An African Rebound

by Dan Doyle

  He added, “Believe it or not, I understand how many whites fell for the specious philosophy of apartheid; how many were just blinded to its injustice. And I also understand how this makes what Mr. Nish did for me all the more remarkable.”

  “It surely was remarkable,” said Finnegan. “But tell me this—do you have any idea who did it?”

  “Well, there were several extremist groups in those days—one that did its dirty work in Johannesburg. This group was, and still is, called Wit Wolve, which means white wolves. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which has been reporting on this group’s alleged use of chemical and biological weapons on blacks, has also uncovered a number of murders allegedly committed by Wit Wolve.” Tshwete took a deep breath. When he continued speaking, his tone was stern. “Understand, people in Wit Wolve are intelligent, cunning, and very well funded. The way Mr. Nish died would have been typical of their work.”

  “A moment ago, you used the term ‘still is.’ Are the Wit Wolve still around?” asked Finnegan.

  “I believe so. After the Mandela election, they supposedly went underground. But, as I said, they are extremely well funded and the consensus is that they’re still very much alive.”

  “Are they still being investigated?” asked Finnegan.

  “Oh yes, but because of their money—and their power— it’s been more difficult to break their ranks than the ranks of other extremist groups. But that doesn’t mean that we’ve given up,” Tshwete said emphatically. “Or that I’ve given up hope of finding the murderers of Mr. Nish.”

  There was another period of quiet until, several minutes later, the Mercedes pulled alongside a veld fire that seemed out of control. The fire’s smoke seeped through the car’s closed windows and created a fog-like condition that Tshwete had difficulty navigating. Concerned, Finnegan blurted out, “These veld fires, Albert. They’re bloody dangerous!”

  Tshwete smiled and calmly steered his way through the fire. Several minutes later, he pulled his Mercedes to the front of the Intercontinental Hotel in Sandton.

  The press conference began with a thunderclap announcement by Michael Lyons, press secretary for the South African Rugby Football Union. “Our organization has accepted the resignation of Louis Luyt.”

  There was a quaver in Lyons’s voice—and for good reason. Luyt had become a millstone around the neck of Mandela’s watchdog National Sports Council. But he also had his share of backers in the Rugby Union, many of whom were at the press conference.

  When Lyons opened the floor for questions from the media, James Merrill, a hulking fullback, stood and snarled, “I’m not from the press but I’ve got something to ask. Is it the opinion of the National Sports Council that we should field a team of inferior players just to make certain that an equal number of blacks are on the bloody field?” Merrill’s harsh tone was as contentious as his question; an undercurrent of tension charged through the room.

  To Finbar Finnegan’s surprise, Albert Tshwete, seated next to him in the front row facing Lyons, and known by all in attendance, raised his hand and calmly asked, “Mr. Lyons, may I respond on behalf of the National Sports Council?”

  Lyons nodded, and Tshwete rose from his seat and turned to the audience.

  “Ladies and gentleman, we have a mandate at the National Sports Council to ensure that rugby, and all other sports, incorporate the principals of equality. Unfortunately, it is true that this mandate will cause some competitive disadvantage at first, particularly to some athletes at the national level. But over the long haul, it will bring about the level playing field that every fair-minded South African—black and white— seeks for our country.”

  The statement, delivered in a composed yet commanding manner, seemed to guide the overall mood in the room back toward civility, a condition reflected by Merrill’s silence and the polite tone of the next questioner.

  “But Mr. Tshwete,” asked John Farr, assistant coach for the National Team, “how long will the long haul be? You see, sir, many of our players are concerned that their careers will be over by the time this objective is achieved.”

  “It is a fair question, Mr. Farr, and I wish I could say how long this process will take,” Tshwete responded. “What I can say is that the council does not subscribe to the position of some others—that because our population is 75 percent black then all national teams must be 75 percent black. However, we are saying that all national teams must have black—and white—representation.”

