Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  ‘Gladly,’ Pontowski said, ‘as soon as I get you on an airplane.’

  Chapter 19

  Tuesday, March 31

  Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein

  *

  MacKay stood up when Beckmann entered the security control room. ‘Generaal,’ Kreiner said, ‘this is the new man I told you about, John Mills. He has been here only three days and ...’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Beckmann interrupted, smiling at MacKay. ‘You have certainly impressed Kreiner. He says we can now track the whereabouts of everyone on base using ID cards and card scanners at the entry control points.’

  ‘It was fairly simple,’ MacKay said. ‘All the hardware was in place and the computer programs were easily modified. It was simply a matter of using what you had.’

  When the Boys had built MacKay’s cover story as a security systems specialist, they had back doored the Iron Guard’s computer system by analyzing the magnetic strip on the original ID card MacKay had given them. The encoded data was better than DNA and led them to the American contractor who had installed the security system for the Iron Guard. The right leverage had been applied — the mention of an IRS audit in conjunction with a sexual harassment law suit — and they had the complete system. Then, at Standard’s urging, the Boys had come up with a way to make the system more efficient. Their work was MacKay’s entry ticket.

  ‘There are still a few problems,’ he told him. ‘I haven’t sorted out the bugs in the housing area ... too many people with random access ... give me a few more days.’

  ‘Still, I am most impressed,’ Beckmann said.

  You should be, MacKay thought. It isn’t often the CIA shares its technical expertise with the opposition.

  Beckmann grew serious. The cover story the Boys had planted with Sicherheits Dienste had been dutifully relayed to him through the Bruderbund. According to Sicherheits Dienste, MacKay was a computer genius and totally loyal to whoever was paying him. But he had a dark side to his personality — he had a talent for violence. Because he was black, MacKay was the perfect front man for the Iron Guard’s security service. He could terrorize the black population in the Boerstaat. And once MacKay had served his purpose, he could be disposed of like Sergeant Shivuto. ‘May I ask why you did not return to the States after leaving Sicherheits Dienste and came to South Africa?’ Beckmann said.

  So they’ve already checked me out, thought MacKay. He hoped the Boys had done their job right. ‘There’s a hostile reception waiting for me in the States,’ he answered, ‘and I’m here because of the money.’

  It was the answer Beckmann wanted to hear. MacKay was the man he needed. ‘I have other projects for you,’ he said. ‘I want you to create a system in Kreiner’s security compound that totally integrates communications and information systems from all sources — banks, taxes, phone calls, credit cards. I want to track a large population over a large area.’

  ‘Like a national identification system?’ MacKay asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ Beckmann said. ‘Also, I want you to run our network of black informants in Bloemfontein. Kreiner tells me you have unfinished business with a few of our local citizens.’

  MacKay forced what he hoped was a vicious smile. ‘A minor matter quickly solved.’

  ‘Can you handle all of this at once?’ Kreiner asked.

  ‘Let’s find out,’ MacKay said.

  ‘Good. Kreiner will show you the security compound later today.’

  *

  MacKay kept telling himself the security compound wasn’t real and that he was caught on the set of a very bad B movie. But the evidence was too strong, too compelling, and no matter how he sliced it, he was working for the Gestapo and Marius Kreiner was a modern version of Heinrich Himmler.

  ‘Does the gallows bother you?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ MacKay answered. Kreiner looked at him, expecting more. ‘As long as the paycheck is on time,’ MacKay continued, ‘I don’t care what you do.’

  Kreiner led him down the stairs and into the basement. ‘This is Interrogation,’ he explained.

  MacKay was stunned. He had reached a lower ring of hell.

  *

  Late that afternoon, MacKay walked through the housing area checking the card scanners at the various entry control points everyone had to pass through to enter or leave. Satisfied his cover was established, he wandered through the houses. He stopped short at a playground. Ziba was sitting on a bench while the Slavin children played on the swings. For a moment, he watched, not letting her see him. Then he walked over and sat down.

