Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘Faithful type.’

  Priscilla nodded at him speculatively. ‘Good. Look after my client, or I’ll kick your ass all the way to my apartment.’ She smiled carnivorously, then snapped her fingers at the waiter. ‘More martinis here. Feel like getting sloshed. Not every day I’ve got a bestseller on my hands.’

  It was after five o’clock when the taxi dropped Harker back at Harvest House. He was feeling just fine with three martinis and a bottle of wine sloshing around inside him. On the way to his office he encountered his editor-in-chief.

  ‘Well?’ Alan said.

  ‘Half a million advance,’ Harker said.

  ‘Lord. We can’t afford that, can we?’

  ‘We just have,’ Harker said. ‘Have you finished reading it?’

  ‘Yes. As I said, brilliant.’

  ‘Exactly. So even if Harvest has to hock itself to the eyeballs we’ll get our money back. In fact we’ll do that when we auction the paperback rights.’ He thought, as he proceeded on to his office, and even if we don’t it’s the CCB’s problem, not mine …

  As he got to his desk his private phone rang. He picked it up. ‘Hullo?’

  ‘Oh darling,’ Josephine cried, ‘Priscilla’s just phoned with the news! Oh, I’m so thrilled, I can’t thank you enough! But darling, are you sure you want to do it?’

  ‘Harvest House,’ Harker said, ‘is proud to be Josephine Valentine’s publisher.’

  ‘But half a million dollars is an awful lot of money.’ She sounded tipsy.

  ‘Worth every penny,’ Harker said grandly. ‘Harvest will earn it back several times over. And you’re going to be rich as well as beautiful, with the best-looking publisher in town. How’s the hangover?’

  ‘Oh darling, I’m so excited.’

  ‘How’s the hangover, I said.’

  ‘My hangover’s fine, I’m in Madam Velvet’s about to start my second bottle of champagne.’

  ‘Keep at it, babe, I’ll be home in half an hour, then I’m taking you for the best damn dinner in town.’

  He hung up and headed out of his office, down to the basement. He unlocked the steel doors, locked them behind him, went to his desk. He stabbed out the numbers for Dupont’s secure telephone. ‘Yes?’ Dupont barked.

  ‘Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I’ve managed – with great difficulty – to buy the book you were worried about.’

  There was a pause, then Dupont said grudgingly, ‘Well done. And? What do you think? How damaging is it?’

  ‘It’s crap,’ Harker said. ‘But it’s crap that will sell like hot cakes if we’re not careful.’

  ‘It’s your job,’ Dupont said, ‘to make sure it doesn’t sell! Like don’t reprint if she gets good reviews. Have breakdowns in the system: So, what did you have to pay for this pile of shit?’

  Harker said, ‘Not too bad at all – only half a million.’ He added, ‘Dollars, not pounds.’

  There was a stunned silence. Then: ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Harker said reasonably, ‘a bit pricey, but believe me we got it cheap. The agent was about to hold an auction and I’m quite sure it would have sold for a million or more. And whatever publisher bought it at that price would put so much sales effort into it that it was bound to be a bestseller.’ He added, ‘Internationally.’

  Another stunned silence. Then: ‘Okay, suppose half a million bucks to stifle bad publicity may be reasonable.’

  ‘Call that a million,’ Harker said, ‘by the time we actually print the book.’

  ‘You’re gonna print the minimum!’

  ‘Sure, but I’m going to have an agent called Piranha Fisch breathing down my neck to see I print an acceptable number, and that I advertise and do the right promotions, like cocktail parties to launch the book, television chat-shows, radio, press, all that.’

  ‘None of that publicity crap!’ Then: ‘Half a million upfront! That puts you over your credit facility with the bank, huh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Harker tried not to sound cheerful.

  ‘So, what’re you going to do?’

  Harker had to work on it to keep his delight out of his voice. ‘You,’ he said, ‘will have to ask the Chairman for more money.’

  Dupont said angrily: ‘The Chairman will go through the fucking roof. Half a million dollars for one fucking book?’ He added, ‘But I suppose it’ll save us millions of dollars’ worth of bad publicity.’ He sighed. ‘Will the bank extend your revolving credit?’