  “But Mr. Tshwete, you are, by all accounts, a fine basketball player. How would you feel if this policy resulted in an inferior white player making the National Team before you?” asked Robert Bloss, a white reporter for the Johannesburg Mail and Guardian.

  The personal nature of the question, and the ensuing silence, signaled another rise in tension. But Tshwete remained composed. Before answering the question, he momentarily flashed back to an ethics course at the Fletcher School at Tufts and the right-versus-right conundrums inherent in many complex issues.

  “Let me try to respond to Mr. Bloss’s question. Those of you who take the position that it is unfair if even a few qualified players are not selected in favor of less qualified players— you are not wrong. But those of us who take the position that for decades the oppression of apartheid prevented all blacks from having any opportunity are not wrong either.”

  Tshwete moved to the center aisle and addressed the crowd with a stronger voice. “Let me pose a question in sports vernacular: If two people were in a boat race from one side of a lake to another, and one started at the dock and yet the other was given the opportunity to start in the middle of the lake, would that be fair?”

  The room remained silent.

  “You see,” Tshwete continued, “to me at least, that is what the cancer of apartheid did to blacks in this country. The charge of the NSC is to give that person who started back at the dock a fair chance. This will require, among all of us, patience—and compromise. But, at least in my judgment, it is the right thing to do.”

  Finnegan did not completely agree with his new friend’s reasoning. However, he was not about to challenge Tshwete’s points, particularly in such a precarious and distrustful environment. Instead, his attention was drawn to another questioner seated in the rear of the room, a reporter from The Sowetan.

  As Finbar turned his head to get a better listen, his heart nearly drummed through his chest.

  Standing behind the reporter was a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to the illustration Ambassador Foster had sent. Finbar immediately wondered if the man recognized him or, if not, had noticed Finbar’s surprised facial expression. Uncertain of either possibility, but knowing that the real culprit would surely know of Finbar Finnegan, the Irishman decided to act as quickly and unobtrusively as possible.

  Turning slowly back to the front of the room, Finbar handed a note to Albert, who had returned to his seat.

  Don’t turn around. I think the man I’ve been looking for is in the back of the room. I’m going after him. Stay here—no commotion, okay?

  Tshwete’s first instinct was to insist on aiding his friend. But he knew that Finbar was right—that his own departure would surely cause a stir throughout the room. And so, he reacted as Finbar hoped he would, showing no emotion other than a soft whisper. “Be careful.”

  With his head down, Finbar quietly rose from his chair and began to walk to the back of the room. Seconds later, when he looked up to find his quarry, the man was gone.

  56

  Nazr Fadeli had been in his current position for four years since his employer had recruited him straight out of the Afrikaner Weerstandbeweging, better known as the Afrikaner Resistance Movement, a militia active in South Africa since the 1980s. His original job description was simple: enforce the noble principles of apartheid, principles abandoned by the South African government. Of late, his role had expanded to that of troubleshooter, a promotion that had landed Fadeli in Burundi as overseer of a laudable experiment with exiting implicati
ons far beyond this small, landlocked African country.

  Born in Palestine, the son of a Sunni Muslim father and Bedouin mother, Fadeli and his family had moved to South Africa when he was in his early teens to escape the rapidly expanding land seizure of the despised Jews. He saw the Israeli encroachment as not simply illegal, but immoral. For Fadeli’s mother, whose ancestors had especially deep roots in the Arab culture, the Jewish settlements created a rancorous, malignant hatred.

  As a student at the all-white University of the Free State in Bloemfontein, capital of the Free State of South Africa, his mother’s malevolence inspired his emerging affinity for apartheid’s virtues, so much so that Nazr had made a frequent vow to his classmates: “I will do all in my power to prevent the blacks from taking over South Africa the way the Jews have stolen the Holy Land.”

