by Wilbur Smith
He was longer than an hour, and when he returned Shasa was still reading. He looked up at Blaine from the armchair with the open folder in his hands, and his expression was troubled and grave.
‘What do you make of it?’ Blaine asked.
‘Of course, I have heard of the OB,’ Shasa replied. ‘But I had no idea it was anything like this. It’s a secret army, sir, right in our midst. If it were ever to be fully mobilized against us—’ he shook his head, trying to find the words. ‘A revolution, a civil war, while most of our own fighting men are up north.’
‘They have begun to move,’ Blaine said softly. ‘Until now they have been procrastinating, in typical Afrikaner style, squabbling amongst themselves, but something has happened recently to give them new purpose—’ he broke off, thought for a moment, then went on. ‘It goes without saying, Shasa, that nothing we discuss must be repeated to anybody, not even closest family.’
‘Of course, sir.’ Shasa looked aggrieved.
‘You read about the explosion of a dynamite train on the Touws river line two weeks ago?’
‘Yes, sir, a frightful accident. The driver and his crew went up with it.’
‘We have new evidence. We don’t believe it was an accident. The crew were all in the guard’s van, and there are indications that at least one of them was bound hand and foot. We believe that a large quantity of explosives was hijacked from the train, and afterwards the remainder was detonated to cover the theft.’
Shasa whistled softly.
‘I believe this was merely a beginning. I believe that a new phase has begun and that it is going to escalate swiftly from now onwards. As I said, something has happened to trigger it – we have to find out what it is and crush it.’
‘How can I help, sir?’
‘This thing is big – nationwide. I have to keep close contact with the police chiefs of each of the various provinces together with military intelligence. The entire operation must be closely co-ordinated. I need a personal assistant, a liaison officer. I’m offering you the job.’
‘I’m honoured, sir, but I can’t see why you have chosen me. There must be dozens of other better qualified—’
‘We know each other well, Shasa,’ Blaine interrupted him. ‘We have worked together over many years. We make a good team. I trust you. I know you have both brains and guts. I don’t need a policeman. I need someone who understands my thinking and who I know will follow my orders implicitly.’ Suddenly Blaine grinned. ‘Besides which, you need a job. Am I right?’
‘You are right, sir. Thank you.’
‘You are on convalescent leave at the moment, but I will have you seconded from the airforce to the Department of the Interior immediately. You will keep your rank and pay as squadron leader, but you will report directly to me from now on.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Shasa, have you flown since you lost your eye?’ He came right out and spoke about the eye without evasion. Nobody, not even Mater, had done that. Shasa’s regard for him was reinforced.
‘No, sir,’ he said.
‘Pity. You may be required to move around the country pretty damned quickly.’ He watched Shasa’s face, saw his jaw clench determinedly.
‘It’s only a matter of judging distance accurately,’ Shasa muttered. ‘Just practice.’ Blaine felt a glow of gratification.
‘Try hitting a polo ball again,’ he suggested off-handedly. ‘Good practice in developing judgement – but let’s discuss more serious business now. The police officer in overall charge of the investigation is Chief Inspector Louis Nel, here at the Cape Town Central Station. I’ll introduce you. He’s a first-rate chap, you’ll like him.’
They talked and planned for another hour before Blaine dismissed him. ‘That’s enough for you to get on with. Report back to me here at eight-thirty tomorrow morning.’ But when Shasa reached the door he stopped him.
‘By the way, Shasa, Friday night. The invitation is still open. Eight o’clock. Black tie or mess kit. Try and make it, won’t you?’
Sarah Stander lay alone in the brass-framed bed in the darkness. The older children were sleeping in the next room. The baby in the cot beside her bed snuffled contentedly in her sleep.
The town hall clock struck four o’clock. She had listened to it chime every hour since midnight. She thought she would go through to the other room to make sure the children were covered – little Petrus always kicked off his blankets – but at that moment she heard the kitchen door open stealthily and she went rigid and held her breath to listen.
