by Larry Bond
“This little Zimbabwean adventure of yours has cost us damned dearly,
Vorster! I find it hard to believe that even you could act so stupidly.”
Heads nodded in agreement around the table. Few of Vorster’s colleagues liked or trusted him. And none saw any advantage in contradicting their president and party leader.
Vorster purpled.
“That’s nonsense and you know it! We haven’t lost anything of real value. In fact, we captured’ Nothing of value?” Haymans cut him off.
“Months of painstaking negotiations are about to go down the drain and you still say that! We need these talks with the ANC and the other black groups. And we need continued good relations with our neighbors.”
“More nonsense!” Vorster’s fist crashed onto the table.
“These talks you are so fond of citing have produced nothing but hot air and trouble. Why, the ANC’s terrorists even flaunt their weapons, jeering openly at our police. I tell you, we should never have allowed that collection of half-witted, bareassed, communist thugs out of prison!
“And as for Zimbabwe and the others… hah!” He dismissed the rest of
Haymans’s argument with a contemptuous wave of his hand.
“The socalled front line states have nothing we want and nothing we need. If we show continued strength, they will come begging to us-just as they always have!”
Silence greeted his tirade, a silence broken by the foreign minister.
“It’s quite true that the negotiations themselves have produced little of concrete value-“
“So, you admit I’m fight!” Vorster snapped “No.” The foreign minister’s irritation showed plainly on an urbane face normally able to hide strong emotion.
“These talks with the ANC’s and other black leaders have tremendous symbolic value-both for blacks here and for the financial superpowers abroad. They demonstrate our intent to continue making needed reforms. And to be blunt, gentlemen, we must show further progress soon if we’re to keep our economy afloat. “
Others in the Cabinet Room muttered their agreement. South Africa’s inflation rate, unemployment rolls, and budget deficit were all rising at an alarming rate. Anyone with open eyes could see the prospect of impending economic collapse. The underlying and interwoven causes of this imminent disaster were equally clear.
Fed up with continued economic exploitation and white political domination, the nation’s black-led labor unions had
initiated a rolling series of crippling and costly strikes. At the same time, continuing conflicts with its neighbors forced South Africa to keep a large number of its reservist Citizen Force troops on active duty-draining both the civilian economy and the government’s treasury.
Even worse, the world’s banks and moneylenders, wary of entanglement with an unstable, oppressive regime, were increasingly unwilling to pour needed capital into the Republic of South Africa.
Faced with this situation on taking office, Haymans and his colleagues had implemented a modest series of reforms. They’d dismantled many of the last vestiges of “petty” apartheid in cities across South Africa-policies that had banned interracial marriages, restricted black movement, and vigorously maintained “whites only” beaches, restaurants, buses, and parks. They’d moved to improve relations with neighboring states. They’d even freed captive ANC leaders and un banned organizations they’d once labeled “terrorist. ” And all these reforms had been capped by talks aimed at finding some acceptable form of political power-sharing with the country’s black majority.
Haymans’s reforms had shown signs of paying off. Some labor unions had come back to the bargaining table. Hostile press coverage had faded away.
Overseas investors had seemed more willing to provide affordable capital for major construction and development projects. And leaders from other countries across Africa had readily agreed to meet South Africa’s new president.
Now everything they’d accomplished seemed at risk, thanks largely to
Vorster’s bloodthirsty clumsiness.
As the others argued, Haymans shook his head wearily. He had to find a way to repair the damage done by the raid on Gawamba. He had to make concessions that would salvage his negotiations with the country’s black leaders. Concessions that would dominate the world’s newspapers and television broadcasts. Concessions that could provide a cloak of respectability for those willing to meet South Africa halfway.
He looked up and met the foreign minister’s steady gaze. They’d already discussed what must be done. They would have to accept publicly the inevitability of some form of “one man, one vote” government for South Africa. They would also have to accept the ANC’s demands for a thorough overhaul of the security services and an impartial investigation of past police activities and practices. Neither man especially liked either prospect, but neither could think of any reasonable alternatives.
“Gentlemen!” Haymans interrupted a fierce exchange between two men who were ordinarily close friends. Quiet settled over the crowded Cabinet
Room. He noticed Vorster’s rough-hewn face tighten into an expressionless mask.
“This bickering won’t get us anywhere. We haven’t time for it.” He paused.
“One thing is very clear-clear to me at least. And that is the need for dramatic action if we’re to make further progress. “
His allies nodded their agreement. Those few who’d sided with Vorster sat motionless with folded arms and dour looks.
Haymans pressed on.
“Therefore I propose that we publicly announce our willingness to accept two of the African National Congress’s latest proposals. Specifically, those concerning eventual majority rule and immediate restrictions on the security services.” He stared Vorster right in the eye as he went on.
“In addition, I intend to honor their request for a new and more open-minded inquiry into alleged police brutality. “
Shocked murmuring broke out around the table, quiet noises of astonishment suddenly drowned out by Vorster’s thundering, outraged voice.
“Treason! What you propose is treason, Hayinans!”
