‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Christian, one thing you have to promise me.’
‘What is it?’
‘You’re never to take off your watch while you’re in South Africa.’
‘That’s a deal,’ he said.
‘And one last thing—something that you need to be aware of. When I left your father’s room in the hospital after he’d been shot, I was aware of a man standing in the hallway, who had the most menacing presence. I subsequently found out through Mike McMahon that this person was Andre van der Walt, your father’s contact at BOSS. I saw him again at your father’s funeral. I remember feeling there was no compassion in his eyes, and it was almost as though he was there to make sure your father was dead.’
‘But, Mum, BOSS was completely dismantled by Mandela’s government; there’d no longer be that threat.’
‘Honey, there’ll always be threats in South Africa. It was reported that Van der Walt was killed in a car accident, but some thought that was a convenient excuse to avoid being tried for crimes against humanity. There are now underground organisations still committed to a white supremacy and hope of a single white country within South Africa, so there may still be threats of a different kind. If Van der Walt wasn’t killed, he may have become part of that, and such organisations may still find value in whatever research or information that your father may have had. Therefore, I want you also to promise me not to take any risks and be guided by what Mike advises. He has lots of government connections that may help you.’
‘No risk-taking unless I checked with Mike first, I promise. I’m sure that Van der Walt has long gone,’ Christian said, looking at his mother with that knowing smile that he knew she loved.
Chapter 12
Andre van der Walt greeted Jannie in Afrikaans but ventured nothing else as he walked into his room and stood at the foot of his bed.
Jannie watched as he slowly paced the hospital room methodically checking for any threats, the way the security services personnel always seemed to do. He then moved back to the foot of the bed and looked at the plaster on Jannie’s arm.
‘So you survived,’ he said. ‘You obviously didn’t get our message to stay away from the church?’
‘What message?’ said Jannie. ‘You mean you knew that they were going to attack the church and you didn’t warn anyone?’
He looked at Van der Walt, with his square jaw and prominent eyebrows that were common to those of European Dutch ancestry. It created a sense of foreboding, but it was the eyes that had always concerned Jannie. There was blackness where there should have been colour, impenetrability where there should have been transparency. When Van der Walt looked at you it was impossible to tell what he was thinking, something that he assumed that Van der Walt both enjoyed and cultivated. There was much supporting evidence, Jannie thought, that these were killing eyes.
Jannie knew Van der Walt had been brought up on a farm near Bloemfontein in not dissimilar circumstances to Jannie, with parents who, like Jannie’s, were related to the original settler farmers—or Boers, as they were more commonly called in Afrikaans. They were unshakeable believers in, and architectural supporters of, racial segregation.
The initial approach from Andre van der Walt, and the Bureau of State Security, came about as Jannie looked for funding to set up the liver transplant unit. Groote Schuur Hospital had not been deemed a priority when it came to research funding, as it was too closely associated with the liberal University of Cape Town. He knew that most of the funding for research went to the pre-eminent Afrikaner universities in Stellenbosch and Pretoria. Partly in desperation, Jannie had reached out initially through his local Broederbond. This organisation was established in the early nineteen twenties to preserve the tradition and culture of the Afrikaner and to counter the English-speaking clubs. Those who were chosen to join had to be financially sound, white and Afrikaans-speaking Protestant males over the age of twenty-five. They had to be unimpeachable characters who actively accepted South Africa as a separate Afrikaner nation with its own language and culture. Jannie was aware that it had grown beyond its original mandate of a cultural organisation and now wielded huge political influence. It was an organisation shrouded in secrecy that reached into all aspects of Afrikaner life, particularly the two that concerned Afrikaners most—politics and religion. It was seen as both the secret protector and the lifeblood of the Afrikaner nation. So influential had the Broederbond become that promotion in public or political life was difficult without membership.
Jannie had reluctantly joined when he graduated, thinking at the time it was something that would further his career ambitions and preserve his cultural roots. Uncertain about the direction of the Broederbond, he had told no one about his membership, not even Renata. The monthly meetings he always managed to merge into a clinical meeting at the hospital. It was at one of these meetings that it was suggested that BOSS were interested in acquiring the best scientific minds to assist in ongoing research that was in the national interest, and was he interested. There was, it was suggested to Jannie, a quid pro quo for those who were committed to preserving the status quo of the Afrikaner at higher levels. With some misgivings, he expressed an interest, and shortly afterwards Andre van der Walt made contact.
As he stared at Van der Walt standing menacingly at the foot of his bed, he realised those initial misgivings had been well placed. Van der Walt and BOSS were not so much interested in preserving white Afrikaner traditions as continuing the subjugation of blacks by any means. They had become inosculated with an apartheid government and the ruthless pursuit of a national ideology which now apparently allowed pretermit hecatombs. And he had unwittingly become part of that all due to stupid pride. In many ways, he imagined he was no better than his father, although, ironically, he knew his father would have been proud of him working with the apartheid government. If he had not been so nauseated by the killings, the irony may have been something he would have reflected on more fully.
