The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  Staring out the window, he wrestled with an image. He and Jennifer strolling over acres of white sand. Ocean breakers rolling across the beach. Sanderlings racing with the tide. The water would be cold this time of year, but they would swim anyway. An afternoon fire. Sharing a beach towel. Running his hands over the long curves of her back to the strap of her bathing suit. The taste of salt on erect nipples. And then . . . And then the inevitable power struggle, with Jarrad and Harriet Pruitt as their unwilling referees. Would it ever change? Conversations baited with trivia; traps set to spring at the slightest indiscretion. They were both guilty; blame was their constant companion.

  Jennifer couldn’t have children. Mansell longed for kids; they both did. But adoption, Jennifer insisted, was out of the question. The only babies available were coloured or native. Mansell enjoyed Port Elizabeth. He liked his work despite the drawbacks. Jennifer felt stifled in elementary education, and the police work embarrassed her.

  Maybe Steenkamp was right, Mansell. thought. A futile battle; a winless war. Maybe it wasn’t too late for a break. True, active policemen weren’t the recipients of a lot of job offers, but Mansell had an open invitation to join Jarrad Pruitt’s public relations firm. Better money. Better hours. Maybe a trip to the beach would give them a chance to talk again. All right, so call, he thought.

  He broke two matches lighting another smoke. He stared down at the phone, and it rang. “Bloody bastard,” he uttered. It was long-distance, the switchboard said, Pretoria. Mansell had forgotten about the call.

  While he waited for the connection to be completed, Mansell picked up the second note. “Good morning, Inspector. Your unexpected visit last night was unexpectedly enjoyable. Thanks for the champagne. D.B.” He reread the note twice, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his breast pocket. Unexpectedly enjoyable, he mused. Yes, it was.

  The connection was made. He heard a voice say, “This is Deputy Minister Koster.”

  “Yes, Mr. Koster. Thank you for returning my call. Inspector Nigel Mansell here. Port Elizabeth CIB.” As he talked, Mansell scanned the Elgin research file from Jo’burg. Jan Koster was not included. “We’re investigating the homicide of Ian Elgin.”

  “Yes. Terrible thing. How can I be of service, Inspector?”

  “Were you close?”

  “Close, no. Friends, yes. We shared common interests.” “Spelunking. You and Elgin explored together.”

  “Yes.” Koster’s voice reflected surprise.

  “When did you first meet?”

  “It’s been eight years now, maybe nine.”

  “Under what circumstances, please?” Mansell carried the phone over to the computer. He punched into Research Bureau, calling up the personal file on Jan Koster.

  “My field is minerals, Inspector. Ian’s, as I’m sure you know, was mining. We were introduced at a conference on mineral reserve management, if I recall. In Johannesburg.”

  “Introduced by a mutual friend, I suppose?”

  “Yes. Is it important?”

  “Probably not,” answered Mansell. The computer indicated that Koster resided in Cape Town, but the Elgin file from that area didn’t list Koster’s name either. Curious, Mansell scribbled a reminder to himself. “A man dies. A hundred other men try to find out why. A lot of unimportant questions go into finding the answer to that one question, Mr. Koster.”

  “A very good retort,” the deputy minister replied. “I believe it was Minister of Justice Leistner who first introduced us, if it’s helpful.” “I see.”

  “Ian and the minister had been friends for some time. They were climbing partners, in fact, before Ian and I got together.”

  “Really? And you and Elgin started exploring together soon after your introduction?”

  “No, actually, it was a year or so later, I imagine. Ian asked me to tag along on one of his trips. I picked it up reasonably fast, I guess.”

  “Where? Did you have a favorite site?”

  “Royal Natal. There is no other place.”

  “No? Then you’ve never explored the cave sites in the Transkei?” A long pause preceded Koster’s answer. “Are we being serious, Inspector?”

  “We don’t know each other well enough to be anything less than serious, Mr. Koster.” Mansell explained about the recent purchase of rope at the local sporting goods store, and the buyer’s comments on the Transkei.

  “Most interesting. Such rope is acceptable for climbing, that’s true, but the buyer was either misunderstood or joking about the Transkei, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes. Or lying.” Mansell stared down at the computer. “Spelunking is a specialized sport, is it not, Mr. Koster? A good partner, I’ve been told, is hard to come by. Was there any problem with your introduction to Elgin’s team? Any conflict?”

  “The search for motive. Very good,” said Koster. “But I hardly think Cecil was disturbed. It was a mutual interest we all shared. And wasn’t it the minister’s recommendation that landed Ian his jobs with the Federation of Mineworkers Union? It couldn’t have been a year later, but then I’m sure you were aware of that already.”