  ‘Good afternoon, John,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘To say I’m sorry. Ziba, I couldn’t handle it at first. The idea of sharing you with another man tore me apart. But you said something at the time ... there were things here I didn’t understand. I’m learning.’

  ‘What have you learned?’

  ‘Beckmann must be stopped.’

  ‘There is more than that,’ she said, getting up to leave. ‘Itzig’ — MacKay caught her use of Slavin’s first name — ‘can help my people. That is why I was told to seduce him.’

  She turned to look at him and the old feelings swept over MacKay, but they were tinged with sadness and a deeper understanding. ‘Beckmann is crazy. Tell Slavin to get out. Now.’

  ‘Itzig won’t leave his work,’ she said, walking away.

  *

  Wednesday, April 1

  The Executive Office Building, Washington, D.C.

  *

  Cyrus Piccard and John Weaver Elkins, the Secretary of Defense, were waiting backstage of the small auditorium when Carroll slipped in unnoticed from the White House. He parked his electric scooter in the back hall and walked slowly, the two Secret Service agents who were now his constant companions at each elbow, ready to catch him if he stumbled. ‘You’ve got a full house,’ Elkins told him. ‘It looks like every reporter in D.C. is out there.’ He waited while Carroll sat down to catch his breath.

  ‘That’s why we’re doing the press conference here,’ he said. ‘The idea is to put some physical distance between the conference and the White House.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, there’s more room here and I’m expendable.’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ Piccard said. He studied Carroll, worried about his emaciated look. ‘There must be a better way to defuse the issue. The media has gone into a feeding frenzy over the fiasco in Kimberley.’

  ‘No reporter over there is stirring the pot like Liz Gordon,’ Elkins replied.

  Carroll stood up and laughed. ‘You’re mixing your metaphors. Let’s do it.’ He handed Piccard his cane and walked on stage. It was only ten short steps to the podium, but it was an effort. Slowly, he pulled himself on to the stool that had been placed behind the podium and grabbed the edge of the lectern. He leaned into the microphone as the TV cameras came on.

  ‘Thank you for coming on such short notice,’ Carroll began. ‘Needless to say, the White House has received more than a few questions after Elizabeth Gordon’s broadcast from South Africa Sunday night. Hopefully, we can provide a few answers.’ A titter of disbelief grew into a loud grumble. A few of the reporters shouted questions. Carroll said nothing and waited for the noise to subside.

  ‘They’re gearing up for a human sacrifice,’ Piccard said, watching from the wings.

  ‘Can you blame them?’ Elkins replied. ‘Gordon’s coverage of the mess at Kimberley will get her an Emmy. She made us look like a bunch of mindless butchers ... and very heavy on the racism.’

  ‘It was spectacular reporting,’ Piccard admitted. ‘And she was right in the thick of it.’

  ‘But the network edited the hell out of it,’ Elkins said. He fell silent as the crowd quieted.

  ‘Elizabeth Gordon,’ Carroll continued, ‘was right when she looked around, saw the carnage in the streets of Kimberley, and asked “Why?” I would like to show you why, not with our information, but by taking a careful look at what Elizabeth saw.’ The big screen behind Carro
ll came to life.

  ‘Because of time constraints, the network did not show the first part of her telecast.’ Gordon’s face filled the screen. Behind her was the Big Hole.

  ‘Apparently,’ Carroll said, ‘the news director felt that blacks sacrificing a white in effigy is not news the American public needs. I’d like to replay what the public did see and ...’

  ‘You’re wasting our time,’ a reporter called from the audience. ‘We’ve all seen it.’ He got up and left. As far as he was concerned, anything more than forty-eight hours old was ancient history.

  Carroll smiled. ‘Please bear with me.’ He fast-forwarded the tape and froze a frame of the eight blue-helmeted legionnaires Gordon and Sam had linked up with. ‘Please note their weapons.’ He used an electronic pointer to highlight the riot gear they were wearing. ‘These soldiers were prepared for riot control and were only lightly armed.’