She heard Roelf come through and begin undressing in the bathroom, the double thump-thump as he dropped his boots, then a little later the bedroom door creaked and the bed tipped under his weight. She pretended to be sleeping. It was the first time he had ever stayed out this late. He had changed so much since Manfred had returned.
She lay unsleeping in the darkness and thought, ‘He is the bringer of trouble. He will destroy us all. I hate you, Manfred De La Rey.’
Beside her she knew Roelf was not sleeping either. He was restless and strung up. The hours passed slowly, and she forced herself to lie still. Then the baby whimpered and she took her into the bed and gave her one of her breasts. Sarah’s milk had always been strong and good, and the baby drank and burped and dropped back to sleep. She returned her to the cot, and the moment she slipped back under the sheet Roelf reached for her. Neither of them spoke, and she steeled herself to accept him. She hated this. It was never like it had been on those well-remembered occasions with Manfred. However, tonight Roelf was different. He mounted her quickly, almost brutally, and ended swiftly with a hoarse wild cry and he fell off her into a deep sleep. She lay and listened to him snore.
At breakfast she asked him quietly, ‘Where were you last night?’
Instantly he was angry. ‘Hold your mouth, woman,’ he shouted at her, using the word bek, the mouth of an animal not a human being. ‘You are not my keeper.’
‘You are involved in some dangerous foolishness.’ She ignored the warning. ‘You have three little ones, Roelf. You cannot afford stupidity—’
‘Enough, woman!’ he yelled at her. ‘This is man’s business. You keep out of it.’
Without another word he left for the university, where he was a lecturer in the law faculty. She knew that in ten years he could have the chair, if only he didn’t get into trouble before that.
After she had cleaned the house and made the beds, she put the children into the big double pram and pushed them down the sidewalk towards the centre of the village. She stopped once to talk with one of the other university wives, and again to buy sugar suckers for the two big children. Then, as she was paying for the candy, she noticed the headlines of the newspapers piled on the counter.
‘I’ll take a Burger as well.’ She crossed the road and sat on a park bench while she read the story of the explosion of a goods train somewhere in the karoo. Then she folded the paper neatly and sat thinking.
Roelf had left after lunch the previous day. The explosion had occurred at a little before ten-thirty p.m. She worked out times and distances, and slowly a cold crippling dismay made her belly cramp. She put the children back in the pram and crossed to the post office. She parked the pram beside the glass telephone booth where she could keep an eye on it.
‘Central, please give me the main police station in Cape Town.’
‘Hold the line.’
Suddenly the enormity of what she was about to do broke in upon her. How could she turn Manfred De La Rey over to the police without betraying her own husband to them at the same time – and yet she knew it was her duty to stop Roelf doing these terrible things that must lead to disaster. It was her duty to her husband and to her babies.
‘This is the Cape Town central police station. May I help you?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah stuttered, and then ‘No, I’m sorry. It doesn’t matter. It isn’t important.’ She hung up, ran out of the booth and wheeled the pram determinedly back towards th
e cottage. She sat at the kitchen table and wept softly, bewildered and alone and uncertain. Then after a while she wiped her eyes on her apron and made herself a cup of coffee
Shasa parked the Jaguar across the road from Blaine Malcomess’ home, but he did not get out at once. He sat and considered what he was about to attempt.
‘Probably make an idiot of myself again,’ he thought, and tilted the rearview mirror so that he could see himself in it. He ran a comb through his hair and adjusted the eye-patch carefully. Then he climbed out.
Vehicles were parked bumper to bumper down both sides of Newlands Avenue. It was a big party, two or three hundred guests, but then Blaine Malcomess was a big man and his daughter’s engagement an important event.
