by Wilbur Smith
‘Both my father and my mother were schoolteachers. They were killed in a motor accident in Cape Town in 1969.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She glanced down at her file. It was possible that Tara, their mother, had tried to conceal the facts of Ben’s birth by contriving a false birth certificate. She could check that easily enough. She looked up again.
‘I hope you will forgive my next question, Mr Afrika. It may sound impertinent. However, Capricorn Chemicals is a defence contractor to Armscor, and all its employees are vetted by the South African security police. It would be best if you tell us now if you are, or have ever been, a member of any political organization.’
Ben smiled softly. He really was a good-looking young man. By some fortunate chance he seemed to have inherited the best features from both sides of his racial ancestry.
‘You want to know if I am a member of the ANC?’ he asked, and Isabella’s mouth tightened with annoyance.
‘Or any other radical political organization,’ she said curtly.
‘I am not a political creature, Dr Courtney. I am a scientist and an engineer. I am a member of the Society of Engineers, but of no other body.’ So he was not interested in politics?
She remembered the bitter political argument they had become embroiled in at their last meeting – when was that? Almost eight years ago, she realized with surprise. Of course, the Red Rose instructions that she had received gave the lie to his protestations. None the less, she had to cover herself.
‘Again you must pardon the personal nature of my questions, but your frank replies now may save us all a great deal of embarrassment later. You must be aware of the racial situation in South Africa. As a coloured person you will not be allowed to vote, and furthermore you will be subject to a body of legislation and a policy known as apartheid, which, to say the least, restricts many of the freedoms which you will have taken as your natural right here in England.’
‘Yes, I know all about apartheid,’ Ben agreed.
‘Then, why would you want to give up what you have here and return to a country where you will be treated as a second-class citizen, and where your prospects of advancement will be limited by your skin tone?’
‘I am an African, Dr Courtney. I want to go home. I think I can be of service to my country and my people. I believe I can make a good life for myself in the land of my birth.’
They stared at each other for long seconds, and then Isabella said softly, ‘I can find no fault with those sentiments, Mr Afrika. Thank you for coming to talk to us. We have your address and telephone number. We will contact you one way or the other, just as soon as we are able to do so.’
When Ben had left neither she nor Meekin spoke for a while. Isabella stood up and moved to the window. Looking down into the square she saw Ben leave the front door of the building. As he buttoned his overcoat he glanced up and saw her in the second-floor window. He lifted one hand in farewell and then set off towards Pont Street and turned the corner.
‘Well,’ said David Meekin beside her, ‘we can cross that one off the list.’
‘For what reason?’ Isabella asked, and Meekin was flustered. He had expected her to agree immediately.
‘His qualifications. His experience . . .’
‘The colour of his skin?’ Isabella suggested.
‘That, too,’ Meekin nodded. ‘He would be in a position at Capricorn where he might have to give orders to white employees. He might actually have white females under him. It would cause ill-feelings.’
‘There are at least a dozen black and coloured managers in other Courtney companies,’ Isabella pointed out.
‘Yes, I know,’ Meekin acceded hurriedly, ‘but they have coloureds and blacks under them, not whites.’
‘My father and my brother are both very eager to advance blacks and coloureds to managerial positions. My brother in particular feels that bringing all sections of our community to prosperity and responsibility is the only recipe for long-term peace and harmony in our country.’
‘I would agree with that one hundred per cent.’
‘I found Mr Afrika a most personable young man. I agree that he is a little young and lacking in experience for either of the senior posts, however—’
Meekin changed tack, like the corporate survivor he was. ‘I’d like to suggest that we short-list Afrika for the post of technical assistant to the director.’
‘I agree with your suggestion wholeheartedly.’ Isabella smiled her sweetest, most winning smile. Her estimate had been correct. David Meekin’s most firmly held principles were subject to negotiation.
