Per Fine Ounce

by Peter Vollmer

  His name was checked against the list, and only when properly identified was he allowed entry. No doubt this would be run through some database to confirm his credentials. His chauffeur drove slowly along a well-maintained gravel road, which wound through large expanses of lush lawn, flowerbeds, and tall trees. The vehicle was finally halted in front of the house’s main entrance, which was already surrounded by a cluster of parked cars and limousines. A dozen steps led up to a large open veranda partially enclosed in glass which overlooked the front of the property. The manorial house, with its gables and oak-framed colonial Dutch windows, vaguely conformed to Cape Dutch architecture. White rose creepers and vines wound their way along the walls, latticed wooden arches that spread over pathways, as well as the many trellises.

  As Peace stepped into the foyer, which was carpeted with a number of beautiful Kurdistan rugs, he noticed a large man approaching, dressed in a dinner jacket. Peace saw the radio earplug in the man’s ear and the thin white plastic-coated cable that disappeared into his collar. He also didn’t miss the slight bulge below the man’s armpit. Serious security.

  “Your name, sir?” the man inquired.

  “Digby Brentwood.” He purposely dispensed with his title.

  “Please follow me.”

  The man whispered into a microphone hidden in his jacket’s lapel and then led Peace through the main entrance into an arrival hall and finally into a vast lounge, which was already occupied by about two dozen other guests.

  Peace did not expect to find so many others. The request that he wear black-tie had left him with the impression that this was to be an intimate dinner party, but he was surprised to see that it was more than that.

  In a voice louder than the general level of conversation, the guard announced, “Dames en Here[2], Lord Digby Brentwood.”

  Clearly, the guard had been briefed on his title. If this was intended to impress him, it did. This surely had to be the height of Afrikaner society in their mother city in South Africa.

  At the mention of his name, a hush descended on the small crowd as all turned to look at him, curious about the man who was known to be a recluse. Clearly, as an ardent supporter of ultra-right-wing politics, his ideals were well known to these Afrikaners.

  Peace soon picked out Van Rhyn, resplendent in his black-tie and dinner jacket. The huge Afrikaner broke from the couple he was standing next to, and with hand outstretched, approached Peace.

  “Lord Digby, we are delighted that you were able to come. Please let me introduce you to a few of my friends and colleagues. There are a few dying to meet you… how should I put it — a member of the British aristocracy who believes in the Afrikaner ideology.” Again, he smiled. “Indeed, a rarity in these times.”

  Peace returned the smile. “Just Digby will be fine, please, I must insist.”

  “In that case, I’m Anton.”

  Peace let his eyes sweep across the room. Most attendees seemed to be with a partner — whether male or female. No one struck him as being on their own like he was. Van Rhyn then slowly led Peace from couple to couple and introduced him. Two of the men he met were members of the Afrikaner Goudeiendomme board. All were Afrikaans but greeted him politely in English.

  Finally, they approached two women standing alone — obviously mother and daughter.

  “My wife and daughter,” Van Rhyn said, unwittingly answering Peace’s surmise.

  Lady Jocelyn was a statuesque blonde in a black evening dress; Peace knew her to be in her mid-forties. They shook hands, and she gave him the briefest of smiles. Van Rhyn then gestured to the beautiful woman he guessed to be in her early twenties, who stood next to the other woman. She was clad in a sculpted red evening dress, the low neckline revealing the swell of her breasts. Her blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders while slightly chubby cheekbones still revealed a hint of retreating adolescence. She appeared to be wearing only a touch of makeup, but her most striking feature was her dark-blue eyes.

  “This is my daughter, Margaret Langton-Van Rhyn.”

  Peace took her hand. The woman smiled, revealing dazzling white teeth. He guessed her to be Van Rhyn’s stepdaughter, the only child from Lady Jocelyn’s previous marriage who had been mentioned during his London briefing. She bore no resemblance to Van Rhyn whatsoever.

