Vortex

  The squad car pulled in behind them.

  Ian leaned forward again, trying to reassure the younger man.

  “Don’t sweat it, Matt. You’re with us, right? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

  He just wished his own voice sounded more in control.

  Sibena gulped a quick breath and nodded.

  The police car’s doors popped open and three blue-jacketed officers climbed out. They stood staring at the Escort’s rear bumper for a moment, then one leaned in through the car window, reaching for a radio mike.

  “Checking our number plates,” Knowles muttered.

  Ian nodded. One of the riot troops must have gotten suspicious and reported them. Now what? Could they bluff it out? Fast-talk their way past these creeps long enough to hide the film inside the studio?

  Maybe. And maybe not. He grimaced. This was getting ridiculous. Every time they got close to a big story, South Africa’s security forces seemed ready and waiting to snatch it away from them.

  The policeman with the mike thumbed it off and motioned in their direction. The other two moved forward, hands resting prominently on the pistols holstered at their hips. Pedestrians who’d gathered around the two parked cars, drawn by the flashing lights, scattered out of their way-curiosity suddenly quenched by a sensible desire not to get caught up in whatever was going on.

  The older of the two policemen, glowering and gray haired, rapped impatiently on Ian’s window.

  He rolled it down, reminding himself to be polite no matter how hard the

  South African tried to provoke him. The tape locked in their trunk was too important to risk losing in a senseless run-in with the police.

  “Yes?”

  “You are Sheffield?” The policeman’s harsh, clipped accent marked him as an Afrikaner.

  Ian nodded cautiously.

  The policeman’s lips twitched into a thin, unpleasant smile.

  “I ask that you all get out of the car. Now, please.” His tone made it clear he hoped they’d refuse.

  Swell. Another South African cop out for journalistic blood. Ian caught

  Knowles’s raised, questioning eyebrow and shrugged. What realistic choice did they have?

  Ian popped the door and clambered awkwardly out of the Escort’s backseat.

  Knowles and Sibena followed suit. Sweat beaded the young South African’s frightened face.

  Ian folded his arms, trying to appear unconcerned.

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  The Afrikaner’s fixed smile thinned even further.

  “You and your ‘colleagues’ —he stressed the word contemptuously—were seen filming a minor demonstration at the

  University of the Witwatersrand. That is a serious violation of our law.”

  Blast. Some of the riot police must have spotted them. Or somebody else had betrayed them. Maybe the landlord they’d bribed…

  Ian shook his head.

  “I’m afraid your information is inaccurate, Officer.

  We’re on our way back from shooting a few background pictures of your city.

  Nothing controversial or prohibited. Certainly nothing exciting.”

  I ‘in that case, meneer, you won’t mind letting us take a look at them, eh?”

  Ian hid a smile of his own and did his best to look upset.

  “If you insist.

  But I’ll protest this interference to the highest levels of your government.” He turned to Knowles.

  “Please give these gentlemen the tape from your camera, Sam.”

  His short, stocky cameraman looked sour as he unlocked the trunk and reluctantly handed over the wrong cassette. He started to slam the trunk shut.

  “Halt! “

  Knowles stopped in mid slam his back suddenly rigid.

  The Afrikaner shouldered him aside and bent down for a closer look at the gear piled inside the trunk. He pawed through the stacks of equipment and muttered in satisfaction as he uncovered the carrying case full of unlabeled tapes.

  “And what are these, Meneer Sheffield?”

  Ian tried to keep his voice even.

  “Blank cassettes.

  “I see.” The policeman nodded slowly, his eyes cold.

  “I think we shall confiscate these as well. If they really are blank, they will be returned to you.”

  Damn it. Another story and hours of hard work down the drain. He tried to ignore Knowles’s quiet, steady swearing and said stiffly, “I insist on a receipt for the property you’ve illegally seized.”

  “Certainly. ” The Afrikaner looked amused. He nodded toward his counterpart, a younger man who’d hung back from the whole scene as though reluctant to involve himself.