  His fervent support of apartheid was accompanied by another passion—a love of sport. At 5’10”, and of sturdy build, Fadeli reveled in contact sports and ended up a center fullback on the university rugby team. And while he found the rugby pitch an ideal venue to release his pent-up anger over the perilous apostasy taking over his country, his favorite spectator sport was American football, the result of South African TV picking up NFL games on a delayed basis.

  By the late ‘80s, Fadeli saw the foundation of apartheid weaken at the hands of the imprisoned Mandela, his demon cohorts in the African National Congress, and those meddling foreigners whose hypocrisy had brought about the crippling sanctions. Fadeli decided to volunteer with Wit Wolve—a privately funded and entrenched top secret organization dedicated to quashing anti-apartheid activity.

  Fadeli invested a considerable amount of his spare time as a volunteer. On rare occasions, at a meeting, planning session for noble retribution, or secret attack on a militant black group—”preventive strike” as it was called within the organization—he would overhear the phrase Die Voorsitter (The Chairman). Curiously, when the term came up, it was whispered, suggesting that queries about the eminent figure were unwelcome.

  As Fadeli became more involved in the work of Wit Wolve, and more zealous in his commitment to suppressing the anti-apartheid movement, he would occasionally summon the courage to ask off-handed questions about Die Voorsitter. From what he could piece together, The Chairman was a wealthy, powerful individual, passionate about his privacy and equally passionate about the utilitarian value of apartheid.

  Fadeli wanted to move up in the organization’s ranks, and one morning his steadfast allegiance to the mission was finally requited. An unexpected call from a general in Wit Wolve requested Fadeli’s presence at a meeting of the organization’s senior command. At the meeting, Fadeli met The Chairman, who was surrounded by a group of unsmiling aides.

  Appearing to be in his late sixties, but fit, tanned, and alert, The Chairman politely asked Fadeli a series of questions aimed at gauging the degree of Nazr’s support of apartheid. At the end of the session, The Chairman stared intently into Fadeli’s eyes. “I would like to offer you a job in what I call my security force. Your rank would be that of captain, and the job will pay double what you now earn in the militia.”

  The Chairman went on to explain that the position would entail myriad responsibilities including, when necessary, justified assaults on those who wished to ruin the rightful, godly way of life in South Africa.

  Fadeli accepted instantly—and gratefully.

  Within months of becoming a true insider, he discovered that the scope of The Chairman’s work was as wide as it was commendable. The projects of Wit Wolve included a top-secret biological and chemical weapons program, as well as covert distribution of an anti-fertility pill that the organization spread liberally through the black neighborhoods, camouflaging it as a treatment for dysentery.

  There were other important experiments: As an example, Wit Wolve’s active laboratory developed a shirt infused with poison. In a trial test, the shirt was given to a black activist who, after wearing it for several hours, suffered a spasm of the coronary artery and died of a heart attack.

  And then there was The Chairman’s avid interest in sport. This fervent attraction, a long-standing tradition in his family, led to a fascinating scientific discovery, which then led to the successful experiment in Burundi. After the initial CNN report on Project Oscar, Captain Fadeli had been given the honor of overseeing this important experiment. He had arrived in Burundi for the Rwanda game and the highly anticipated debut of Leonard Tangishaka. He had left at halftime to call headquarters with the message: We must go forward. The result, of course, was a successful first step in a form of retribution and repression that could be used in a variety of circumstances by Wit Wolve.

  The Chairman took a particular interest in rugby; he knew rugby was one of the last and best hopes for white domination in any South African sport. He also knew that this sport had been unfairly penalized by the immoral international ban jointly imposed by the Rugby League International Federation and the International Olympic Committee. The ban prevented South African athletes from playing outside of the country, a serious competitive disadvantage.

  The Chairman was unequivocal in his admiration of Louis Luyt. When he had learned of Luyt’s forced ouster, he was furious and had dispatched Captain Fadeli—his sports expert—to attend the press conference and learn more of the facts. Fadeli arrived slightly late so as to discreetly position himself in the rear of the room and not attract attention. Get the facts, and then report back to me, was his only order from The Chairman.

