Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  ‘Are you asleep?’ Elena said, breaking his reverie. He looked up. She was standing over him, her bare skin glistening, water dripping on his pants.

  He stood. They were almost touching. ‘Not really,’ he answered. ‘I was just waiting to see if the sharks got you.’

  ‘Sharks?’ she said, her eyes wide in shock.

  ‘Oh, Elena,’ he murmured, mimicking her. ‘I really thought you knew.’ He turned and walked back to the car.

  *

  Elena dropped him off at Ysterplaat Air Base. She lowered the BMW’s window and leaned out. Her hair was in disarray, held loosely back off her face by a twisted scarf. Her shirt was half-open and he caught a delicate scent that made him think of sea spray and sand. ‘Matt,’ she said, ‘this is the strangest courtship.’ She gunned the engine and raced away.

  Chapter 13

  Tuesday, March 3

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  *

  Early-morning was the best time in the White House and Carroll was certain ghosts of past Presidents roamed the mansion just before dawn. He walked slowly down the quiet halls of the west wing toward his office, hoping he would see at least one apparition. He had a few questions he wanted to ask, especially if it was Matt’s grandfather.

  His secretary was already at work, preparing his desk. ‘Good morning, Midge,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I think you live here.’

  ‘Actually, I sleep under my desk,’ she told him. They exchanged smiles at the old joke as Carroll started his morning routine. Midge had removed the writing pad from his desk and the computer monitor was turned on. He sat down and called up the President’s Daily Brief. For the next hour, he hardly moved, only pecking at the keyboard to scroll the display to a new report.

  He finished by reading the CIA’s most recent assessment of South Africa. They’ve got it wrong, he decided. ‘Midge,’ he called, ‘is Mrs Hazelton in yet?’ Less than a minute later, his special assistant was in his office. ‘Mazie, what’s your read on the latest from South Africa?’

  ‘The Japanese have withdrawn,’ she said, ‘which tidies up the situation a little. And the NRO sent over some very interesting Keyhole coverage of the AWB’s base at Bloemfontein.’ She handed him the latest spy satellite imagery the National Reconnaissance Office had forwarded to the NSC. ‘The satellite picked up faint traces of radiation leaking from this area inside the Iron Gate.’ She pointed to the underground laboratory where Prime had melted down. ‘It correlates with some earlier satellite coverage from the thirteenth of last month.’ She handed him a second high-resolution print. ‘The satellite just happened to be overhead and imaged the base. Look at all the activity around the same area ... fire trucks, people milling around. Analysts at the CIA claim this was an underground nuclear laboratory.’

  ‘Your assessment?’ Carroll asked.

  ‘It fits the same general pattern of activity we monitored at Pelindaba before they moved Prime. I think they had a meltdown. The Afrikaners are still working on cold nuclear fusion and making progress.’

  ‘That’s making some pretty big assumptions,’ Carroll allowed. ‘It’s more logical to assume some type of nuclear weapons development gone haywire.’

  Mazie shook her head. ‘Contrary to what everyone thinks, the Afrikaners did destroy their nuclear weapons in 1994 and the Iron Guard does not have nukes. This has to do with Prime.’

  Carroll studied his assistant. He wasn’t so sure about the nuclear weapons being destroyed. ‘If they haven’t got nukes, what do they have?’

  Mazie took a deep breath. ‘Nerve gas.’

  Carroll allowed a little smile. ‘How did you come to that conclusion?’

  ‘When the Iron Guard received a shipment of Aeros from Czechoslovakia that were not nuclear capable. But those aircraft are configured for chemical warfare.’

  ‘So what do you recommend we do?’ Carroll asked.

  ‘Jack up the CIA and find out what’s going on inside Beckmann’s Iron Gate. He’s certifiable.’

  Carroll leaned back in his chair. ‘Make it happen, Mazie.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Would you care to join Chuck, Wayne and me for lunch?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ she told him. Mazie liked the two Secret Service Agents who took it as their personal crusade to look after Carroll and pass on the latest White House gossip.