  “That fellow there will be glad to write any kind of receipt you want, won’t you, Harris?” Spite dripped from every word.

  Ian glanced at the younger policeman with more interest. What could he have done to warrant such hatred from his older colleague? Maybe he just had the wrong last name. Some Afrikaners never bothered to hide their long-standing, often mindless dislike for those descended from South Africa’s English colonists. It was a feeling that the English usually reciprocated.

  Without another word, the older man turned on his heel and strode back to the waiting squad car, holding the case of videotapes out from his body as though they were contaminated.

  “Mr. Sheffield?” The younger policeman’s voice was apologetic.

  Ian looked steadily at him.

  “Yes?”

  The South African held out a piece of paper.

  “Here is that receipt you asked for.”

  Ian took it and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Great. Instead of a story that would lift the lid on Vorster’s security services, he had a junior policeman’s signature on a piece of meaningless official notepaper.

  The policeman cleared his throat and stepped closer, lowering his voice so that his colleagues couldn’t hear him.

  “I’m truly sorry about this, Mr.

  Sheffield. Not all of us are happy with the things that are happening in our country. But what can we do? We must uphold our laws-no matter how much we may regret them.”

  Ian restrained an impulse to feel sorry for the man. Individual apologies couldn’t atone for insufferable acts.

  “I imagine that’s exactly the same excuse used by Russian cops. And by those in Nazi Germany, for that matter.

  “

  The policeman flushed and turned away, his face almost as unhappy as Ian felt.

  Doors slammed shut and the police car pulled away from the curb, accelerating smoothly into traffic. None of its occupants looked back.

  Knowles stared after the squad car, anger in his eyes.

  “Well, fuck you, too, you bastards.”

  Sibena just stood silently, eyes firmly fixed on the sidewalk.

  Ian shut the Escort’s trunk and opened the rear door.

  “C’mon, guys. No sense in standing around brooding about it.” He tried to tone down the anger in his own voice.

  “Hell, it’s not like that’s the first piece of film we ever lost.”

  Knowles glanced at him.

  “No, it sure isn’t.” He lowered his chin, looking even more stubborn than usual.

  “Kinda funny, though, ain’t it? I mean, how the cops always seem to know right where we are and exactly what we’ve been up to. Almost like they’ve got their eyes on us all the time.

  “Now just how do you suppose they’re doing that?”

  Ian shook his head, unsure of what the cameraman meant. He’d certainly never spotted any police patrols following them. Then he followed

  Knowles’s steady, unblinking gaze. He was looking straight at Matthew

  Sibena’s slumped shoulders and downcast face.

  AUGUST 30-PRESIDENTS OFFICE, THE UNION

  BUILDINGS, PRETORIA

  Karl Vorster’s spartan tastes were not yet reflected in the furnishings of the office suite reserved for South Africa’s president. Since t
aking power he’d been too preoccupied by both external and internal crises to worry about redecorating.

  And thank God for that, Erik Muller thought, sitting comfortably for once in a cushioned chair facing Vorster’s plain oak desk. The dead Frederick

  Haymans may have been a softhearted fool, but at least he’d had some modicum of taste.

  Across the desk, Vorster grunted to himself and scrawled a signature on the last memorandum in front of him. The memo’s black binder identified it as an execution order.

  “So, another ANC bastard gets it in the neck. Good. ” The suggestion of a smile appeared on Vorster’s face and then vanished.

  “Is that everything, Erik?”

  “Not quite, Mr. President. There’s one more item.”

  “Get on with it, then.” Vorster’s flint-hard eyes roved to his desk clock and back to Muller.

  “General de Wet is briefing me on the military situation in a few minutes.”

  Muller clenched his teeth. South Africa’s chief executive

  was spending more and more of his precious time trying to micromanage the stalled Namibian campaign. And while Vorster moved meaningless pins back and forth on maps, serious political, economic, and security problems languished-unconsidered and unresolved.