They finished the interview with the last candidate at four o’clock that afternoon and, as soon as Meekin had left Cadogan Square to return to the Berkeley Hotel, Isabella telephoned her mother.
‘The Lord Kitchener Hotel, good afternoon.’ She recognized her mother’s voice.
‘Hallo, Tara. It’s Isabella.’ And then for emphasis, ‘Isabella Courtney, your daughter.’
‘Bella, my baby. It’s been ever so long. Let’s see now – eight years at least. I thought you’d forgotten your old mamma.’ She always made Isabella feel guilty, and she made a lame excuse.
‘I’m sorry, Tara. The pace of life – I don’t seem to have time for anything . . .’
‘Yes, Mickey tells me that you have been ever so successful and clever. He says that you are Dr Courtney now, and a senator,’ Tara gushed on. ‘Mind you, Bella, how you can bring yourself to have anything to do with that bunch of racist bigots that call themselves the National Party? In any civilized society, John Vorster would have been sent to the gallows years ago.’
‘Tara, is Ben there?’ Isabella cut her off.
‘I thought it was too good to be true that my own daughter wanted to talk to me.’ Tara’s tone was martyred and long-suffering. ‘I’ll call Ben.’
‘Hello, Bella.’ He came on the phone almost immediately.
‘We must talk,’ she told him.
‘Where?’ he asked, and she thought swiftly.
‘Hatchards.’
‘The bookshop in Piccadilly? OK. When?’
‘Tomorrow, ten in the morning.’
Ben was in the African Fiction section, thumbing through a Nadine Gordimer novel. She stood beside him and picked a book at random from the shelves.
‘Ben, I don’t know what this is about.’
‘I’m applying for a job, Bella. It’s as simple as that.’ He smiled easily.
‘I don’t want to know, either,’ she went on quickly. ‘Just tell me – do you really have valid papers in the name of Afrika?’
‘Tara registered my birth in the name of a coloured couple, friends of hers. She was never married to my father – and of course their relationship was illegal. She could have been imprisoned for being in love with Moses Gama and giving birth to me.’ His tone was easy; there was even a light smile on his lips. She looked for some sign of bitterness or anger, but found none. ‘Officially my name is Benjamin Afrika. I have a birth certificate and South African passport in that name.’
‘I have to warn you, Ben. There is terrible bitterness and hatred in the Courtney side of the family. Your father was convicted of murdering Nana’s second husband, I mean Centaine Courtney-Malcomess’s husband.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘You and I will never be able to acknowledge each other in South Africa.’
‘I understand.’
‘If Nana, if my grandmother or my father ever found out about you – well, I just don’t know what the consequences would be.’
‘They won’t find out about it from me.’
‘If it was up to me, I would not . . .’ She broke off, and lowered her voice. ‘Ben, be careful. We have never had a chance to become close; a chasm divides us. Nevertheless, you are my brother. I don’t want anything to happen to you.’
‘Thank you, Bella.’ He was still smiling softly, and she knew that she could never penetrate the curtain.
She went on quietly, ‘I will w
arn Michael that you are coming home. Please believe me that I will help you in any way that I can. If you need me, let Michael know. It would be best if we do not contact each other once you arrive in the country.’
Impulsively she dropped the book she was holding and embraced him.
‘Oh, Ben, Ben! What a terrible world we live in. We are brother and sister, and yet . . . It’s cruel and inhuman – I hate it.’
‘Perhaps we can help to change the world.’ He returned her embrace quickly and then they drew apart.
‘There are many things that I can never tell you, Ben. Forces beyond our control. If we try to oppose them, we will be crushed. They are too powerful for us.’
‘Still, some of us must try.’
‘Oh God, Ben. You terrify me when you speak like that.’
‘Goodbye, Bella,’ he said sadly. ‘I think we might have been good for each other – if only things had been ordained differently.’ He placed the Gordimer novel back on the shelf and without looking back walked out into Piccadilly.