  The stepdaughter took her time looking him over, and as the seconds passed, the look bordered on becoming rude.

  “Lord Digby, please excuse my directness, but is there truth in the rumour that you support fascist groups in England? I would have thought it to be un-English, not to mention narrow-minded?” she asked abruptly, staring fixedly into his eyes.

  This directness gave Peace an inkling into what he had heard about her — she was certainly her own person.

  “Margaret, that’s uncalled for,” her mother hissed, clearly disappointed by her daughter’s opening remark.

  Peace smiled coolly, but inwardly the woman’s directness surprised him. From her speech and mannerisms, it was apparent that she had been the recipient of the best education England offered, and could probably trace her aristocratic roots back a good few hundred years. While no radiant beauty, her fortitude in speaking her own mind more than surpassed what one saw from the outside and certainly added to her mystique.

  “It is true. I believe we have to ensure that a degree of discipline returns to the world. Current crime statistics are unacceptable, drugs pervade society, and wrongdoers generally get off too lightly. The peasants, workers, blue-collar labour, Blacks, whatever you wish to call them, should follow, not lead. A government run by workers is doomed to failure. You need only to look at the U.S.S.R.”

  He was surprised at how easily the words tripped off his tongue. Was this how the real Lord Digby would have replied?

  Margaret stared at him, her eyes round. He did not miss the distaste in her expression. She pursed her lips into a thin line and looked away.

  Lady Jocelyn decided to intervene. “You and my husband certainly appear to share the same sentiments,” she said, clearly unconcerned by his reply and by her daughter’s reaction. “My stepdaughter Janet is sure to find you interesting. She’s an anglicised socialite who believes in White supremacy. In fact, I should warn you she conforms to a far-right political orientation and certainly disagrees with the changes that are happening in our country. I imagine that’s not an oddity. Let’s find her.”

  He was now alone with Lady Jocelyn, who led him by the hand, weaving through the couples, introducing him on the way to General Pieter Booyens, a member of the South African General Staff. This was a clear indication that Van Rhyn had friends in the right places. Peace did not doubt that there had to be many in the top echelons of the military that were reluctant to relinquish the enormous power they wielded. He also met more of the top brass in industry and mining on Jocelyn’s tour.

  Eventually, they reached a woman sitting on a stool at a Steinbach grand piano, who was tinkling softly on the keys.

  “Janet, I’ve somebody here I’m sure you’ll be pleased to meet. You share the same sentiments. You should get on well.”

  Lady Joyce turned to Peace. “Lord Digby, meet Janet Van Rhyn. She’s a cum laude graduate from Oxford — and that with an Afrikaans accent, I may add. Rather amazing, isn’t it?”

  The woman lifted her face and turned her head to look at him. He found himself staring into a pair of dark, unfathomable eyes that reflected the light from the chandelier above the piano. Only after carefully appraising him did she offer her hand. Her fingers were elegantly long and cool to the touch.

  “Enchante,” he said, bowing his head as he brought her fingers to his lips.

  A slight smile played at the corners of her mouth. She rose from the piano stool. “British chivalry — how pleasant,” she murmured.

  She was an astounding beauty. Her hair was black and shoulder-length; it shimmered in the light. The neck of her royal blue silk dress, although quite high, gaped fashionably, luring his eyes to her breasts. She was tall, sur
ely six foot in her high-heeled shoes. The dress hugged her torso, accentuating her slim waist.

  “I’ve placed you next to Janet at the table, seeing as you are both without partners.” Lady Joyce pouted, a slight frown of disapproval on her face. “What’s the matter with you? Good gracious, coming to a dinner party without escorts… Really?”

  “It’s all a matter of finding the right one,” said Peace.

  “I agree,” the young woman said.

  They both laughed, and Lady Joyce, still clearly unhappy, shook her head and left them to get acquainted.