  ‘Yes. But We’ll be in deep.’

  ‘How the fuck did you get Harvest into this financial position?’

  Harker kept the grin out of his voice. ‘Your orders,’ he said, trying to sound injured.

  ‘I didn’t order you to get into terrible debt! Do you realize that this makes Harvest House almost worthless as a business? Military Intelligence can almost write it off!’

  Wonderful, so I’ll buy it cheap. ‘Well, I followed your orders,’ Harker said. He added, ‘Sir.’

  ‘Jesus, half a million bucks … Well, get that bank overdraft extended. And, if necessary, I suppose I’ll have to give Harvest some support from the Slush Fund. So, what’s the publishing schedule?’

  ‘The agent wants me to bring it out in about six months, in September, to catch the Christmas trade.’

  ‘No way!’ Dupont rasped. ‘Stall her. For twelve months. Let the hoohah about Mandela’s release die down, schedule it for this time next year, then put it off for another six months. Got that?’

  ‘Sure.’ Harker tried not to grin. ‘So what’s going to happen back home now that Nelson’s out?’

  Dupont snorted. ‘The shit’s going to hit the fan. What does Miz Valentine say?’

  ‘Hearts and flowers,’ Harker said. ‘It’s crap.’

  ‘Half a million bucks worth of crap?’ Dupont groaned, and Harker wanted to drum his heels in delight.

  And then, that very night, the violence erupted in South Africa.

  It was mindless, an orgy of anarchy in celebration of Nelson Mandela’s release. Josephine Watched the scenes on television aghast; never had she anticipated this, the swarming mobs burning schools, attacking factories and shops, petrol-bombing post offices and police stations, burning farms, throwing up blazing roadblocks, running battles with the police. For five days the nihilism reigned, the smoke barrelling, the flames leaping, as the world watched in horror, demanding, Why …?

  ‘I’ll tell you why!’ Josephine said. ‘Their hatred of apartheid is so great they have to attack its symbols – the police stations, the post offices, the farms of the oppressors, the schools where they were given inferior apartheid education – it’s a spontaneous outbreak of democratic joy!’

  Harker snorted. ‘But what about the factories? Maybe it wasn’t much of a job but at least they got paid at the end of every week.’

  ‘The factories are the creation of the oppressor too.’

  ‘No, the factories were the creation of businessmen. And the people are not going to get paid next Friday, are they? So who do they expect to pay them – Nelson Mandela?’ He held up a finger to stop her interrupting. ‘I’m trying to help you with your book – which I am committed to publishing.’ He pointed at the television set. ‘What we’ve just seen shows that there was no thought for tomorrow because those people believe that tomorrow the skies will start raining banknotes and bicycles because Nelson Mandela is released. Of course I’m delighted that apartheid is over, but I’m a realist. The fact is that Mandela has just said that the commanding heights of commerce will be nationalized, and the bulk of the population are peasants who think that means it will all be given to them.’

  ‘A realist or a racist?’

  And then the violence in Natal redoubled as the power struggle between the ANC and Zulus took on a new fury as ANC exiles started returning. While the Great Indaba opened with much fanfare in Johannesburg before the media of the world, while the ANC and government sat down with delegates from all political parties to thrash out a constitution for
the new democratic South Africa, the rolling green hills of Natal resounded with the clatter of gunfire, the smash and crash of axes and assegais and sticks as Inkatha impis attacked ANC strongholds, as ANC impis attacked Inkatha strongholds, petrol bombs flying, kraals burnt, buses machine-gunned, refugees swarming into the white towns. South Africa was in chaos.

  Then came an event that changed the course of Harker’s life: a police squad panicked and opened fire on a hostile mob. The world was shocked – this was almost as bad as the Sharpeville massacre. An outraged Nelson Mandela announced that the ANC was breaking off talks at the Great Indaba.

  The world stared, aghast: if the Great Indaba stopped the armed struggle would intensify, the reform process would be rent asunder, South Africa would be consumed in a furious conflagration of civil war. For days the world waited with bated breath as the violence swept the land and President de Klerk decided what to do.