Shasa crossed the road. The front doors were wide open, but still it was difficult to get into the house. Even the lobby was crowded, and the party was in full swing. A coloured band was belting out ‘The Lambeth Walk’ and Shasa could see into the lounge where the dancers were prancing around merrily. He pushed his way through to the bar. Even Blaine Malcomess couldn’t offer whisky, it just wasn’t obtainable any longer. Nowadays it was considered patriotic to drink Cape brandy, but Shasa ordered a ginger ale.
‘My drinking days have come and gone,’ he thought wryly and, glass in hand, eased his way through the packed rooms, shaking hands with old friends, kissing the cheeks of the women, many of whom he had at one time or another kissed with more purpose.
‘So good to see you back, Shasa.’ They tried not to notice the black eye-patch, and after a few seconds he moved on, searching for her.
She was in the dining-room with the coloured chef and two maids, supervising the final touches to the elaborate buffet dinner.
She looked up and saw him and froze. She was wearing a filmy light evening dress the colour of ash of roses, and her hair was down to her shoulders. He had forgotten how her eyes could shine like mother-of-pearl, grey mother-of-pearl.
She made a gesture dismissing the servants, and he went slowly to meet her.
‘Hello, Tara, I’m back,’ he said.
‘Yes, I heard. You’ve been back five weeks. I thought you might—’ she stopped and studied his face. ‘I heard you were decorated,’ she touched the ribbon on his chest. ‘And that you were wounded.’
She studied his face frankly, not avoiding looking at his left eye. Then she smiled. ‘It makes you look very dashing.’
‘It doesn’t make me feel dashing.’
‘I can sense that,’ she nodded. ‘You have changed.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Yes, you aren’t so—’ she shook her head, irritated that she could not find the precise word. ‘Not so brash, so cocksure.’
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said. ‘Seriously.’
‘All right,’ she nodded. ‘What is it?’
‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Not with all these people.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow will be too late. Come with me now.’
‘Shasa, are you mad? This is my party – my engagement party.’
‘I’ll bring the Jag around to the tradesmen’s entrance,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a wrap, it’s cold out.’
He parked the Jag close in against the wall. This was where they used to conduct those long lingering farewells. He switched off the headlights. He knew she would not come, but nevertheless, he waited.
His surprise was genuine, his relief intense when she pulled open the door and slid into the passenger’s seat. She had changed into slacks and a rollneck sweater. She wasn’t going back to the party.
‘Drive!’ she said. ‘Get away from here.’
They were silent for a while, and he glanced at her every time a street lamp lit the interior. She was looking straight ahead, smiling faintly, and at last she spoke.
‘You never needed anything or anyone before. That was the one thing I couldn’t stand about you.’
He did not reply.
‘I think you need me now. I sensed it the very moment I saw you again. You truly need me at last.’
He was silent, words seemed superfluous. Instead he reached across and took her hand.
‘I’m ready for you now, Shasa,’ she said. ‘Take me somewhere we can be alone, entirely alone.’
There was enough moon to light the pathway. She clung to him for support and they laughed breathlessly with excitement and stopped halfway down the cliff to kiss.
He let them into the shack and lit the paraffin lamp. With relief Shasa saw that the servants from Weltevreden had followed his orders. There was fresh linen on the bunk, and the floor had been polished.
Tara stood in the centre of the floor, her hands clasped protectively in front of her, her eyes huge and luminous in the lamplight, and she began to tremble when he took her in his arms.
‘Shasa, please be gentle,’ she whispered. ‘I’m so scared.’
He was patient and very gentle, but she had no yardstick by which to recognize how immensely skilled and certain he was. She only knew that he seemed to sense each nuance of change in her feelings, anticipating each response of her body so that she felt no shame at her nakedness, and all her other fears and doubts dissolved swiftly under his tender hands and soft loving lips. At last she found herself running ahead of him, learning swiftly to guide and encourage him with subtle little movements and small gasps and cries of approval.
So that at the end she gazed up at him with wonder, and whispered, huskily, ‘I never thought – I never dreamed it would be like that. Oh, Shasa, I’m so glad you came back to me.’
