‘I prefer to wait,’ De Villiers said. ‘I can go to the bank in the meantime.’
Breedt escorted him to the lift. They shook hands.
The bank was at street level in the same building. ‘I need foreign currency,’ De Villiers explained. ‘Pounds.’
‘We need your air ticket, your passport and the money you want to convert,’ the foreign currency clerk said.
‘I have an account here,’ De Villiers said. ‘How much can I take?’
‘Fifteen thousand rand per person,’ the clerk said. ‘And half that for each child under fourteen. If you want to take more, we will need a letter from a company to say that you are going on business and that you need more money in the foreign currency. There must be a full motivation.’
‘I understand,’ De Villiers said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning.’
He went back upstairs and explained the position to Breedt. ‘No problem,’ Breedt said. ‘I know an orthopaedic surgeon who will give us a letter saying you need an operation in London. We’ll justify the extra funds that way.’
‘Thanks,’ De Villiers said. ‘I’ll wait in the reception area for the documents.’
‘By the way,’ Breedt said, ‘if I were you, I would take as much cash as I could stuff into my pockets. You can always exchange that for pounds when you get to London.’
London
1992 12
De Villiers arrived at Heathrow three days later. He had the clothes on his back, his backpack, ten thousand pounds in American Express travellers cheques, about three hundred pounds in cash and twenty five thousand rand in fifty-rand notes in the pockets of his cargo pants. He took the tube to Russell Square.
When he emerged from the lift, De Villiers followed the snake of pedestrians across the street. It was slow going with the crutches and backpack. There was an open Travelex at the corner. He went inside and offered his rands in exchange for pounds.
The man behind the bulletproof glass partition shook his head. ‘Not interested in South African currency.’
De Villiers pointed at the board where the current exchange rates were given. ‘But it says there that you buy and sell rands.’
‘Fuck off,’ the man said. ‘You South Africans all come here to sell the rands you’ve smuggled out in your underwear. I’m not interested.’
De Villiers left and bought coffee in a polystyrene cup at the kiosk in the square. He saw an American Express outlet across the street and hobbled across on the crutches. ‘Could you please tell me where I can exchange South African rands for pounds?’ he asked.
The man behind the counter was a foreigner, from somewhere in the Far East. ‘There is a place near Harrods,’ he said without looking up. He tied yet another bundle of money with elastic bands. ‘Take the blue line and get out at Knightsbridge.’
The man behind the glass in Knightsbridge watched De Villiers crossing the street and stop in front of his kiosk. ‘You a soldier?’ he asked when De Villiers put his passport in the cash tray.
De Villiers first nodded but then he shook his head.
‘Vietnam?’ the man said, pointing at De Villiers’s leg.
‘No,’ De Villiers said. ‘And I’m not a soldier anymore.’
The exchange rate for notes was R6.50 to the pound. A rip-off, he thought, but he had no choice.
De Villiers found a place to stay at the back of a pub miles from the heart of London. He walked the streets by day and drank the time away until the pub closed. He would retire to his room at midnight to thrash about in his nightmares. It was my fault, he kept saying to himself. I should have seen it coming.
After three months, he thought that his leg was strong enough to sustain a short run. He looked at himself in the small mirror on the side of the wardrobe. He had not shaved since his arrival and the eyes staring back at him were those of a hobo. He decided to buy a razor. He bent down and washed his face in the icy water. He brushed his teeth with a toothbrush that had seen better days. He had run out of toothpaste weeks earlier. He held his right hand up and watched it shaking in the mirror. He wished it was from the drinking, but knew that it wasn’t.
He had to clean up.
He started jogging. The first few steps were awkward and he wobbled, uncertain on his feet. He stopped and heaved against a railing.
‘Go away,’ someone shouted from the flat below. ‘Fuck off.’
De Villiers turned and started jogging again. Every jarring step reminded him of the weakness of his leg and the face of the man who had held the gun to his head.