  Then came his dramatic announcement that in order to get the ANC back to the negotiating table he was appointing a judicial enquiry into the massacre, into police death-squads, and into the Civil Cooperation Bureau.

  ‘We will cut these allegations to the bone,’ he said.

  Harker stared at his television screen, his sick heart knocking. The Civil Cooperation Bureau …

  20

  It was before dawn in New York when that announcement was made. Harker stared at his television screen, then he snatched up the telephone and dialled Dupont. ‘Now what the hell’s going to happen?’

  Dupont said slowly, ‘We keep our heads down, that’s what.’ It was the first time Harker had heard the man sound worried. ‘We suspend all activities. Tell the salesmen to cool it and lie low … However, de Klerk has said that the judicial investigation can only enquire into activities by police hit-squads and the CCB which have taken place inside South Africa. That excludes us – the judge cannot listen to evidence about us.’

  Harker felt sick in his guts. ‘That’ll fool nobody. Everybody will know that CCB offices exist outside the borders.’

  ‘But there’ll be no evidence, nobody will be able to testify about Harvest House or the Royalton Hotel.’

  ‘Names could slip out – even if the judge has to ignore it, the press won’t. Nor will the ANC. And then, will the Chairman be forced to give evidence? This judicial commission of enquiry won’t be like Daniel’s last one, where the Attorney General was both judge and prosecutor. And all interested parties, like the ANC, the army, the police, will have their own lawyers and witnesses.’

  ‘The Chairman will deny everything,’ Dupont said grimly. ‘The ones to worry about are these two CCB guys who’ve been arrested for the murders of Anton Lubowski and David Webster.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Harker said. ‘They’ll deny the murders but they’ll have to tell the court about the CCB, about their regional manager and regional director, and so on. Then the regional director will have to be called as witness and he’ll have to tell the court about the Chairman being his boss. Then the Chairman will have to give evidence, and what’s he going to say – everybody’s telling a pack of lies?’ He shook his head. ‘And what about all his files? If they’re found we’re in the shit.’

  ‘The files won’t be found. The Chairman will have hidden them by now, standard procedure.’

  ‘So what about our files, here in America? Surely we should get rid of all evidence right now?’

  ‘No. Await orders from Head Office, for Christ’s sake.’

  Harker seethed. ‘I respectfully suggest you seek instructions from Head Office now! Look, the CCB is likely to be disbanded in a panic – so let’s minimize the panic by asking permission to get rid of the evidence now.’

  There was a steely silence. Then Dupont said, ‘Will you kindly stop telling me my job?’ There was a pause, then he barked, ‘Now follow orders and keep your head down! I assure you the CCB is not going to be disbanded! There is no “panic”. And you, Major, will shut up and await orders!’

  Jesus! Harker was about to shout, ‘And you, Colonel, can go to hell!’ – but Dupont slammed down the telephone.

  Harker slumped back in his chair. Then the other telephone rang, the extension from his office upstairs. It was seven-thirty a.m. ‘Harvest House,’ he said tensely.

  ‘Hullo, darling,’ Josephine said happily, ‘have you seen the news? About the commission of enquiry?’

  Harker closed his eyes. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t this wonderful? We’re going to get Nuremberg-style trials, hopefully, the bastards are going to get their comeuppance! Darling, are you there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look, how do I find out more about this CCB?’

  Harker closed his eyes. ‘Not a clue.’

  ‘Know any old soldiers who might be able to fill me in?’

  Harker smiled bitterly despite himself. ‘Not in this country.’

  ‘Well,’ Josephine said, ‘this commission of enquiry will come up with some humdinger truths. Oh, this is going to be fun, watching those apartheid goons run for cover! And that’s what my next book’s going to be about! What do you think of that?’

  Harker took a deep breath. He said: ‘You’ve already written the big Africa novel – another Africa book will be an anti-climax.’

  ‘Oh, I disagree!’ Josephine said. ‘Hit-squads, taking the lid off apartheid’s secrets is the natural sequel …’

  It was a very tense time, waiting for the judicial enquiry to begin.