  Having secured his usual whisky from a waiter and a vodka screwdriver for her, they made formal small talk while sitting on a sofa slightly apart from the rest of the crowd. She seemed to consider it taken as read that she should stay close to him. Was this Van Rhyn’s instruction, he wondered, but then dismissed this. She did not strike him as the type to take instructions from just anybody. This woman was strong-willed. He soon gathered that Janet was ultra-conservative, clearly believing Blacks to be inferior, and unappreciative of what the Whites had done for them.

  “The Lancaster House peace agreement was no more than the British selling out the white Rhodesians, their own kith and kin, without a backward glance, knowing full well there could not be a peaceful transition. Your government knew that Mugabe could not be trusted, and what did you do when things went wrong? Nothing!” she said fiercely.

  “Of course,” he agreed with suitable fervour, and added his own thoughts concerning the dangers of the new liberalism that was sweeping the world.

  “My father mentioned you to me. He said that you’re looking to invest. I think he said you’re actually looking at mining?” she said.

  “That’s right. I’m interested in buying gold shares — a substantial purchase. I believe that they’ll be the most stable of all in the event of unrest here or elsewhere. After all, even before the great discoveries in the Americas and Southern Africa, it was revered for its value. That’s reason enough to invest in gold. But not only that, the fluctuations of the share price, which are sure to come, will provide an opportunity for quick profits. In fact, the unease that will be generated once South Africa goes to its first so-called democratic general election must put upward pressure on gold shares. Everyone will seek to protect their wealth, fearing a civil war. No matter what prevails in your country, I believe we can be rest assured that gold will ultimately triumph. It would do well to buy now and sell later, or so I believe,” Peace said.

  “I can give you the names of a few mining houses whose shares are bound to be an excellent buy. My father’s been buying large parcels of these, without being too obtrusive.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s not insider trading, it’s just that we all know each other so well, it’s difficult to keep secrets. Come, it’s time to sit down to dinner.”

  Peace was appalled. Clearly, Van Rhyn had no scruples. Insider trading going on within upper Afrikaner establishment circles! You needed friends in the right places to get away with that.

  “You’ve had your fair share of political upheavals in Paraguay,” Janet said to him as they took their seats.

  The woman was clearly well-read and politically informed.

  Peace was grateful for the time he’d spent reading up on Lord Digby’s life. He mentioned that Paraguay had changed little even with a new president and thought his financial interests in the country were still secure.

  “It’ll take decades before the peasants get a real foothold in the government. I don’t believe this will happen in my lifetime. No matter who governs, in Paraguay the elitists still rule and will do so for years to come,” he said believing he needed to make some remark that related to his newly chosen home country.

  A slight frown crossed her brow. “Unfortunately, we are unable to say the same. Our President de Klerk is hell-bent on changing the course of our future and has released Mandela and put the future of this government to a general vote. This will be disastrous for the Whites,” she said solemnly.

  “Lord Digby.” A loud voice interrupted their conversation, and Peace turned to look at the speaker. It was General Booyens, to his left, who was leaning across his wife to address Peace.

  “I heard your remarks concerning Paraguay. I must tell you the same applies here, no matter who is in government. Even if Nelson Mandela’s party should represent the government, we will, how should I say, control industry and finance for years to come. You will agree that if you control those sectors, you control the country. De Klerk cannot accomplish anything without us. We’ll make certain it remains so for many years,” the General said. “Don’t underestimate the strength of the South African Armed Forces. And remember, it’s a white military force. We’ll ensure that it stays that way, no matter what. We have a few tricks of our own up our sleeves.”

  The man sounded so confident Peace wouldn’t have been surprised had the General given him a conspiratorial wink. He did not doubt the man’s words for a moment. He couldn’t help thinking of the A-bomb. At their meeting at MI6, VA had briefly touched on American SR-71 reconnaissance flights. Within the last few weeks, the world press had made mention of what was termed The Vela Incident — a place in the South Indian Ocean from which a double flash had been detected by American satellites and was confirmed to be a nuclear explosion. South Africa had vehemently denied knowledge of this. Although this had occurred in years past, the world and in particular, the Americans and their press had regurgitated the incident time and again.

