, she is fighting against communism. Yes, I’m saying that you should not campaign against America’s involvement, nor for more sanctions. But perhaps,’ he smiled widely, ‘if you are going to campaign against America’s involvement you should also campaign against Russia’s. And Cuba’s.’ He ended: ‘Thank you.’

  He nodded to the committee, to Josephine, turned and walked off the platform.

  There was some polite, hesitant applause.

  Well Dupont would be pleased with that, the prick couldn’t complain that he was doing nothing. Even though it amounted to fuck-all.

  Josephine wasn’t pleased, though she did not say so. ‘Sorry if I said the wrong thing,’ Harker said going home in the taxi.

  ‘You’re a League member,’ Josephine said to the passing scene. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion even if it does mean throwing cold water on some plans and policies.’

  ‘It happens to be my honest opinion.’

  Josephine stared out of the window. ‘And the League happens to disagree. I think America’s involvement on the side of South Africa is shameful and I intend that the League will say so, loud and clear. Like I think America’s treatment of Cuba is shameful–we apply all those sanctions to sabotage her economy and starve her into submission yet we trade with China, and Russia. Listen, Jack …’ She turned to him. ‘As far as I’m concerned – and the League – my enemy’s enemy is my friend. South Africa is our enemy because it oppresses the underdog, therefore Russia and Cuba are my allies in this matter. And I hope that your closing remark, that we should campaign against Russia and Cuba as well, was a joke.’

  ‘I didn’t seriously expect the League to start picketing the Russian embassy and throwing eggs.’

  ‘So if you speak again at meetings, please be serious, Jack. Because I assure you we are very serious people.’

  Christ. A storm in a teacup. ‘Can we forget it now?’

  But when the taxi reached Gramercy Mews she said: ‘I won’t come in, there’s League work I want to do while my memory’s fresh.’

  ‘But what about some dinner?’

  ‘I’ll fix something at home, I’ll call you tomorrow.’ And she told the cab-driver her address and drove off into the Manhattan night.

  Harker considered the meeting completely unimportant from the CCB viewpoint, but Dupont was very pleased with the information he sent – the minutes of the last meeting with its resolutions, details of the office-bearers, the local newspaper’s account of the whole evening which included a verbatim report of his little speech. ‘Now you’re getting somewhere,’ Dupont said on the e-mail, ‘keep it up!’

  Harker was amused: God, were they so paranoid – or so thick? – in Pretoria that they so prized information they could get from the Village Voice and the League’s monthly newsletter? And he had no intention of keeping it up: his frosty parting from Josephine had confirmed his resolve to have as little as possible to do with her anti-apartheid activities. He had been worried the following day when she had not telephoned and it had taken considerable self-restraint not to call her – for God’s sake, he had to be able to speak his mind! Finally, at five o’clock, he had telephoned, but there was no reply. It had been with intense relief that he had seen her striding across the courtyard of Gramercy Mews, swinging her pink crash-helmet: she came into the front door, wreathed in her usual breathless smiles as if she had been racing.

  ‘Hi! Been the whole day in the Bronx organizing our sub-branch.’

  Harker hugged her – it seemed a long time since he had se
en her. Intense relief. And there was more: she made no further mention of his speaking at the annual fund-raising dinner in December. Thank God.

  To keep Dupont quiet Harker sent him the details of the League’s planned marches, the routes, the dates, the times, the transport arrangements; this pleased the man but it was information that was to be published across the land the following week in the League’s monthly broadsheet, the Clarion.

  Later that summer the marches took place in Washington and Manhattan. Josephine led the march in Washington: Harker, following Dupont’s orders, positioned himself just behind the front rank of the National Committee, carrying a life-size poster of Nelson Mandela while Dupont’s salesmen video-filmed the entire event. In New York, Harker’s salesmen videoed a similar march to enable the CCB to identify new enemies of South Africa, new targets for possible character assassination. (Harker shook his head in amazement.) The marches were impressive and Josephine was very pleased: but they were a waste of effort and expense because, as Harker had foreseen, the following month the news broke across the world that Mikhail Gorbachev had announced Russia was withdrawing from Africa, that South Africa had ordered all her armed forces to withdraw from Angola, that her troops and tanks and armoured vehicles were streaming back through the hot bush towards the border. The war in Angola was over.

  A month later, a few days before Christmas, on an island in New York harbour, a peace agreement was signed, amidst fanfare, between South Africa, Cuba and Angola. Cuba undertook to withdraw its forces from Angola permanently, Angola to remove all the ANC military bases from its territory permanently. South Africa agreed to withdraw her troops and to grant independence to Namibia, the contiguous former German colonial territory she had governed on a United Nations mandate since the end of the Second World War.