Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘Josie,’ Harker said, ‘I need you.’

  ‘Oh darling, I love you too but I’m really on to something very dramatic here.’

  ‘Josie,’ Harker said, eyes closed, ‘let’s just say to hell with everything and sail off around the world in our yacht.’

  Josephine laughed. ‘Oh, I’m with you, heart and soul, but first I’ve got to finish this thing.’

  The next day General Malan’s impending prosecution was front-page news in the New York papers. The day following, Josephine’s fax arrived.

  … Thousands of guilty securocrats in the police and army are taking the lead from their ex-Minister of Defence, arguing it is better to take your chances in court where the requirements for conviction are proof beyond reasonable doubt, than confess to the Truth Commission cap in hand. And confess to how much? Should they do what the law requires, make a full confession to every apartheid wrong of their entire careers, crimes they have not yet been accused of – or only to those crimes that the complainants had attributed to them, thus taking the risk that their amnesty will be refused if other facts emerge later? And then there is the other factor: honour amongst thieves. ‘Is it fair for me to confess if I thus put my accomplices in prison? And what about the revenge they may take? Or my victims may seek revenge.’

  Meanwhile, too, the mammoth trial of Colonel Eugene de Kock, the last commander of Platplaas, the notorious rural base for police hit-squads, charged with 120 counts of murder and human rights violations, continues …’

  Harker crushed the fax and threw it across the room. Oh God God God …

  Those months went that way. Every day he expected Jeff to contact him – or Clements or Dupont; every day his nerves stretched tighter. And then, in the middle of that long hot summer as the cut-off date for amnesty relentlessly ticked closer, the first crack appeared in apartheid’s ramparts of denial. Josephine telephoned gleefully: ‘Have you heard about Craig Williamson?’

  Harker’s heart was sinking. ‘Who’s Craig Williamson?’

  ‘He’s one of the police spymasters – big English type, frightfully officer-and-gentleman and all that jazz, shows up on television from time to time? Well, evidence has emerged that he masterminded the letter-bomb sent to Angola which killed Jeanette Schoon and her daughter. So Marius Schoon, Jeanette’s husband, has now served a summons on him demanding a million rands in damages! Williamson went running to police headquarters for help and they disowned him, so he called a press conference and announced he is going to apply to the Truth Commission for amnesty – and thereby escape this action for a million rands – and he’s going to tell them all the crimes he’s committed on the orders of his political masters, from P.W. Botha downwards! He was on television last night, fuming. Isn’t that wonderful?!’

  Oh, absolutely fucking wonderful. Sick-in-his-guts wonderful. Slash-his-wrists sort of wonderful. ‘Josie, when are you coming home?’

  ‘Darling, can’t you take a few weeks off and come out here?’

  Oh sure … ‘Josie, let’s sell up everything and buy a boat and just take off around the world.’

  She laughed. ‘Darling, you couldn’t sell Harvest.’

  ‘Damn wrong I couldn’t sell Harvest, I’d sell it tomorrow if I could take off for the wide blue yonder with you!’

  And then, in the middle of that long hot New York summer, the Truth Commission announced that it was going to get tough. Archbishop Desmond Tutu announced to the press: ‘We are going to take off the velvet gloves and replace them with the knuckledusters that the legislation gives us – start issuing subpoenas against the people who have been named by the victims, we have a long list of names we are going to summons to answer searching questions …’

  Then the news broke that the former Commissioner of Police, General van der Merwe, had approached the Truth Commission, through his lawyer, seeking amnesty.

  It was six o’clock in the morning – noon in South Africa – when Harker, only half awake, heard that information at the tail end of the South African news broadcast. He was astounded. And aghast. If the Commissioner of Police was breaking down, and the Minister of Defence was on trial, how long before General Tanner of Military Intelligence broke cover? Harker frantically called Josephine on her cellphone but he only got the operator. He left a message for her to call him urgently.

  He pulled on a tracksuit and set off into the pre-dawn of Manhattan, his cellphone in his hand. He ran westwards in the lamplit darkness, trying to rasp out his nervous tension. He reached Riverside Drive and turned left. He was half a mile down when Josephine telephoned.