Other cabinet ministers joined the fray, most shouting Vorster down.
“Silence!” Haymans rose out of his chair.
“I will have order in this meeting!”
As the shouting died away, he sat back.
“That’s better. Remember, we are leaders-not some group of hooligan schoolboys. “All the more reason why we should defeat these lunatic ideas of yours,
Haymans.” Vorster’s powerful hands closed around the edge of the conference table as he fought for selfcontrol.
“The ANC is nothing more than a communist front,
a cadre of self-proclaimed terrorists and murderers. We should kill them, not kneel in surrender to them!”
Haymans ignored his redfaced minister of law and order, focusing his rhetoric instead on the other men crowded around the table. ” I do not suggest that we surrender unconditionally to these people, gentlemen.
That would be lunacy.”
Vorster started to speak, but Haymans’s calmer, more measured tones rode over his angry words.
“But we must be seen to be reasonable, my friends.
The Gawamba disaster has cost us dearly. We must try everything in our power to retrieve the situation. If these talks fail, the world must blame the ANC’s intransigence-not ours. On the other hand, continued discussions will bring obvious benefits.”
He ticked them off one at a time.
“Reduced tensions both externally and internally. More overseas credit. Lower military expenditures. And the hope that we can move the ANC away from its ridiculous insistence on a strict system of majority rule. “
Most of the others around the table again nodded their agreement, though many with obvious reluctance.
“I don’t see this proposal as a panacea for all our troubles, gentlemen.”
Haymans shook his head slowly.
“Far from it. But I
do believe that it is a necessary political move at this point in our history. We can no longer survive by the simpleminded use of military power. Instead, we must continue the search for a compromise that protects both our people and the peace,”
He noticed Vorster’s face change as he spoke. The look of barely suppressed rage vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stare.
“Will you allow us to fully debate this proposal?” Vorster’s tone was surprisingly formal-almost as if he no longer cared whether he won or lost.
“Time is too short, Minister. ” Haymans matched Vorster’s formality.
“We must act soon if we are to save these vital negotiations, and I believe we’ve already fully explored all the relevant issues.”
I I I see. “
Haymans could scarcely hide his astonishment. Vorster giving up, almost without a right? It seemed so out of character. Still, the President had learned long ago never to waste opportunities given him by opponents. He leaned forward.
“Then, gentlemen, we can bring this matter to a vote. Naturally, I expect your support for my proposal.”
Haymans watched the quick show of hands calmly, confident of the final tally. With the exception of Karl Vorster and two or three others, all those around the table owed their current positions and power to Haymans and his National Party faction. All were wise enough to avoid unnecessary political suicide.
Haymans smiled.
“Excellent, my friends. We’ll make the announcement tomorrow, after we have had time to contact the ANC and the other black groups.” He avoided Vorster’s unwavering gaze.
“If there’s nothing further to discuss, we’ll adjourn this meeting.”
No one spoke.
Ten minutes later, Karl Vorster strode out the front doors of the
Parliament building and climbed into a waiting black limousine. His unopened briefcase still held the captured ANC operations plan called
Broken Covenant.
MAY 30-IN THE HEX RIVER MOUNTAINS, SOUTH AFRICA
Riaan Oost’s three-room cottage lay deep amid the sharp edged mountains of the Hex River range. Forty acres’ worth of grapevines climbed the steep hillsides above his cottage -vines that Oost and his wife tended for their absentee landlord. Six years of hard, unremitting labor had brought the vines to the point at which they would soon produce some of the world’s finest wine grapes.
But Riaan Oost’s need to work ceased at nightfall, ending as shadows thrown by the Hex River Mountains erased all light in the narrow valley.
Now he sat quietly in the front room of his small home, reading by the dim light thrown by a single electric lamp. When the phone rang, it caught him by surprise. He cast his
book aside and answered on the third shrill ring, “Oost here. Who’s calling?”
“Oost, dye say? I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Piet Uys. Isn’t this oh five three one, one nine three six five?” The caller’s crisp, businesslike voice sent chills up Oost’s spine.
He spoke the words he’d memorized months before.
“No, it isn’t. This is oh five three one, one nine three six eight. You must have the wrong number.”
The telephone line clicked and then buzzed as the caller hung up.
Oost followed suit and turned to face his wife. She stared worriedly up at him from her needlework.
“Who was it, Riaan? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed, feeling the first surge of excitement pounding through his veins. It had been a long wait.
“It was them, Marta.
They’ve put things in gear.”
She nodded slowly, knowing that the moment she’d both prayed for and dreaded had come at last.
“You’ll be needing help, then?”
He shook his head.
“No. I’ll do all the moving myself. Less chance of trouble that way. You stay here and tell anyone who calls that I’ve gone to bed… that I’m feeling a bit under the weather. Can you do that for me?” He was already pulling on his jacket.
“Of course, darling.” She clasped her hands together.
“But you will be very, very careful, won’t you?”
Riaan Oost paused by the door, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Don’t worry, Marta. If anybody stops me, I’m just the simple colored boy running errands for his master. They’ll never think to look closely at what I’m carrying.” He blew her a kiss and went outside toward the too] shed attached to his cottage.