  He gave a brief laugh. “General, thanks for that reassuring piece of information.”

  The General nodded, seemingly content with Peace’s cheerful response.

  He was amazed. These people, and specifically this woman, accepted him as an ultra-conservative. The groundwork had been laid. Janet had relaxed; she was no longer stiff and formal. He followed her lead, putting on the charm. They talked their way through the entrée and main course, both having their glasses repeatedly refilled with an excellent wine.

  “Lord Digby, tell me, where are you staying?” she asked suddenly.

  “Please, I must insist you call me Digby,” he said. “Initially, I stayed at the Rand Club, but I needed more privacy, so I found myself a small but secluded place in the northern suburbs of Johannesburg.”

  “And do you live there on your own?” she asked.

  That was direct!

  “Yes, completely, except, of course, for the servants that came with the property.”

  He sipped nonchalantly at the excellent Nederburg Private Bin Cabernet Sauvignon wine and then asked, “Would you care to join me for dinner sometime? Of course, you must choose the restaurant, just so long as it’s secluded. I don’t know the city that well, and I’m no friend of crowds.”

  “I’d be delighted. I myself hate being noticed and avoid crowds, in particular the press,” she replied.

  *

  Later in the evening, he sought out Van Rhyn’s stepdaughter, Margaret, and found her with the General’s aide-de-camp, a young Army lieutenant. She appeared to be bored, making desultory conversation, and seemed relieved by his interruption. Could the young lieutenant’s company be that bad, he thought?

  “Ah, Margaret Langton-Van Rhyn is rather long, don’t you think? But at last I have found you,” Peace said, a smile on his face. “Forgive my use of your first name. I merely wish to apologise for the manner in which I voiced my sentiments on politics. I had no intention of offending you.”

  “Rest assured, Lord Digby, surrounded as I am by my sister, mother and stepfather and not to forget, the military top brass, your views could not shock me,” she replied, returning the smile. “However, there is a difference. At least you appear to be apologetic about your beliefs.” With that, she laughed again, the sternness disappearing from her face, her features softening.

  The lieutenant had overheard the discussion, and it appeared to dawn on him that he’d suddenly become an intruder on a private discussion. He ma
de a discreet withdrawal.

  “Thank you for rescuing me from a truly dull evening. I had to listen enthralled as he lectured me on the invincibility of the South African Armed Forces. I hope you have no such similar intentions?” she asked.

  Once again, it was time to turn on the charm, Peace thought.

  He laughed. “No, you needn’t fear. Other men’s exploits don’t interest me. I see you have the impression I would suppress the aspirations of lesser men in their quest for equality and freedom.” He paused to take a sip of his whisky. “That’s not true. What I do believe is that the populace should not be ruled by inadequate men placed in positions of power by no more than a scrawled X on a ballot paper just because they’d once been good bush warfare commanders. That doesn’t make sense to me. To be qualified to assume a position of power requires, I believe, an educated background, evidence of entrepreneurship, and astute leadership qualities. Also, should it not also include a degree of breeding?” Dammit, Peace, he thought to himself, you’re really laying it on now! He continued, “I don’t believe that the successful rebel leaders who suddenly find themselves as presidents and cabinet ministers necessarily have the capacity for good governance. You need only look at Cuba and a few of the emerging African countries north of us.” Now, that was a mouthful.

  She looked at him appraisingly from under lowered eyebrows. “That was quite a dissertation. I accept that you’ve a point, but you don’t have to come across like some of these verkramptes[3] and power-mongers.” She looked pointedly at the others in the room.

  “Let’s not argue about that right now — I hope you’ll one day find that I’m not what you think I am. I do have compassion for the human race,” he said quietly.

  The guests were slowly taking their leave and Peace decided to follow.

  “Delighted that you and my daughter got on so well,” Van Rhyn said as all made their farewells at the entrance.