  ‘Hullo, darling, got your message but have you heard about the breakthrough? The Commissioner of Police and two other top generals and nineteen other senior policemen have now run to the Commission and made a joint confession to twenty crimes, offering to accept responsibility for the police force as a whole in exchange for amnesty for themselves and for the entire force!’

  Harker stared across the Hudson, panting.

  ‘Only twenty? What crimes are they confessing to?’

  ‘Exactly – only twenty crimes is laughable! We don’t know which crimes yet, but of course the Commission won’t accept a collective application like that, but it’s a big breaking of the ranks! Oh boy, now the panic starts. There’s going to be a flood of confessions now!’

  Oh, Jesus …

  From the secure basement of Harvest House he telephoned his cousin Luke Mahoney, the lawyer in Johannesburg whom Redfern had retained.

  ‘Yes,’ Luke said, ‘it certainly is a breakthrough. The cat is loose amongst the apartheid pigeons now. And it’s going to get worse. The Truth Commission has just told these top policemen that their collective application and so-called confession to only twenty crimes is totally unacceptable. These cops represent the jackboot of the apartheid era.’

  ‘What actual crimes did these generals list in their application?’

  Luke said: ‘Remember the Khotso House bombing in 1988 – it was the headquarters of the South African Council of Churches? Destroyed the whole building. P.W. Botha was state president and he blamed “the Godless Communists”. Well, it was the work of the police. Because the building was the underground headquarters of the ANC. That was one of the crimes confessed to.’

  Harker was astounded. ‘Good God.’

  ‘And remember that huge car bomb that exploded outside army headquarters injuring something like seventy people? That’s another crime they confessed to. They did it so the ANC would be blamed, to generate hatred against the ANC because left-wing politicians were recommending dialogue with them.’

  Harker was amazed. It was almost impossible to believe that the police force was so depraved as to blow up innocent citizens in order to generate hatred of the enemy. Jesus. Mindblowing. ‘So what are these bastards going to do now that their collective confession has been rejected?’

  ‘Well,’ Luke said, ‘they will only get amnesty for specific crimes they personally own up to so they’ll have to go back to the Truth Commission with full confessions, telling who all their accomplices were, and that will trigger a flood of other villains desperate to claim amnesty. For example, the Defence Force has been keeping quiet, but now General Meiring has announced that all officers will fully cooperate with the Truth Commission.’

  Harker felt his stomach lurch. Oh Jesus. ‘So what do you advise me to do?’

  ‘Keep lying low,’ Luke said. ‘Even if there’s a flood of confessions, nobody is going to be in a hurry to admit to crimes committed abroad. And, as I’ve said, I don’t think you should have any moral guilt: you took military action against legitimate targets who were plotting murder.’

  ‘But General Meiring has said that the army will cooperate fully. Does that mean he’s going to say, yes, the CCB’s functions included assassinations; yes, the CCB’s man in New York was Major Jack Harker; yes, I’ve heard the allegations made by Looksmart Kumalo that he was blown up by the CCB – et cetera. Is that going to happen?’


  Luke sighed. ‘I think it’s unlikely – I think the army generals are going to appear to cooperate in broad terms, but plead ignorance about details. And they’ll probably get away with it because espionage is so complicated that the Truth Commission simply hasn’t the time and manpower to try to unravel it all.’

  ‘But if General Tanner, my ex-boss, does decide to make a clean breast and fingers me as their man in New York, what should I do?’

  ‘Admit it,’ Luke said. ‘But strenuously deny any criminal action. Say your job was only legitimate intelligence-gathering.’

  ‘But what about Looksmart Kumalo’s accusations?’

  ‘Deny you know anything. He has no proof. And you are clearly a respectable member of the publishing profession. That’s the way to play it. Unless the Truth Commission comes up with some specific evidence against you. Then we think again.’

  Oh God. ‘My attorney over here, Redfern, he’s suggested I disappear. Literally. On a yacht. Both Josephine and I are well-known as keen sailors and if we took off for a year or two to sail the world it would be entirely in character. What do you think?’