The Fordsburg branch of the Standard Bank serviced all the gold mines of the Central Rand complex. All the wages of the tens of thousands of weekly paid black mine workers were drawn from this branch and the senior accountant was a member of the OB.
His name was Willem De Kok, a small pasty-faced runt of a man with myopic misty eyes behind thick lenses, but his looks were deceptive. Within a few minutes of their meeting Manfred De La Rey found he had a quick mind, a complete dedication to the cause and almost too much courage for his small body.
‘The money comes in on Thursday afternoon, between five and six o’clock. They use an armoured car and there is a police escort on motorcycles. That isn’t the time to do it. There would almost certainly be shooting.’
‘I understand,’ Manfred nodded. ‘Before you go on, please tell us how much money is usually transferred.’
‘Between fifty thousand and seventy thousand pounds – except on the last Thursday of each month, when we make provision for the monthly paid workers on the mine properties. Then it will be closer to a hundred thousand. In addition there is always our ordinary cash float of approximately twenty-five thousand.’
They were gathered in the home of one of the mine officials of the Crown Deep gold mines. The same man had recruited the local stormjagters for the operation. He was a big red-faced man named Lourens, with the look of a heavy drinker. Manfred was not entirely happy with him; although so far he had found no real cause for his mistrust, he felt the man would be unreliable under stress.
‘Thank you, Meneer De Kok, please go on.’
‘The bank manager, Mr Cartwright, opens the back door of the building and the money is brought in. Of course, at this time in the afternoon the bank is closed to normal business. Mr Cartwright and I, together with our two senior tellers, count the money and issue a receipt. It is then deposited in the vault and locked up for the night. I have one key and half of the combination. Mr Cartwright keeps the other key and has the other half of the combination.’
‘That would be the time,’ Manfred anticipated. ‘After the police escort has left, but before the vault is locked.’
‘That is a possibility,’ De Kok nodded. ‘However, at that time it will still be light. Many people on the streets. Mr Cartwright is a difficult man – many things could go wrong. May I tell you how I would arrange it, if I were in command?’
‘Thank you, Meneer De Kok. I’m glad of
your assistance.’
It was ten minutes before midnight when Mr Peter Cartwright left the Freemason hall at the end of the meeting. He was the master of the lodge and he was still wearing his apron over his dinner jacket. He always parked his Morris in the lane behind the hall, but tonight as he sat in the driver’s seat and fumbled with the ignition key, something hard was pressed into the back of his neck and a cold voice said quietly, ‘This is a pistol, Mr Cartwright. If you do not do exactly as you are told, you will be shot in the back of the head. Drive to the bank, please.’
Terrified for his life and following the instructions of the two masked men in the back seat of the Morris, Peter Cartwright drove to the bank building and parked the Morris near the back door. There had been a spate of bank robberies over the last few months, at least four on the Witwatersrand and during one of them a bank guard had been shot dead. Cartwright was in no doubt as to the danger of his position or the ruthlessness of his captors.
As soon as he climbed out of the Morris, they closed on each side of him, pinning his arms and hustling him to the back door of the bank. One of them tapped upon it with the butt of his pistol and to Cartwright’s astonishment it opened immediately. Only when he was inside did he realize how the robbers had gained access. His senior accountant Willem De Kok was already there, in pyjamas and dressing-gown, his hair tousled and his face slack and ashen with terror. He had obviously been dragged from his bed.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Cartwright,’ he blubbered. ‘They forced me.’
‘Pull yourself together, man,’ Cartwright snapped at him, his own fear making him brusque – then his expression changed as he saw the two women: De Kok’s fat little wife and his own beloved Mary in hair curlers and pink full-length dressing-gown with artificial pink roses down the front.
‘Peter,’ she wailed. ‘Oh Peter, don’t let them do anything.’
‘Stop that, Mary. Don’t let them see you like that.’