  *

  Wednesday, March 4

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  ‘You look better,’ Standard said when MacKay entered his office at the Consulate.

  ‘Yeah, it surprised me too,’ he said cautiously. The bandages had just come off and he wasn’t sure about the new image he was presenting to the world. During his first week at Cape Town, one of ‘the Boys’, the technical team that supported Standard’s operation, had suggested plastic surgery was in order to change his appearance. It was not a matter of vanity, MacKay had accepted his harsh image years before, but of survival.

  It had been a relatively minor thing for a local surgeon to straighten MacKay’s nose, pin back his jug-handle ears, and change his hairline. To cover his pseudofolliculitis and receding chin, he had let his beard grow again. The change was startling and MacKay had a new persona.

  That was the easiest part. Setting up his business cover had taken much more work. The Boys had spent long hours building a fictitious business. They created a corporation that specialized in security systems and left a paperwork trail that gave the corporation life and, more importantly, money.

  At the same time, the Boys had to make MacKay an expert in security systems and apply for a business license in South Africa. The last had nearly sunk the entire project until they found the right bureaucrat to bribe. While all this was going on, one of them had traveled to Bloemfontein, rented an office and an apartment, opened bank accounts in the corporation and MacKay’s name, and set up a safe house.

  The Boys had done it all in seven weeks and were four very exhausted women. But Standard was having his doubts about MacKay. ‘Do you feel up to this?’ he asked.

  ‘Why are you asking?’ MacKay answered.

  ‘I’m worried about you. You lost two good men in Johannesburg.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  Standard decided it was time to discover if MacKay could still do the job. ‘You are partially responsible.’

  MacKay’s answer surprised him. ‘I was totally responsible. I should have called Robby and Grawley the second I knew there was trouble brewing near our office. I started improvising, playing it by ear, and went there by foot. That took thirty minutes and they were killed during that time. I’ve run it a hundred times and the results are always the same. I fucked up.’

  ‘You’re being too hard on yourself,’ Standard said. ‘You didn’t pull the trigger.’

  ‘I could have prevented it,’ MacKay said, ‘and I’ll live with that for the rest of my life.’

  Standard made his decision. ‘You learned something. Don’t wing it next time.’ MacKay nodded in agreement. ‘The company is still on our backs big time about Prime and wants results, as of yesterday. You’re going back to Bloemfontein.’

  MacKay smiled at him.

  *

  Thursday, March 5

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  Beckmann’s staff was lined up for the early-morning parade into his office and each had carefully prepared and rehearsed the ABCs of his morning briefing. The moment one staffer left Beckmann’s office, the next would walk through the door and for a brief terrifying period have his three to five minutes of Beckmann’s undivided attention.

  The kommandant, a lieutenant colonel, who served as Beckmann’s intelligence chief, was worried as he waited for his turn, not certain how Beckmann would react to the latest information from Cape Town. The chief of logistics came out of Beckmann’s office muttering to himself, his face gray with worry. The kommandant was through the door before it closed.

  ‘Goeimôre, Generaal,’ he said, standing at attention.


  ‘Is there any good news this morning?’ Beckmann asked.

  ‘The kaffir government cannot control its own bureaucracy in Pretoria. The corruption is unbelievable and the black bureaucrats are looting the treasury. The ANC should have never replaced the white bureaucracy with their own people. The government has all but ceased functioning.’

  Beckmann nodded, pleased with what he was hearing. ‘They did this to themselves without any help from us. What is Cape Town doing about it?’

  ‘The President,’ the kommandant replied, ‘is sending his cabinet there to reestablish order. It is the old system under apartheid where a cabinet minister divides his time between Pretoria and Cape Town.’

  ‘Details,’ Beckmann ordered.

  ‘The cabinet ministers are departing on Sunday’s Blue Train, after the President’s reception on Saturday night. They will arrive in Pretoria with much fanfare on Monday morning and immediately go to work.’

  Beckmann leaned back in his chair, his fingers together in a steeple. ‘So they are using the Blue Train,’ he murmured. The Blue Train was the luxury service that ran between Pretoria and Cape Town and rivaled the famed Oriental Express in its opulence. It was a holdover from the old days of white supremacy and the new government kept it in service because their bureaucrats enjoyed using it. It was a symbol of how things had changed.