  Luke Mahoney considered. ‘While you’re sailing will you be able to keep in touch with Redfern? And me?’

  ‘Yes. By these new satellite-telephones.’

  Luke thought about this. ‘So if the Truth Commission issues a subpoena for you, you can’t be found and the whole allegation against you may blow over, perhaps become buried in the welter of paperwork the Commission’s got. On the other hand nobody can hold it against you because you were on the high seas. So, provided I can reach you by satellite-telephone I think it’s a good idea. If the allegations against you are serious we devise a strategy. Of course, once the cut-off date for amnesty of fifteenth of December is passed you’ll have no choice but to deny everything.’ He added: ‘And I suggest you consider selling Harvest House if you really want to do a disappearing trick.’

  Selling Harvest House … ?

  The summer went this way. And all the time he was praying for Josephine to come home before she found out anything about him. Sometimes as the litany of sufferings and accusations became a fragmented drone in the overseas press Harker was almost able to convince himself that the chances of being singled out were very slim: but then in the small hours of those long hot nights the fear would come creeping back – suddenly he would be wide awake with the cold hand of fear on his heart that today somebody in Military Intelligence would panic, run to the Truth Commission and start an investigation that finally led to Harvest House … And, oh God, Harker could hear that amnesty clock ticking.

  Then the news broke that five senior policemen from Platplaas had gone to the Truth Commission with full confessions to over forty political murders. Josephine telephoned Harker gleefully.

  ‘Oh boy, now the rats are really going to start leaping out of the woodwork. These five are the hit-squad from Platplaas. They’ve not only confirmed that Daniel Sipholo and Badenhorst were speaking the truth but they’ve named all their superior officers who ordered them to commit these forty murders – including the Commissioner of Police himself! The guy who last month confessed – on behalf of the entire police force – to only twenty crimes. And – get this – they have subpoenaed him as a witness!’ She laughed. ‘Did you hear that, Jack? Isn’t this exciting?’

  Harker had his eyes closed, sick in his guts. Oh, dreadfully exciting. ‘Yes.’

  Josephine chuckled. ‘The shock-waves have reverberated across the country. And the Truth Commission has immediately “invited” seven other generals to show up and tell what they know!’ She continued brightly, ‘And you remember Looksmart Kumalo, who survived that assassination attack on Long Island, you saw him on television?’

  Harker felt a ringing in his ears. ‘What about him?’

  ‘I had dinner with him yesterday.’

  Harker’s heart lurched. ‘You had dinner?’

  ‘I invited him to dinner because yesterday he announced to the press that he is issuing a writ in America for ten million dollars against the South African government – against the Defence Force – for the injuries he suffered when he was attacked on Long Island.’

  Harker’s ears were ringing. ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ Josephine said, ‘he’s an interesting man. Highly embittered. Absolutely determined to prove that the CCB gave him his injuries, and to sue the bastards to Kingdom Come.’

  ‘He’s barking up the wrong tree, the Cuban exile community did it.’

  ‘Anyway, he’s going over to New York to hire private detectives to investigate.’

  Harker’s throat felt constricted. ‘You must tell him he’s wasting his time. And money.’

  ‘He’s being financed by some Danish charity so he’s got plenty of that. And he has a number of contacts in the United Nations who’re going to help him, and in the Cuban community in Miami.’

  Oh Christ, Christ, Christ … Harker wanted to bellow it but he controlled it down to a rasp. ‘Josephine, I’ve got some major decisions to discuss with you. If you don’t come home immediately I will make the decisions by myself and present you with a fait accompli.’

  There was a surprised silence. Then: ‘What decisions, Jack?’

  ‘I am sick and tired of work,’ Harker said shakily. ‘I want to say to hell with everything, buy that yacht and set off around the world immediately. In fact, I am going down to Fort Lauderdale this weekend to look at secondhand boats. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘But what about Harvest House?’

  ‘That,’ Harker said, ‘is one of the decisions I want to discuss with you.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you want to sell it.’

  ‘I’m thinking of it,’ Harker warned.