Over the years it had become traditional that whenever Isabella was in Johannesburg she stayed with Garry and Holly.
Before she gave up her career to become a full-time wife and mother, Holly had been one of the leading architects in the country. Her designs had won international awards. When they came to build their own home, Garry, who was never one to stint, had given her an open budget and egged her on to design her final masterpiece. She had managed to combine opulence and space with such good taste and invention that their home was Isabella’s favourite retreat. She preferred it even to Weltevreden.
As always the family breakfasted on the man-made island in the centre of the miniature lake. On a morning such as this, when the highveld sunshine decked the world in splendour, the roof of the pagoda had been rolled back by its electrically powered machinery and was open to the sky. The flocks of pink flamingo on the lakeshore were free-ranging birds, persuaded to interrupt their continental migrations by this jewel-like stretch of open water.
The older children were in school uniform ready to leave for their daily penance. Isabella was feeding the latest addition to Garry’s family, her year-old god-daughter – an exercise which they both enjoyed immensely. It aroused all Isabella’s frustrated maternal instincts.
Garry, in his shirt-sleeves and broad, brightly coloured braces at the head of the breakfast-table, had just lit his first cigar of the day.
‘Who was the one that accused me of being squeamish?’ Isabella demanded of him as she shovelled a teaspoonful of egg into her god-daughter’s mouth and then scraped up the overspill as it trickled down her chin.
‘It’s not a case of squeamishness at all,’ Garry protested too loudly. ‘I’ve got five meetings this morning, and Holly’s charity ball this evening. Give me a break, Bella.’
‘You could have cancelled any one of those meetings,’ Isabella pointed out. ‘Or all of them.’
‘Look, Mavourneen, there’ll be so many politicians and generals crowding the place that there is nothing I could add to the proceedings.’
‘Don’t come over all Irish with me, begorrah. You are funking it, Teddy Bear, and we both know it.’
Garry let out one of his evasive guffaws, and turned to Holly. ‘What time do we have to be there this evening, lover?’ But Holly was on Isabella’s side.
‘Why are you making Bella go through with this awful business?’ she demanded.
‘I am doing no such thing,’ Garry was unconvincingly indignant. ‘It’s her decision entirely.’ He glanced at his wristwatch, and then growled with theatrical menace at his children.
‘You monsters are going to be late for school. Get out of it!’ They showed not the least sign of terror as they lined up to kiss him goodbye, and then clattered off over the bridge like a squadron of cavalry.
‘Me, too.’ Bella wiped her god-daughter’s face and stood up, but Garry stopped her.
‘Look, Bella, I apologize. I know I hinted that you couldn’t take it. You are as tough as any man I know. You don’t have to prove it.’
‘So you admit you are chickening out, then?’ she asked.
‘All right,’ he capitulated. ‘Hell, I don’t want to watch it. You don’t have to, either.’
‘I am a director of Capricorn,’ she said, and gathered up her handbag and briefcase. ‘I’ll see you at eight.’
As she climbed into the Porsche she felt a twinge of guilt. The true reason for her determination to witness the Cyndex 25 tests was not one of duty, not even to demonstrate her toughness. The last Red Rose communiqué she had received had promised her access to Nicky as soon as she reported that the tests had been successfully carried out.
The drive down to Germiston took her a little over an hour on the new highway. Holly had designed the Capricorn Chemicals plant, and her taste and touch were distinctive. It did not look like a factory. There were lawns and trees, and a cunning exploitation of the terrain so that the least pleasing features of the industrial buildings were disguised or concealed. Those buildings that she had been able to clothe in glass and natural stone were given prominence. The various units were scattered over many hundreds of acres.
The prancing goat figure of the Capricorn logo surmounted the main entrance-gateway. Isabella pressed her electronic key-card into the lock and the gates trundled open. The uniformed guards saluted her as she drove through.