The ANC had recruited Riaan Oost more than ten years before. At the time, he’d been a student studying agronomy at the University of Cape Town.
He’d been unusual even then-one of the few hundred mixed-race youths permitted an education beside their white superiors. He’d also displayed a quiet, unwavering determination to learn, a determination that masked his fierce resentment of apartheid and the whole
Afrikaner-dominated system.
The ANC cell leader who’d spotted Oost had insisted that he spurn any contact with the student-run anti apartheid movement. And he’d obeyed, heeding the cell leader’s promise of a larger, more important role in later years.
Untainted by a public connection with dissidents and unsuspected by the security forces, Oost graduated with distinction. He’d married and moved to the western Cape, trapped in the only job open to a colored man of his talents and education~-tenant farmer for a loudmouthed, boorish
Afrikaner.
Oost smiled grimly to himself as he unlocked the shed door. Yes, it had been a long, painful wait. But now the waiting was almost over.
He pulled a rack of tools away from the shed’s back wall and knelt to examine the crates and boxes he’d uncovered. All of them seemed intact.
Just as they had on delivery six months before.
With a muffled groan, he heaved the first crate into his arms and staggered outside toward his battered old pickup. Grenade launchers, automatic rifles, and explosives weighed more than wooden vine stakes and baskets of fresh-picked grapes.
Half an hour later, Riaan Oost backed his overloaded truck carefully out onto the dirt track winding down his valley. He saw his wife standing sadly at the window, waved, and drove off into the surrounding darkness.
Broken Covenant’s first phase was under way.
CHAPTER
-2
Staging
JUNE I -THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, CAPE TOWN,
SOUTH AFRICA
When the last camera light winked out, the temperature in the packed briefing room began falling-dropping slowly from an almost unbearable level of heat and humidity normally found only in Turkish steam baths. Around the room, reporters from across the globe swapped rumors, gossip, and friendly insults, fighting to be heard above a hive like buzz of frenzied conversation. It was the usual end to a very unusual South African government press conference.
Ian Sheffield smiled in satisfaction as he closed his notebook and watched
Knowles pack away their gear. He’d finally been given a story bound to play on the air back in the States. Haymans’s willingness to accept the possibility of majority rule and an in-depth, independent investigation of the security services was news all right, big news-no matter how genuine the offer was, or whether anything of substance ever came of it.
Knowing the Afrikaner mentality, Ian doubted that anything really would.
Even the most moderate National Party member could never contemplate surrendering all vestiges of white domination over South Africa. And even the most reasonable ANC leader would never settle for anything less. It was a ready-made formula for failure. A failure that would generate more violence and more corpses strewn across the country’s streets.
The thought erased his smile.
South Africa’s story had all the elements of a grand tragedy-missed opportunities, misunderstandings, hatred, arrogance, greed, and fear. The worst part was that it seemed a never-ending tragedy, a problem completely beyond human solution.
Ian sighed,
reminding himself that whatever happened would make news for him to report. He’d learned early on not to get too involved in the events he covered. It was the first lesson drummed into every would-be journalist’s skull. Staying detached was the only way to stay objective and sane. Once your personal opinions and attitudes started governing the way you reported a story, you were well on the way to becoming just an unpaid propagandist for one side or the other.
Knowles tapped his shoulder.
“Hadn’t you better get going? I thought you had lunch plans today.”
Yikes. Ian glanced at his watch. Somewhere in the middle of Haymans’s press conference he’d completely lost track of the time.
“I did… I mean, I do.”
But now he and Knowles had too much work to finish before their daily transmission window opened on the network communications satellite. He’d have to call Emily and cancel. And she wouldn’t be very happy about that.
They’d been planning this afternoon’s excursion for more than a week.
Well, she’d understand, wouldn’t she? After all, this was the biggest story to come his way since he’d gotten to Cape Town. Knowles wouldn’t really need his help until later, but it still seemed wrong to simply vanish on one of South Africa’s rare “hot” news days. Damn. Talk about getting caught in a cross fire between your profession and your personal life. Emily
van der Heijden was the one good thing that had happened to him in South
Africa.
Knowles saw the look on his face and laughed.
“Look, boyo. You cut along to lunch. And by the time you’ve finished stuffing your face, I’ll have the whole tape edited, prepped, and ready to go. “
“Thanks, Sam-I owe you one.” Ian paused, calculating how much time he’d need.
“Listen, the window opens at six, right’? Well, I probably won’t be back until four or so to do the voice-over, wrap-up, and sign-off. Is that still okay by you?”
Knowles’s fight eyebrow rose.
“Oh… it’s one of those kind of lunch dates.”
Ian was surprised to find himself embarrassed. If any other woman but Emily were involved, he’d simply have grinned and let Knowles’s lurid imagination run wild. Hell, if he were still back in the States, Knowles wouldn’t have been that far off base. But something about Emily was different. Something about tier summoned up all the old-fashioned protective instincts so scorned by ardent feminists.