  He restarted the tape and waited for the action in front of the building where the reporters had been trapped with the legionnaires. Carroll froze another frame. The crowd in the street had changed. They were all men, carrying weapons. ‘These men were not looting or rioting,’ he said. He leapfrogged quickly ahead, briefly pausing at five preselected frames. ‘Although they were not wearing uniforms, they were armed with new assault rifles of the same make and model.’ He paused at another frame. ‘This man is carrying a sixty-millimeter mortar manufactured in Italy. These two men are his ammunition bearers.’ Two more frames were frozen for the reporters, all showing different mortar teams with the same equipment.

  Again, Carroll fast-forwarded Gordon’s telecast. Images of the damage at the city hall were briefly highlighted before he got to the A-l0’s attack and the breakout by the legionnaires. The grisly images of what Gordon had called ‘the street of death’ had not lost their shock value. ‘Our analysts,’ Carroll said, ‘counted seventeen crew-served weapons in this street alone. And these are the bodies’ — he framed the destroyed hulk of an armored car — ‘of white mercenaries.’

  A voice from the audience yelled, ‘How do we know this tape hasn’t been doctored by the CIA?’

  ‘You can verify what I’ve shown you here by replaying your own copies of Gordon’s broadcast.’

  Backstage, Elkins muttered, ‘Gotcha, ass-hole.’ Three more reporters left the auditorium.

  Now the tape ran at its normal speed and Gordon’s face filled the screen. ‘... no attempt was made by the United Nations to free them through negotiations. Instead, American A-l0s blasted open a corridor ...’

  Carroll stopped the tape. ‘Liz Gordon did not know,’ he said, ‘that a UN soldier had been gunned down in cold blood trying to negotiate a ceasefire. However, the network did, yet they made no attempt to set the record straight.’ Another reporter left, not willing to listen to any criticism of the media.

  Carroll started the tape. ‘When I look around,’ Gordon was saying, ‘I can only ask one question. Why?’ The screen froze on her face.

  ‘I believe,’ Carroll said, ‘that Miss Gordon had the answer to her question in front of her. The United Nations peacekeeping team had been trapped by a large, well-armed and well-trained group of irregulars led by mercenaries. It was either fight their way out or be killed. By relying on surprise, overwhelming fire power, and confining the fighting to around the city hall, civilian and United Nations casualties were kept to a minimum.’

  The screen went blank and he looked at the audience expectantly. It was time for questions. ‘Why didn’t Gordon see what you’ve shown us?’ a reporter asked, his voice hard with contempt.

  Backstage, Piccard looked at the reporter. ‘Please, Bill,’ he said, ‘don’t ask him if he’s ever been in combat.’

  ‘That reporter?’ Elkins scoffed. ‘Only at happy hour.’

  Carroll lowered his head for a moment and then looked steadily at the reporter. ‘Elizabeth Gordon,’ he answered, ‘had been in combat for over twenty-four hours. She was tired, hungry, and thirsty. She reported what she saw. But it took hours of combat analysis by trained professionals to discover what was actually going on around her. They were not aching with fatigue, they were not in fear of their lives, they were not in the midst of an on-going battle. In short, they had time to analyze the situation carefully and make sense out of it. Time is the one commodity that is not available when the bullets are flying.’

  The tenor of the questions changed and were less hostile. Finally, Carroll turned the podium over to Elkins, who came out on stage. The Secretary of Defense keyed the remote control and the screen came to life.

  ‘This is what we call the order of battle,’ Elkins said. ‘We know the United Nations airlifted 206 legionnaires in an anti-riot configuration to restore order in Kimberley. We estimate they were attacked by over 3000 armed irregulars.’

  ‘Are you saying,’ a reporter asked, ‘that the United Nations walked into an ambush?’

  ‘It’s very possible,’ Elkins replied. He fielded more questions and a few more reporters quietly left the auditorium. ‘One more question,’ he said.

  A woman stood up. ‘I have a question for Mr Carroll,’ she said. ‘Is there any truth to the rumor that you are ill and considering resigning as the National Security Advisor?’