Two policemen stepped onto the pavement from in front of their car and barred his way. De Villiers stopped.
‘What are you running away from?’
‘I’m not running away from anything,’ he said.
The two bobbies exchanged a look. ‘Doesn’t look like that to me,’ the one said.
‘Where do you live?’ the other asked.
De Villiers pointed over his shoulder. ‘Back there,’ he said. ‘Behind the pub.’
‘Do you have any means of identification on you?’ the first bobby asked.
‘It’s back there,’ De Villiers said. ‘In my room.’
‘Show us,’ the bobbies said in unison.
They escorted De Villiers to his room and followed him inside. His army jacket was draped over a rickety chair and he pulled his passport from its pocket. De Villiers studied the two policemen while they scrutinised his passport. They were young and, on the face of it, fit. Their uniforms fitted perfectly. Their shoes were police-issue but clean. They were clean-shaven and their hair was neatly trimmed. They looked professional.
‘Sit down,’ one of the bobbies ordered.
De Villiers sat down on his bed.
‘I’m Police Constable Jones and my colleague here is PC Crosthwaite,’ the bobby holding the passport said. ‘Your passport is in order and you haven’t yet overstayed your welcome here. We’re investigating a series of burglaries and thefts from cars in this street.’
‘When did you move in?’ PC Jones asked.
‘Three months ago,’ De Villiers said.
PC Jones flipped through the pages of a small notebook. ‘That’s when the burglaries started here. Empty your pockets,’ he said.
De Villiers stood up and turned his pockets inside out. There was nothing in them. He wondered whether they would pat him down and find the Leatherman strapped to his left ankle. They could lock him up for that. And deport him.
‘Now tell us why you were running,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
‘For exercise,’ De Villiers said.
PC Crosthwaite shook his head. ‘Wearing army boots, heavy cotton trousers and a button-down shirt? I don’t think so.’
De Villiers didn’t know what to say and tried to make a joke of it. ‘Emil Zátopek used to train in army boots, and look what he achieved. Three gold medals at the same Olympics.’
The bobbies were not amused. It struck De Villiers that they had probably never heard of Zátopek.
PC Jones ran his finger along the wall and looked at his fingertips. ‘Clean,’ he said. ‘Most unusual.’
PC Crosthwaite ran his fingers over the top of the ramshackle wardrobe. ‘Clean here too, even more extraordinary.’ He lifted De Villiers’s army jacket from the chair and sniffed at it. ‘Clean,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it’s yours?’
‘Of course,’ De Villiers said.
PC Crosthwaite threw the passport on the bed. ‘May we search your room?’
De Villiers nodded. He had nothing to hide. PC Jones opened the wardrobe. De Villiers didn’t have to look to know what they would see. One pair of good shoes. Two shirts, neatly folded and stacked, military style, on top of one another. One pair of grey flannel trousers, on a hanger. One navy blue blazer, on a hanger. One red tie. A few pairs of socks. Three pairs of underpants. All neatly stacked. A thick woollen jersey. A blue beret. Flannel pyjamas.
‘Do you have a job?’ PC Jones asked.
‘No,’ De Villiers said.
They finished their search. ‘Now tell us why you were running,’ PC Jones said. ‘And don’t give us that bullshit about exercising.’
‘I was going to buy a razor and toothpaste,’ De Villiers said.
‘I didn’t see any money,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
De Villiers didn’t respond.
‘We need to see some money,’ PC Jones said.
De Villiers pulled the money belt from under his shirt. ‘See for yourself,’ he said. He handed the money belt to PC Crosthwaite.
PC Crosthwaite opened the first compartment and whistled. ‘How much?’ he asked De Villiers.
‘About three thousand in cash and ten thousand in American Express.’
PC Crosthwaite unzipped the second compartment and made a show of counting the banknotes. De Villiers watched in silence. ‘Three thousand one hundred and twenty, all in crisp new banknotes,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
‘Do you have a bank account?’ PC Jones asked.