  Muller cleared his throat.

  “It’s a travel-permit request from Mantizima, the Zulu chief. He’s been invited to testify before the American Congress on this new sanctions bill of theirs. “

  “So?” Vorster’s impatience showed plainly.

  “Why bring this matter to me?

  Surely that’s something for the Foreign Ministry to decide.”

  Muller shook his head.

  “With respect, Mr. President, there are vital questions of state security involved-too many to entrust such a decision to the minister or his bureaucrats.” He pushed the document across the desk.

  Vorster picked it up and skimmed through the Zulu chief Is tersely worded request for a travel permit.

  “Go on.”

  “I believe you should reject his request, Mr. President. Beneath that toothy smile of his, Gideon Mantizima’s as much a troublemaker as any other black leader. I fear that he could make even more trouble for us in

  Washington if you allow him out of the country.” He stopped, aware that he’d probably overplayed his hand. The President seemed to be in a deliberately contrary mood.

  Vorster waggled a finger at him.

  “That is nonsense, Muller. I know this man. This Zulu has cooperated with us in the past when all the other blacks toed the communist line. He’s even opposed sanctions by the Western powers.

  Why, I can almost respect him. After all, he descends from a warrior tribe, not from wandering trash like the rest of the kaffirs. “

  He sat back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach.

  “No, Muller.

  Mantizima and his followers hate the ANC almost as much as we do. They’ve been rivals for decades. And we rarely interfere in the way the Zulus handle affairs within their own tribe land The chief has no reason to make trouble for us. “

  Vorster rocked forward, pen in hand.

  “Let him visit America. His testimony will only confuse our enemies in their Congress and show the world that we have nothing to fear. “

  Muller watched in silence as his leader signed the travel permit.

  Vorster’s growing tendency to see only what he wished to see disturbed him. In the past, Mantizima. had publicly opposed economic sanctions on

  South Africa because he believed they hurt his people more than they hurt whites -not as a favor to Pretoria. And the wily Zulu chief’s struggle with the ANC was a battle for future political power in a black-majority government-not the signpost of a permanent alliance with the forces of apartheid.

  He took the signed permit from Vorster’s outstretched hand and left quietly. Further argument would only endanger his own position.

  Gideon Mantizima might continue to cooperate with Pretoria, but Muller doubted it. The Zulu chief was shrewd enough to recognize a dead end when he saw one. South Africa’s director of military intelligence suspected that Vorster would regret allowing Mantizima the freedom to choose a new course.

  SEPTEMBER I -JOHANNESBURG

  The doorbell buzzed, waking Ian Sherfietd from a fitful, dream-ridden sleep. Another buzz, louder and longer this time. He opened his eyes reluctantly, fumbling for the bedside lamp switch. Two in the flipping morning, for God’s sake. Who the hell could that be? Johannesburg, like all of South Africa’s major cities, was under a midnight curfew.

  Ian stumbled out of bed and struggled into a pair of jeans while hopping toward the front door. Pain flared briefly as he slammed a knee into a sofa. The tiny furnished flat he’d rented was reasonably priced and convenient, but he still hadn’t lived there long enough to navigate safely in the dark.

  Three short, sharp obscenities helped dispel most of the pain, but he was still hobbling when he got to the door. He yanked it open, ready to vent some well-earned anger on the idiot who’d disturbed him.

  It was Emily.

  Even bundled in a long winter overcoat against the chill

  night air, she was beautiful. A single suitcase rested on the floor behind her. She smiled shyly, looked down at herself, and then up at him, her eyes shining.

  “Do I look like a ghost, maybe?”

  Ian realized he was standing slack jawed, mouth open Re a drooling village idiot. He hastily closed it and pulled her into his arms.

  Emily responded eagerly to his kiss.

  When they came up for air, she stepped back slightly, a mock-serious look on her face.

  “Well, Mr. Reporter, may I come in? Or shall I sleep here in your hallway?”