‘You let all those people be killed and injured? You’ve lost the plot. That sickens me and I want nothing further to do with you or BOSS—I’m out.’
‘You don’t get out; you’re part of the fight. As part of the president’s committee, you were trusted with matters of national and international importance. You’ve sworn an oath of allegiance, and with such intelligence, you only stay alive when we know that you’re completely with us. Have you forgotten that? For God’s sake, man, this is about the preservation of our country that our fathers fought for and now the blacks want to take from us.’
‘So you knew about the threat, or you orchestrated it?’ said Jannie, still disbelieving that an organisation that he belonged to would allow those to die who they were meant to protect.
‘I’m not authorised to tell you that, but sometimes a few must die so that many others survive. This just shows the world that if the blacks were in charge, they’d kill whoever they liked and now the entire world understands why we have to preserve apartheid. Any other way that involves the blacks would be chaos.’
Jannie wondered whether they had really tried to warn him, or whether having someone of his stature killed would have just added to the belief that all blacks were terrorists and incapable of integration.
Van der Walt continued to look at him with an unblinking gaze. ‘We’ve been through your office; we needed to ensure that there was no evidence linking you to us, as both the Israelis and the Taiwanese were concerned when they heard that you’d been shot. We found this research. What is it?’
Jannie looked at the handful of papers that he was waving. He could see from the diagrams and drawings that they had some of his genetic research.
‘That’s research from the liver transplant programme,’ he said.
‘Ag, man, I know that you think I’m stupid, but even I can see this is something about the difference between blacks, coloureds and whites.’
Jannie stared back at him, concerned, firstly, that they had found the research and,
secondly, what they might do with it when they fully understood what he had discovered. He felt Van der Walt’s eyes searching his for some confirmation that he had found something significant. Unblinking, he returned the stare, determined not to betray any feeling. He had given enough to this organisation masquerading as a wider public protector. No way was he going to give them what he had discovered in order for them to suppress the blacks; what was left of his conscience would not allow it. He wished he had never become part of them.
He looked at the papers in Van der Walt’s hand and quietly cursed himself for leaving even that part of the research where it could be found. The only consolation, he thought, was that the important formulas, the DNA sequences and unknown enzyme that he had discovered, were encoded and buried. He had hidden the research, plus the folder that Stein had given him, deep under the roots of a willow tree in the back garden. He doubted they would ever find it.
While he was reasonably confident they would never find the other half of his research on premature ageing, he knew they now believed that he had discovered something that might help them, if they could comprehend it, increase the chance of subjugating the blacks. His research on premature ageing meant that being able to identify gene sequences and targeting them could then create population groups that were ageing and docile, like a population group of serfs. In addition, given the extremes that they were now prepared to go to, they could prevent the blacks from ever having equality. It was a means by which they could quietly oppress large portions of the black population into silence—an opportunity that would be irresistible to any apartheid government or white supremacist group.
Van der Walt’s menacing eyes still had not left him. Nonetheless, Jannie believed, irrespective of his explanation, that he did not possess all of the research.
‘If there’s any more of this research, you need to give it to us now; you’ll remember what happened to Martyn Stein who was with you on the president’s committee. He was responsible for developing our nuclear weapons with Israel and Taiwan when he suddenly developed a Kaffir conscience and became a threat to national security.’
‘There is no more research,’ Jannie said.
Van der Walt held Jannie’s gaze, his look more threatening than Jannie could remember.
‘The one chance to live,’ he said, ‘and you’ve turned it down.’
As Jannie lay in bed thinking about Van der Walt’s last words, not only did the pain return but also the bilious thought that BOSS had orchestrated the terrorist attack to prevent any kind of peace dialogue with the blacks. It was a thought that lay like a fimiculous duvet over his bed. He felt contaminated and violated, helplessly ensnared and unable to extricate himself. That he had been complicit in such an act sickened him to the point where he momentarily considered taking his life. No one would understand that his intentions had been to preserve his traditions. If his friends and colleagues found out, he would be a pariah. That Van der Walt had also confirmed the role of BOSS in the death of Martyn Stein helped him understand the fear that he had seen in Martyn Stein’s eyes a few months ago when he had been passed a classified folder by Stein.
He thought about how they had allowed so many to die in the church, realising that this was a ruthless regime which would stop at nothing to ensure its survival. And he wasn’t sure that they had tried to warn him especially now that they suspected Martyn Stein had given him information.
He consoled himself that it was obviously information they needed, and as long as they were unable to find the rest of the research on ageing or the folder he might live. However, it was evident from the terrorist act on the church the lengths they were now prepared to go to, and keeping him alive would, he imagined, be a low priority. Perhaps if they did not find the Stein folder or his research, they would still kill him knowing that no one else would then have access to it. He needed to ensure, in some way, that they knew that if he were killed, information would be released to the international media.