De Villiers shook his head.
He watched as PC Crosthwaite put the notes back in the belt and opened the next compartment. PC Crosthwaite splayed the travellers cheques like a deck of cards. ‘Let’s have a look,’ he said. He opened the passport at the signature page and compared the signature with that on the cheques.
‘It’s yours, alright,’ he said. He replaced the cheques in their compartment.
‘There’s something wrong here,’ PC Jones said. ‘You look like a tramp but you have lots of money and this room is as clean as a whistle. I’m sure if we dusted it for fingerprints, we wouldn’t find any. You say you don’t have a job, but you have all this money on you.’
De Villiers took a deep breath. His explanation would either make no sense to them or require further explanation.
‘And you were limping,’ PC Crosthwaite said. ‘Why run when you’re limping?’
De Villiers shrugged. ‘I told you I wanted some exercise. I hurt my leg and I’m trying to get it strong again.’
‘What are you doing here?’ PC Jones asked. ‘You’re not working. You’re not a tourist. And this room is as bare as a billiard ball. You look like someone who’s just come out of prison.’
‘See it from our view, it looks suspicious,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
De Villiers looked about the room. It was no more than three metres by three, with a single bed which was too short for him, an old oak wardrobe, a small table and chair, and a bucket with cleaning materials in the corner. The door was of steel with two heavy-duty security bolts on the inside as well as a standard lock. The small window was high up, almost flush against the wall of the next building, and let in little light. The steel bars on the outside threw faint shadows on the glass.
PC Crosthwaite ran his finger across the light fitting. There was no dust there either.
‘What are you running from?’ PC Jones asked. ‘Or who, to be more precise.’
How could he tell these men that at night, when the demons got too much for him, he scrubbed the floor and walls and wiped all the other surfaces with a rag dipped in disinfectant? Would they understand if he told them that he washed himself and his clothes in the same bucket? Would they understand if he said that he never felt completely clean?
PC Jones read his thoughts. ‘What are you trying to wash off here? Have you been in prison? This place looks like a prison cell.’
‘I’m recovering,’ De Villiers said. It was a mistake. He knew it as soon as he said it.
‘Recovering from what?’ PC Jones wanted to know.
De Villiers sighed. The two policemen stood over him, waiting for an answer. ‘From what?’ PC Crosthwaite said.
De Villiers stood up and undid the top buttons of his shirt. He pulled the shirt to one side. ‘From this,’ he said. The bullet wound was clearly visible.
He turned his back. ‘It came out here.’
When he faced the two policemen again, PC Crosthwaite asked, ‘And the leg?’
De Villiers tugged at the leg of his cargo pants. ‘And here.’
The two policemen stooped to get a closer look. ‘Where did it happen?’ PC Jones asked.
‘Pretoria,’ De Villiers said.
‘Are the police back home looking for you?’ PC Jones asked.
‘No,’ De Villiers said. ‘They’re looking for the people who shot me.’
‘You’d better come with us to the station,’ PC Jones said suddenly. ‘So that we can check out your story.’
They led him to the door. PC Jones carried the passport and the money belt. De Villiers locked the door behind them and followed them. They opened the door and De Villiers got into the back of the police car. They travelled in silence to the police station.
They made De Villiers sit on a bench while they signed him in. There was a desk in the public section across from where De Villiers was sitting. A woman constable sat under a recruitment poster. There is a career in the police for you. PC Jones gave De Villiers a receipt for his possessions and they led him into a cell. It was the same size as his room. There was a steel bunk and a stainless steel lavatory. He smelled disinfectant. He ran his finger along the wall. It was clean. He lay down on the bunk and fell asleep. A defence mechanism.
They returned two hours later and shook him awake. His mouth was dry and he needed a drink.
‘You’re clean,’ PC Crosthwaite said. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Tell you what?’
‘That your wife and children were murdered and that you were wounded in the same incident.’
PC Crosthwaite shook his head. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.’