  Beckmann sprang to his feet and the kommandant almost passed out. ‘Perfect!’ Beckmann shouted. ‘Thank you, that is very good news.’ The kommandant breathed easier and beat a hasty retreat.

  Beckmann punched at his intercom. ‘Send the rest of my staff back to work,’ he told his aide-de-camp. ‘Have Sergeant Shivuto report immediately.’ He paced the floor, thinking. This was an opportunity to hurt the central government and embarrass the UN at the same time. He had to isolate the government and cut off its foreign support, especially from the United States. What were the political consequences for the Iron Guard if he failed?

  Perhaps his brother Erik could persuade the Azanians to attack the UN again and divert attention from the Iron Guard. Yes! That definitely had possibilities he needed to explore. He listened for that inner voice that warned him when he was overreaching. There was only silence.

  Sergeant Shivuto entered Beckmann’s office exactly fifteen minutes later. Shivuto was an Ovambo, a slender man who stood five feet six inches tall. He had close-set eyes and a big nose that had been broken and never properly set, giving his face an unbalanced look. His uniform was clean and pressed and his boots shined. But that was the exterior. Underneath, was a true professional; intelligent, confident, well-trained, and loyal.

  ‘Michael, hoe gaan dit?’ How goes it? Beckmann said in Afrikaans. Shivuto answered in the same language, one of the four he spoke fluently. ‘Can Koevoet stop a train?’ Beckmann asked. Koevoet was the elite black unit Shivuto had created for Beckmann. It was named after the counterinsurgency unit where they had met.

  ‘We are trained and ready for it,’ Shivuto replied, ‘but have never done it.’ The answer satisfied Beckmann. If Shivuto said Koevoet was ready, they were.

  ‘Can your men employ the new 20mm Twin Gun?’

  ‘We have never seen it,’ Shivuto answered.

  ‘Start training today and prepare to move out Friday night.’

  ‘What is our mission?’

  ‘To stop the Blue Train,’ Beckmann told him. ‘You will receive the details later.’

  Shivuto saluted and left.

  *

  Saturday, March 7

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  Elizabeth Gordon stood by the honor guard at the entrance to the President’s mansion with a remote microphone in her left hand. Her white gown shimmered under the floodlights and her blonde hair was arranged in a carefully tangled mane. The gown was perfect for the occasion as one limousine after another arrived to deliver their loads of elegantly dressed dignitaries and their resplendent wives.

  Sam Darnell visually cued her as a limousine flying the United Nations flag drew up. ‘In this strange land of contradictions,’ Gordon said into her microphone, ‘the first formal state dinner hosted by the President of South Africa is being held against a background of violence and death while the appearance here is one of normality, pomp, and ceremony.’

  Sam zoomed in on the small UN flag on the fender of the limousine. ‘One cannot help but ask,’ Gordon continued, ‘is this merely a facade covering up a crumbling government or is it a sign of stability? Only time will tell.’

  The honor guard came to attention as the door of the limousine opened and Elena Martine stepped out, flashing a generous exposure of leg for Sam’s camera. Pontowski was right behind her in his formal dark-blue mess dress uniform. The simplicity of his uniform was in stark contrast to the glittering uniforms of the African dignitaries around him. His command pilot wings and two rows of miniature medals sent the message that he was professional military — not a pumped-up politician.

  Again, Gordon spoke into her microphone. ‘Madame Elena Martine is the head of the United Nations Observer Mission to South Africa. She is escorted by Brigadier General Matthew Pontowski who is representing General de Royer, the commander of all United Nations forces in South Africa.’ Gordon joined the couple as they passed the honor guard arm in arm. They paused for a moment and exchanged the standard pleasantries warranted by the occasion.