  There was a pause. Then: ‘Jack, you’re under strain, I can hear it in your voice. Darling, you need a break. Yes, go down to Fort Lauderdale, have a nice time looking at boats. I promise I’ll come back soon but please don’t make any decisions about Harvest House until you’ve talked it through exhaustively with me – remember you’re my publisher, not just my lover!’

  Harker telephoned Luke Mahoney in Johannesburg. He told the lawyer about Looksmart Kumalo’s intention to sue the South African Defence Force in the American courts.

  ‘Oh,’ Luke said soberly. ‘Yes, worrying. But remember he’s suing the present South African Defence Force for the sins of the apartheid government, and for that to affect you personally he would have to prove that you are responsible for the attack. That would be very hard.’ He added as an afterthought, ‘Unless, of course, one of your old CCB accomplices stepped forward and gave evidence against you.’

  Harker snorted. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But,’ Luke said, ‘nobody is likely to do that because they’ll expose themselves to a criminal prosecution for murder in America.’ He added: Unless of course he manages to strike a deal with the District Attorney whereby he gets immunity from prosecution in exchange for giving evidence against you.’

  ‘Exactly. In both the civil and criminal action,’ Harker said feverishly. ‘I could be sued for millions in damages and sent to jail for life for murder.’

  ‘But who is likely to do that?’ Luke said pensively. ‘Surely none of your CCB people in America would take that step? That risk – drawing attention to themselves?’

  Harker massaged his eyelids. ‘Unless they were offered a share of Looksmart’s millions? Plus immunity from prosecution for turning prosecution witness …’

  Then he gave Luke a brief account of his last meeting with Spicer, and the story of the attempted blackmail by the CIA man called Jeff.

  ‘Christ,’ Luke said, ‘I hope you reported this to Redfern?’

  ‘Of course. He told me to stay away from Spicer entirely in case I get accused of being involved in their conspiracies, whatever they are.’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ Luke said.

  Harker took a deep breath. ‘Luke,’ he said, ‘I want to hit the high seas. Buy that yacht and disappear.’r />
  Luke sighed. ‘Sounds like a wise move. But I thought you said you couldn’t afford it yet?’

  ‘I suppose I can borrow some more from the bank. Or Harvest can. Or something.’

  ‘Can’t Josephine help out? Anyway, let me know what you’re doing. But don’t panic …’

  Don’t panic? When cracks are appearing all over, when top brass in the police and army are being hauled before the Truth Commission? Don’t panic when everybody else is panicking?

  And then, the very next evening, as Harker was leaving Harvest House, locking the big front door, a voice said on the pavement below: ‘Mr Jack Harker?’

  Harker peered down at the black man standing in the lamplight. His heart was suddenly racing. ‘Yes?’

  The man took off his hat. He was tall and well-dressed: he had a patch over one eye and a welt of scar below it. His teeth were very white as he smiled.

  ‘Good evening. My name is Alexander Kumalo. My nickname is Looksmart …’

  31

  Harker stared at the man. He heard himself say: ‘Do I know you?’

  Looksmart Kumalo extended his left hand and held up his right: it was a two-pronged steel claw that glinted in the lamplight. ‘Please excuse my right hand.’

  Harker took the proffered left hand shakily. ‘I don’t think I know you.’

  Looksmart smiled, ‘But I met your lovely lady friend Josephine in Pretoria and she suggested I look you up when I was in New York.’

  Harker hastily feigned surprise. ‘Oh, yes – she mentioned you, Mr Kumalo.’

  ‘Alexander, please – or Looksmart. So, can we go somewhere nearby for a drink? Or coffee?’

  Harker’s mind was fumbling. He badly wanted to get rid of the man but he also desperately needed to know what he was up to. He said: ‘I have a meeting uptown in half an hour. But there’s a bar just across the square, we can go there for a quick drink.’

  ‘Fine.’

  As they crossed the park Harker said, ‘So how long are you going to be in America, Mr Kumalo?’

  Looksmart Kumalo said slowly, ‘For as long as it takes to find out who did this to me.’ He held up his claw. ‘And this.’ He indicated his face.