Chapter 13
There were three things that Andre van der Walt left Jannie de Villiers convinced of the fact that there was more to Jannie’s research that he had been able to find out. He was still no closer to establishing whether Jannie had Martyn Stein’s folder and whether the strategy of telling him that the terrorist attack was planned and executed by BOSS would produce the desired result. The strategy of scaring Jannie to the point where he might reveal where the folder was, if indeed he had it, and where he had hidden his genetic research was, he felt, a big gamble. In addition, he disliked gambling, as there was too much uncertainty about their outcomes.
However, Van der Walt knew the Black Watch committee that he reported to within BOSS needed a definite answer to at least the question of where the folder was. The information that they suspected Martyn Stein was getting ready to release and which Jannie might now have could undermine not only South Africa’s nuclear weapons programme but also further isolate and possibly paralyse the government. He also knew that if there were any doubt about de Villiers having the information and BOSS not being able to retrieve it, then they would recommend that he be killed in a similar fashion to Stein.
The Black Watch committee was due to meet in Van der Walt’s Johannesburg office at two o’clock. This was to provide feedback on the terrorist attack in Cape Town, the success or otherwise of the consultation with Jannie de Villiers, and to report any progress about recovery of the Stein folder.
The initial BOSS plan had been to secure five black criminals and provide them with small arms training and financial guarantees. The intent had always been to eliminate the terrorists/operatives following the attack, leaving no evidence linking the attack to the security services. An English-speaking church had been selected primarily because it would have limited numbers of Afrikaners present. It was critical that the attack would provoke a maximum response from the liberal English-speaking groups that were discussing integration and peaceful transition from segregation. Outside forces could also be partly blamed, with careful planting of evidence, and this would reinforce the idea that communist countries were plotting against South Africa for its resources and strategic position in Africa.
The black criminals responded well to training and had developed expertise in the use of small arms and explosives. One of them had obviously worked out that he may not survive and, so, early in the training, had fled with a number of weapons. Van der Walt had dispatched their only black agent, Galela, who effectively dealt with the runaway and recovered the small arms and documents. The rest of the training had proceeded relatively smoothly. They were given documents that identified them as members of the Pan African Congress, as well as communist party literature, both of which would deliberately be left in the escape vehicle. The Pan African Congress was chosen above all because it was an organisation that had threatened that for each white farmer there would be one bullet. The psychological impact they estimated on all white groups would therefore be emphatic.
St Andrew’s Church in Cape Town was also chosen as a target because it had five points of access that could provide crossfire and hence kill many of the fifteen hundred who normally attended; therefore amplifying the public impact of the attack. Such an attack would be successful; a massacre would ensue and would permanently derail any thought amongst whites of integration. Van der Walt considered the major objectives had been accomplished, other than the reaction of the pastor of the church who, bizarrely, wanted to forgive everyone.
The overall impression from the media was as predicted, those blacks were not fit to govern and that this was terrorism sponsored partly by communist neighbours. The only thing they had not been able to control was the weather; on the night, the pouring rain caused four of the five doors to be locked, which allowed the terrorists only one point of access, limiting their ability to set up crossfire and maximise casualties. Then there was a reserve police officer in the congregation who started to fire back at the terrorists. They retreated when they should have kept shooting
. They fled having killed twenty people and seriously injuring fifty—not the fifty considered essential to derailing the peace process.
That was part of the risk they knew that they took in using non-professionals; a risk accepted by the Black Watch committee. The only part the committee would be concerned about, he thought, was the two terrorists who had not yet been accounted for. He would get Galela to look into it.
He walked in and sat at his desk, which looked down on the courtyard, known amongst his officers as Galela’s cemetery. One of the cornerstones of BOSS’s success was its meticulous planning and the ruthless efficiency it brought to that planning through discipline. This was very much his making, and he was proud of what he had created. Vlakplaas, as his unit was fearfully known, was a counterinsurgency unit located on a small farm, from which it had taken its name—not far from where he had been brought up. It had grown to the extent where it was a fully fledged paramilitary organisation answerable only to himself, Jacob Strydom and the minister of police.
Vlakplaas’s success in eliminating opposition to the apartheid government had meant that not too many questions were asked as long as there was a steady flow of information and the elimination of prominent activists. He had ensured the unit reached its goals, with many of those captured also tortured and providing valuable information on other subversives’ intentions. Initially, they had buried most of those who died by digging up the floor of a large barn on the farm. However, the numbers grew quickly and they were forced to move out into the open. Such was their reputation by that stage that no one came within a ten-kilometre radius of the farm for fear that they might never return.
Vlakplaas had become less constrained about where torture was carried out as they grew in stature, often bringing captured activists back to the BOSS building in John Vorster Square. The intention was to provide live training for new operatives and to see whether they had the stomach for interrogation and torture. Activists were not infrequently thrown out the seventh-floor window if they were not cooperative, thereby giving the name Galela’s cemetery to the gardens beneath. It was Galela who had instigated the practice, almost by accident, leaving a suspected African National Congress sympathiser hanging out the window for so long that he fell to his death in the courtyard. His screams and news of the death reached other prisoners, whose cooperation increased immensely.
Does it Hurt to Die Page 7