  There was a blackout on information from Military Intelligence Headquarters. In the South African newspapers there was a welter of speculation that was often contradictory. Indeed the most reliable material came from Josephine’s friends in the Anti-Apartheid League in Johannesburg. Their reports gave a picture of the police and Military Intelligence in disarray, the ANC’s lawyers bullishly vowing to leave no stone unturned in exposing the whole truth, Lawyers for Human Rights vowing to get the enquiry extended to uncover skulduggery worldwide, lawyers for Daniel Sipholo and Badenhorst likewise. Josephine delighted in contemplating the fear in the apartheid-mongers’ breasts, she gleefully buried herself in her second book. It was provisionally titled Wages of Sin. Harker felt feverish.

  At stake in this enquiry was not only Harvest House, but his freedom and his relationship with Josephine: if the truth came out – he had no confidence in the territorial restrictions placed upon the enquiry – Josephine would loathe him, abandon him to his fate. And his fate would be horrendous: he would be prosecuted in America for the Long Island murders; he would spend the rest of his life in prison.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what about our files?’ he demanded of Dupont.

  ‘I don’t know anything more than you do. Just keep your head down!’

  ‘But haven’t you had any contact at all from Head Office?’

  ‘If the Chairman doesn’t see fit to give us any orders he isn’t worried about our files being an embarrassment.’

  Harker didn’t believe that Dupont had had no contact with Head Office – it just wasn’t credible. What worried him was the possibility that he was being kept in the dark by Dupont so that he could be made a scapegoat. If only a glimmer of the truth emerged at the judicial enquiry to the effect that the CCB had an operative in New York, the press would be on to the story in a flash and there were several of his salesmen out there who might be tempted to talk to an investigative journalist in exchange for money. And there were those two impecunious bastards in the United Nations, Deep Throat and Falsetto, who didn’t know his identity but who sure knew they were selling information to Derek Clements and Ferdi Spicer for the benefit of the South African government. And there was Froggy Fred, the CIA man: Harker knew nothing about Fred beyond his codename and his passwords but Fred sure looked like a nasty piece of work who would not hesitate to abandon a sinking ship. And then there was Ricardo down in Miami. Ricardo was a. dedicated Castrophobe, but if he was about to lose his well-paid CCB job how tempted would he be to spill the beans?

  Oh
Jesus, Jesus … And then there was Felix Dupont himself. Harker had never trusted that man. Oh, sure, he had an admirable military record, decorations for valour, but he was unquestionably a bully, and bullies are usually snakes-in-the-grass. The more Harker thought about it the more he worried that Felix Dupont might be setting him up. Felix Dupont knew everything about Harker’s CCB activities, but what did Harker know about Dupont’s? Fuck all. Nowhere in his files was there a word that incriminated Dupont, or even mentioned his name …

  21

  Five days before the commission of enquiry began Josephine left for South Africa to research her new book, Wages of Sin.

  In the weeks leading up to her departure, she was full of enthusiasm for her new project, full of anticipation of the lurid incriminating detail that was going to emerge, full of malicious satisfaction that some of apartheid’s villains were going to get their comeuppance at last. Harker was dogged by foreboding. He tried to rationalize it, to convince himself that nobody was going to give away a damn thing, that in the dark world of espionage nobody admitted anything, that the enquiry was going to be a shambles, a whitewash, the judge was going to come up against a blank wall of denial. The Chairman, the whole of Military Intelligence, would deny the CCB was anything other than an intelligence-gathering department, they would denounce their two operatives arrested for the murder of Lubowski and Webster as liars. And if all those bastards with all their experience in mendacity were going to stonewall the judge successfully, how the hell was Josephine Valentine going to do a Watergate, find a Deep Throat to get to the truth? No way. Forget it …

  But he could not forget it: he was dogged by the dread that his darling Josephine, the prize-winning war photographer with the reputation of being hard as nails, would somehow get to the bottom of the Civil Cooperation Bureau and find Jack Harker in the midst of it. That would mean losing not only her, but also Harvest and his liberty, because most assuredly he would be prosecuted in America and sent to jail for the rest of his life. He tried his best to dissuade Josephine from going to South Africa but it was to no avail.