  ” Hmmm. ” Ian stroked his chin, as if pondering the question.

  “I guess I could loan you some blankets and a pillow. Might get kinda cold out here, though. My neighbors might complain, too. I guess you’ll have to come inside. “

  Laughing, he dodged her kick and led her into the flat.

  Emily wrinkled her nose at the decor, a failed mix of cheap framed posters, plastic flowers, dark-colored carpeting, and imitation Scandinavian-design furniture. Knowles had best characterized the place as a study in Twentieth

  Century Bad Taste. Ian wished he’d thought to wash the dishes stacked in his small sink. His bachelor habits were often embarrassing.

  She wagged a finger in his face.

  “Clearly you are not fit to live alone,

  Ian Sheffield. You need a good woman to look after you.”

  That was too perfect an opening to pass up. He smiled.

  “I’ve tried finding one, but I guess I’m stuck with you.”

  She smiled back.

  “Yes, perhaps that is so.”

  Which raised an interesting question.

  “What about your father? Does he know you’re here?”

  Sorrow briefly touched her eyes as she shook her head.

  “But Emily, he’ll…”

  “Sshh.” She laid a soft, sweet-smelling finger across his lips.

  “My father has not been home for these two weeks and more. He spends A his days in

  Pretoria, organizing this … this butchery. ” Her words were clipped, angry, and he remembered that she’d been a student at the University of

  Witwatersrand. Some of her friends or teachers might have been among those he’d seen lying motionless on the pavement-gunned down by the police her father commanded.

  She paused for a moment and then went on, calmer now.

  “Besides, I told that witch Vi1joen I was returning to Cape Town to stay with some friends there. They’ll cover for me if he should call.”

  Ian nodded, deeply moved by the risks she was running to be near him.

  She shrugged out of her heavy coat and sat down on the sofa. He sat next to her.

  “Anyway, Ian, I have news that would not wait any longer. Unbelievable news!” Her words tumble
d out over one another, anger turned to excitement.

  As she recounted the story of her father’s party and the muttered conversation she’d overheard, Ian felt his own pulse speeding up. If he could prove that Vorster had advance warning of the ANC’s Blue Train ambush… My God! He’d make headlines around the U.S. Hell, around the whole world!

  But how could he get that kind of proof? South Africa’s new rulers weren’t going to come clean just because he asked a few pointed questions. He frowned. This guy Muller Emily had mentioned was the key.

  Muller. The name was somehow familiar.

  Memories fell into place as long hours of study paid off. Erik Muller was some kind of cloak-and-dagger honcho. Ran South Africa’s Directorate of

  Military Intelligence. Rumor said he handled most of the government’s dirtiest jobs surveillance blackmail, even assassinations. Just the kind of man you’d expect to be one of Karl Vorster’s favorites, Ian thought.

  And just the kind of man who’d know the truth about the Blue Train massacre.

  So somehow he had to get a hook into this Muller character. Find some way to either force or persuade the man to come clean. That wasn’t going to be easy…. Reality reared its ugly head.

  “Damn it!” He slammed a clenched fist into his thigh.

  “What’s wrong?” Emily looked concerned.

  “I forgot that Sam and I probably have our own spy tagging along with us wherever we go.9’

  He filled her in on their suspicions of Matthew Sibena.

  “Personally, I think the kid’s being forced to inform on us. Sam isn’t so charitable.”

  “Then get rid of him. Fire him, and hire another driver.”

  “Who will come from the same place as Matthew.” Ian shook his head.

  “No,

  I think we should hang on to him. He seems like a good kid, and I really believe he hates Vorster as much as we do.”

  He shrugged helplessly.

  “Anyway, Matt’s reasons don’t matter much. The fact is, if I start sniffing around Muller’s tail, the bastard’s going to get wind of it before I’ve even properly started. And then, whoosh,

  Sam and I are out of the country on the next jet leaving Jan Smuts

  International. “

  He lapsed into a depressed silence, only looking up when Emily lightly tapped his knee.