  Carroll’s face was calm as he answered. ‘I have been diagnosed with ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease, and yes, I am offering my resignation to the President.’ Sorry, Liz, Carroll thought. I know I promised you the story ... if I could. Silence ruled for a few seconds before a flurry of questions erupted from the reporters. Elkins retreated into the wings to let all attention focus on Carroll.

  ‘That,’ Elkins said to Piccard, ‘was the mother of all press conferences.’

  *

  Thursday, April 2

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  *

  The President looked up from his desk when Carroll entered the Oval Office. He tossed the budget proposal he was reading to his chief of staff with a sharp, ‘This is pure bullshit. Tell Agriculture to rework it and get back to me. Twelve percent, that’s the bottom line. They decide where the cuts are going to be or I will.’ He kicked back in his chair, and motioned his other two advisors out of the office. ‘How’s it going, Bill?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Carroll answered. ‘All things considered.’

  The President picked up a letter. ‘I’m not going to accept your resignation, not after the press conference yesterday.’

  ‘I’m becoming a liability, sir.’

  ‘Hardly.’ A satisfied look spread across his face. ‘We’re getting all sorts of positive fallout. This morning the Lords of the Hill called. They’re calling off all committee hearings for now.’ He chuckled, picturing the discomfort of certain congressmen. ‘Think how it would look on national TV ... you sitting alone at a table ... your cane propped beside your chair ... a panel of hostile congressmen grilling you.’

  He lit a cigar and puffed contentedly. The President was having a good day. ‘Rumor has it the Honorable Ann Nevers is furious.’ He paused. ‘No, you are definitely not a liability. I want you to stay on. The only question is, Do you want to resign and spend more time with your family?’

  Carroll considered the question. Yes, he did want to be with his family, but that was happening now. What would be the best example he could set for his two children? Should he let them see him wither away at home and become a vegetable? Or should he remain a useful, productive individual as long as possible? What would Mary want? He knew the answer. ‘Please tear it up. But when I’m not hacking it, tell me. I will not be a burden.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the President replied. ‘I will.’ It was an easy decision for the President and he wanted to keep Carroll as an advisor as long as possible. Not only was Carroll at the peak of his abilities, but the President knew good press when he saw it. The image of a dying, wheelchair-bound advisor in the halls of the White House had all the makings of high drama and tragedy.

  ‘Bill, have you seen today’s PDB?’ Carroll nod
ded in answer. The PDB, President’s Daily Brief, was a summary of the best intelligence available to the United States. The slickly produced document was highly classified and read only by the highest ranking policy makers. ‘The UN was ambushed at Kimberley by the Azanians. What do we know about them?’

  ‘The Azanian Liberation Army,’ Carroll answered, ‘is a black liberation movement trying to carve a big piece of territory out of South Africa for themselves. They get support from a lot of sources, including OPEC.’

  ‘Is OPEC the main problem here?’ the President asked.

  Carroll shook his head. ‘They’re a minor problem. They also back the ANC and Inkatha. Then no matter who wins, they have an entree. The real problem is still the Iron Guard.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ the President said. ‘The Iron Guard is part of the white resistance movement. What do they have to do with the Azanians?’

  ‘The CIA has evidence that the Iron Guard is encouraging the Azanians to cause trouble. That weakens the legitimate government and keeps the UN busy while the Iron Guard consolidates its position.’

  ‘Given what I know about the Iron Guard,’ the President said, ‘you’ll need some damn’ good evidence to convince me there’s a connection between them.’

  ‘Erik Beckmann, the brother of the Iron Guard commander, is with the Azanians. We’ve monitored phone calls between them.’

  The President came alert. ‘Erik Beckmann ... isn’t he a terrorist?’

  ‘One of the most notorious,’ Carroll replied. ‘Just about everyone wants him. Including us.’

  ‘So the Iron Guard is using the Azanians as a shield? Getting to the Iron Guard is like peeling an onion to get at the heart.’ The President drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘Bill, I want to take the Azanians off the table.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I want to extend the Rules of Engagement — surprise retaliatory strikes strictly in the name of self-defense. Talk to the French and let’s put some teeth into UN peacekeeping operations and start peeling that onion.’