  Sam zoomed in on the three and framed the two women standing side by side. Elena was understated and elegant while Gordon was dazzling and glamorous. Together, they were the stars of the evening. Sam kept the lens focused on Elena as they walked away, hoping she would at least trip or stumble, anything to break the image. ‘Sam,’ Gordon said, handing her the microphone, ‘I’ve got to go in now. I wish they allowed cameras inside.’ She looked at her photographer. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Sam said, lowering her heavy camera. ‘I’ll meet you back at the bungalow.’ She walked away, wondering why she felt so unhappy.

  Inside, Elena preceded Pontowski through the reception line as protocol dictated. But it was very obvious they were a pair. ‘Matt,’ she said taking his arm as they entered the reception hall, ‘I do believe your little camerawoman, the one you call Sam, is jealous. Have you captured her heart?’

  ‘She’s media, Elena. In our country, they don’t have hearts.’

  ‘But they are certainly beautiful,’ she replied, throwing a smile in Gordon’s direction. The reporter was surrounded by a group of admiring military attachés and Minister of Defense Joe Pendulo.

  ‘How did she wangle an invitation?’ Pontowski asked.

  ‘I arranged it,’ Elena said. She laughed at the confused expression on Pontowski’s face. ‘You must learn how to handle a woman in her prime,’ she told him. ‘I’ll explain it later.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she whispered.

  Gordon returned Elena’s smile as she and Pontowski passed by, then turned back to Pendulo. ‘Mr Minister, I understand you’re leaving for Pretoria tomorrow?’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Pendulo answered, speaking with a sing-song lilt, the sign that he was in a good mood. ‘I am taking the Blue Train. It is a very civilized way to travel and gives me the peace and quiet I need to think and plan. Why don’t you come with us and experience it for yourself?’

  ‘I would love to,’ Gordon replied. ‘But I’m going to Bloemfontein.’

  ‘Ah,’ Pendulo said, ‘the train stops at Bloemfontein. Now you must come.’ It was quickly arranged for Liz Gordon and Sam Darnell to travel with Pendulo as far as Bloemfontein. She took Pendulo’s arm and followed Pontowski and Elena.

  *

  Pontowski stood by the big window of Elena’s apartment overlooking Bantry Bay. A cold wind had swept in from the South Atlantic carrying the first message of the approaching winter and whipping the waves into white caps as they crashed into the rocks under a waning moon. ‘You have a beautiful view,’ he said over his shoulder.

>   There was no answer. He walked over to the fire that was crackling to life in the Swedish fireplace and undid the gold button to his jacket. He pulled his bow tie loose and undid his collar button. ‘That feels better,’ he mumbled to himself. He hated the formal uniform and swore he would change it, if he ever got the chance.

  He poured himself a cognac and looked around for Elena. She had disappeared and only her delicate silk shawl on the floor marked a trail to the bedroom. He picked it up, draped it across a chair, and walked around the large room, not sure if he liked her austere and modern apartment. But the fire was warm and inviting, a welcome change after the formal state dinner. He sat down in one of the modern chairs that made him think of an infant seat for adults. It was surprisingly comfortable and he laid his head back. God, I’m tired, he thought, drifting off to sleep.

  Elena’s voice reached him, bringing him back. ‘Matt.’

  ‘How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Not long,’ she answered.

  Pontowski shook his head to clear the cobwebs. Then he saw her and for a brief moment experienced the certain knowledge that his heart had stopped beating. She was curled up in a large leather-covered bean bag and except for her earrings and high-heeled pumps, was naked. The surge of blood to an extremity that had been dormant for over a year was reassuring proof that his heart was still functioning.

  She uncurled from the bean bag and walked to the bar, her skin glowing in the firelight. She poured two snifters of cognac and handed him one, her fingers lingering for a moment on his hand. A shiver shot up his arm. ‘You do have this most distressing habit of going to sleep whenever I get undressed.’ She sighed. ‘It must be me.’

  ‘Hardly,’ he said, now fully awake.

  She settled back into the bean bag with an easy motion that set a few more of his nerve endings on fire. ‘Matt, we must talk.’

  ‘Your lesson on the care and nurture of older women?’

  ‘You must take this seriously. You Americans can be so thick at times.’ She was looking directly at his crotch.