De Villiers nodded. He followed them to the counter. ‘How can I become a policeman?’ he asked. He had no idea what made him ask that.
‘You want to become a policeman?’ PC Crosthwaite said.
‘Yes,’ De Villiers said. ‘What’s so odd about that? They took the two of you.’
PC Jones burst out laughing. ‘That’s true,’ he said, ‘but I think their standards are a little higher nowadays.’
‘There’s a recruitment officer there,’ De Villiers said. ‘I could join up right now.’
‘Maybe not right now,’ PC Crosthwaite said. ‘We have to take you back to your place first.’
PC Jones intervened. ‘And you’d better shave and clean up first. You need to make a good first impression.’ He winked at De Villiers. ‘That’s how we got in.’
De Villiers signed for his possessions.
The radio in the police car crackled as they were called to another scene. They dropped him off outside a small superette.
I can do this, De Villiers thought.
That was how De Villiers met Emma later, while walking the beat as a newly qualified police constable in Hyde Park. They were married in a private ceremony with a few work colleagues as their witnesses. After six years in London, they emigrated to New Zealand.
Between them, they had enough money to buy a house cash. The SADF’S million plus their savings. They settled down in Auckland and had Zoë.
U-891
Operation Weissdorn 13
When Johann Weber had come out of court and had sent De Villiers on his way, he sat down behind his desk with a cup of coffee and phoned his mother. It was an interesting case, the Alicia Mae. He could tell his mother about it. Although he owed his client the duty to maintain the confidentiality of the client’s case and all communications between them, he knew he could tell Anna Weber. Her memory for recent events was nonexistent.
She listened in silence as he told the story, but asked a lot of questions when he mentioned Hamburg. She remembered Hamburg. Growing up on its outskirts. The beauty of the city before the war. The devastation when it was bombed to a state of burning rubble by the Allies. The sense of loss and fear. The irresistible impulse to hide. The death of her husband. And that she had never returned.
Weber seized the moment and asked her, ‘Mutti, tell me again how we came here on a ship.’
The seeds for Weissdor
n had been planted in 1936.
Sidney Robey Leibbrandt was a man of broad shoulders and narrow intellect, quick with his fists but slow-witted, the perfect soldier for an operation with virtually no chance of success. His handlers’ assessment of him was that he was unintelligent and incapable of working in a team, but they valued his fanaticism, his unshakable belief in Adolf Hitler’s vision of Aryan dominance of the world.
A man like him could do a lot of damage to the enemy.
After his heroics during the 1936 Olympic Games, Leibbrandt had spent the better part of a year in Germany as a student of physical culture before the war broke out. The plan which had brought him to Germany in the first place had been to send him back to the country of his birth on completion of a three-year course so that he could start a physical culture movement based on the Aryan model in South Africa. In due course he would recruit the men and women best suited to carry the Aryan ideal deep into the fabric of the ruling class. Leibbrandt had been born to a father who had fought the British during the 1899–1902 war alongside men like Smuts and De Wet and De la Rey. They had hoped that Germany would come to their rescue then, but the Kaiser had done little more than send a consignment of Mauser rifles and ammunition.
For Robey Leibbrandt, England would always be the enemy and he had been keen to train in Germany. It was a long-term plan, but his ultimate goal was clear. Then the war broke out and General Jan Smuts persuaded parliament to authorise the declaration of war on Germany. To Leibbrandt, this was the ultimate betrayal, that one of the stalwarts of the resistance against British imperialism should take sides with England against his beloved Germany.
True to form, he immediately demanded a change of plan. He would return to South Africa immediately by any available means and kill Smuts himself. The task was too important to leave to others. And he would mobilise the Storm Troopers of the Ossewabrandwag – a body of well-trained, armed men numbering more than ten thousand, all occupying important positions in the army, the police, the prisons department and even the fire and ambulance services of the cities and major towns. Together they would take over the government as soon as Smuts was dead, Leibbrandt proposed.
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