All the visitors’ slots in the carpark behind the main administration block were filled. Most of the visiting vehicles were black limousines sporting ministerial numberplates or military pennants on the bonnet.
She rode up in the lift, and as she stepped into the director’s suite she surveyed the room swiftly. It was a small, almost intimate gathering. Not more than twenty persons were present, and she was the only woman. The politicals and the civil servants were in regulation dark suits, and the military were in uniform. There were all branches of the service represented, including the security police, and they were all of staff or general rank.
She knew more than half those present, including the cabinet minister and the two deputy ministers. A refreshment-table had been laid out, including alcohol, but nobody was drinking anything stronger than coffee. The conversations were exclusively in Afrikaans, and she was struck once again by the major difference between the two white races. The English section was preoccupied with luxury and material possessions, with finance and commerce. The Afrikaner lived in the halls of political and military power. Here were gathered some of the most powerful men in the land. Though paupers compared to the Courtneys, their political influence dominated the entire society. Compared to them the Courtneys were of little account. Within the citadel of power the military men, rather like their Russian equivalents, formed a caste of their own before whose strength even the state president bowed his head.
Within seconds she had singled out the most influential men in the room and made her way towards them, exchanging greetings and hand-shakes and smiles with the others as she passed. In this patriarchal society she had carved an unusual niche for herself. They accepted her as almost an equal.
‘I’m a sort of honorary male,’ she smiled to herself, and shook hands with the minister of defence, then turned to his deputy with a controlled and friendly smile.
‘Good morning, General De La Rey,’ she greeted him in fluent colloquial Afrikaans. Lothar De La Rey had been the first grand passion of her life. They had lived together for six months, before he had dropped her and gone off to marry a good Afrikaner girl of the Dutch Reformed faith. If he had not, he would not now be a deputy minister, and a man who it was whispered had no ceiling on his political future.
‘Good morning, Dr Courtney.’ He was as polite, but he could not keep his eyes on her face. They slid over her body in swift appreciation.
Go ahead, lover boy, she thought, knowing that she had never looked better in her life. Eat your heart out – then go home to your fat little farm-girl.
Despite her lingering rese
ntment she had to admit to herself that he also was looking good. So many Afrikaners put on weight once their Rugby-playing days were over. Lothar was as lean and hard and clean-cut as he had been ten years before. He was probably just about ripe for a little fling, she thought, and he would certainly have some interesting pillow-talk.
I’d love to have my revenge on you, she thought. She had once contemplated suicide for him. It would give her pleasure to place him on the list of Red Rose’s informers. Then quite suddenly she thought of Ramón, her Ramón, and her physical interest in Lothar subsided.
Only in the line of duty, she decided – and at that moment the Capricorn general manager caught her eye.
She made a short welcoming address to the company and apologized for the absence of the chairman. Then she invited them through into the projection room for the presentation.
The video film that Capricorn had prepared was of high professional quality. It included computer-generated simulations and artist’s impressions of the deployment and dissemination of Cyndex 25 under combat and battlefield conditions. As the video ran, Isabella glanced round the semi-darkened room. She could see that all the military men were passionately excited by this new weapon. They watched the screen with a deadly concentration and when the tape came to an end they broke into animated discussion amongst themselves.
When Paul Searle, the Israeli technical director whom Isabella had recruited in Tel Aviv, stood up and called for comment, they bombarded him with searching questions. Isabella noticed that up to this time there had been no sign of Ben. His brown face had been discreetly kept in a back room somewhere. Inevitably one of the generals asked the question that Isabella had been dreading. He put it bluntly.
‘Has this gas ever been used on a human population? If so, can you give us details?’
‘Perhaps the general can provide us with a few surplus Cuban POWs from Angola?’ the director asked, and they laughed delightedly at the graveyard humour.
‘Seriously, General, the answer to your question is no. However, it has been tested extensively overseas under laboratory conditions with excellent results. In fact we have arranged for you to witness our own first test today.’