  When he spotted Finbar Finnegan and the correspondent’s chilled reaction, Nazr recognized him instantly as the “Talking Head of CNN”—the one who had tried to do so much damage to the honorable experiment in Burundi.

  Fadeli was not aware that Finnegan was in South Africa, let alone Johannesburg. He inwardly seethed that others within the Wit Wolve empire, whose job it was to track such movements, had not discovered the presence of this menace. Surely, The Chairman would be equally upset.

  When Fadeli spotted Finbar, the witless reporter had completely given himself away with his startled expression and awkward attempt to hide his surprise. Fadeli knew that if Finbar approached him, a troubled situation would ensue. And so he left immediately, dashing out of the back door and into the window-darkened limousine that awaited him at the rear of the hotel.

  He was convinced that his getaway had been clean, yet when he returned to headquarters he also knew that it was his duty to report his discovery to The Chairman, including the fact that he saw Finnegan passing a note to their bête noir, Albert Tshwete.

  “You are right, Captain Fadeli. It is very upsetting that our people did not realize what should have been an easy detection. Nonetheless, we must react accordingly.”

  “Should we kill this Irishman?” asked Piet Van Vuuren, another aide.

  “God, no,” replied The Chairman. “This would only attract more attention and lead people closer to our covert operation, especially if he has befriended Tshwete. . . . No, because Finnegan recognized Captain Fadeli, we must transfer the Captain to our operation in the Seychelles. Captain Fadeli, are you okay with that?”

  “I am,” replied Fadeli.

  “In that case, Piet, take Captain Fadeli to his home, where he can gather his belongings and then head to the airport. Our private jet will take both of you to the Seychelles. Since we have some staff there already, we can easily continue our planning from our Seychelles base.”

  When Nazr Fadeli left the room, The Chairman picked up the phone and gave his death order. He hung up, leaned back in his chair, and said to the group, “It’s a shame. Fadeli was a good employee—loyal and diligent. But we cannot take any chances of being discovered, particularly with the next phase of our essential experiment so close at hand.”

  Six hours later, Nazr Fadeli boarded the private jet. He was dead upon arrival at the D’Arros Island Airport in the Seychelles.

  The following morning, after a restful sleep, The Chairman made five untraceable calls, ea
ch bearing the same coded message.

  VI

  Finding Light

  57

  Bujumbura, Burundi

  In the month or so that Jim Keating had to prepare for his public reading, he approached the task with a rigid, athletic discipline that had characterized his life. Each morning, he faithfully wrote for an hour; each evening, he reviewed his work of that morning and contemplated another writing project—a letter of encouragement to Robert Frazier.

  Frazier was struggling as head coach at New Jersey State. In keeping with the ambassador’s philosophy of love and forgiveness, Jim felt that reaching out to him was the right thing to do. Before drafting the letter, he would discuss his intentions with Cynthia at some point after the Summer Solstice Reading, for she would surely provide good guidance.

  Jim also planned to seek out Bill for advice on another matter. The item Jim had retrieved from the Tangishaka hut was Consolaté’s beautiful and lifelike watercolor of Leonard. Jim would ask Bill if Cynthia’s birthday, which he knew was only days after the Summer Solstice reading, would be the best time to surprise her with the painting.

  Along with his writing and coaching, Jim found he was enjoying—more and more—the simple pleasures of life: a walk, a glass of cold water, birdsong—everyday delights that, in the past, he had seldom appreciated. The birds were fascinating, an especially enjoyable distraction. Josiane had set up a birdfeeder on the veranda. Jim took particular pleasure in two infrequent visitors: His favorite was the Blue-breasted Cordon-bleu, a gorgeous bird with azure blue from its breast to its tail and a beige back and wings. A close second was the Tanganyika Weaver, all yellow with a black mask.

  Jim had written a number of poems and had to choose two for the reading. As June approached, he sought out the ambassador to ask her counsel.