  Our esteemed minister peeks around yet another corner, Mansell thought. He massaged tired eyes. “When did you last see Ian Elgin alive, Mr. Koster?”

  “It was three months ago,” Koster answered. “We spent a week in Royal Natal, near Rugged Glen.”

  “And was he disturbed or upset in any way? Did he make any unusual statements about his work or his family? Anything that might have caught your attention? Please try to recall.”

  “He did say something. Something about the changing loyalties in Pretoria. He joked about it then, and it wasn’t until later that I realized he was upset about it. Unfortunately, I missed it at the time.”

  “I see. Pretoria isn’t generally a haven for labor-union officials. Was he talking loyalties given or received?”

  A moment of silence transpired. Finally Koster said, “Isn’t loyalty a two-way street, Inspector?”

  Mansell studied the third note while climbing the stairs to the district prosecutor’s office. It was from Detective Merriman Gosani. That morning Merry had contacted Eli Leavell, the Parks Service manager in the Transkei. Cave sites suitable for spelunking, according to Leavell, did not exist in the Transkei mountains. Following that, Merry had spoken again with the manager at The Outdoorsman. He, on the other hand, was equally certain that the buyer of the nylon-rayon rope had referred specifically to the Transkei.

  The participants in this meeting were the same as the last, Captain Oliver Terreblanche, SB Major Hymie Wolfe, and Hurst himself. Air-conditioning cast a chill over the room. The prosecutor drank iced tea from a stemmed goblet. He polished black-rimmed glasses with the wide end of his necktie.

  “Did the autopsy on the suspect Mabasu prove enlightening, Inspector?” he asked.

  Mansell handed Hurst a copy of Pathology’s preliminary report. “In Dr. Steenkamp’s words, the victim might well have been dead before going out the window.”

  “Truly?” said Wolfe, the sarcasm in his voice only partially concealed. “Despite the fact that an eyewitness saw the man throw himself very much on his own power through the glass and to his very unfortunate death?”

  “Unfortunate, indeed.” Mansell continued to address the prosecutor. “There were signs of blood in his spinal fluid, his kidney was ruptured, his eardrum was broken, and his feet looked like they’d been put through a sausage grinder. Assuming this so-called eyewitness was telling the truth, and—”

  “I resent that, Inspector,” snapped Wolffe.

  “Of course you do, Major. I apologize.” Mansell glanced crookedly to his right. “Still, assuming the victim was not already dead, as the head of Pathology put it, he was certainly dying.”

  “And I am equally assured,” Wolfe replied in a calmer voice, “that the doctor mentioned an overwhelming lack of proof of such allegations.”

  ‘Overwhelming’ was hardly his sentiment.”

  “But these are not
,” said Terreblanche, “the first complaints about your interrogation methods, Major Wolfe. We all know that.”

  “However, in this case,” announced the prosecutor, “those methods did provide us, perhaps, with a clue to the suspect’s successful suicide.” Ceremoniously, Hurst raised a sheaf of paper into the air. “This, gentlemen, is a signed confession to the murder of Ian Elgin. The signature belongs to Anthony Mabasu.”

  Mansell’s eyes wandered over the room. He heard a siren on the street below. “The signature,” he asked. “Has it been verified?” “Don’t be melodramatic, Mansell,” Wolffe said, chuckling. “It has been verified, yes,” replied the prosecutor.

  “And has your office accepted this . . . confession? Our investigation, for one, has several loose ends worth tying up before we hang a murder rap around Anthony Mabasu’s memory. Another day, another week won’t really matter at this point, will it? And we might all be able to sleep a little better if CIB’s report and Security’s reached a mutual conclusion. Don’t you agree?”

  The district prosecutor opened a desk drawer. He removed a cedar humidor. Inside were cigars as thick as a man’s thumb. He gestured with the box, and Wolfe accepted with a gregarious nod. Spoils for the victor, thought Mansell as smoke spiraled to the ceiling. It’s so much easier to close the books and go home.

  “I think, gentlemen,” said Hurst, “that we’ve gathered sufficient evidence, with the confession. Enough for a conviction had circumstances been different. Furthermore, I think Minister Leistner and the Justice Ministry will believe it, too, when they see my report. Let’s close this case and move on.”

  Mansell glanced in Oliver Terreblanche’s direction. A protest, he thought, was certainly in order, but none was made. Instead, the CIB captain clambered to his feet. He gathered his coat, put a hand on Mansell’s elbow, and followed Major Wolffe toward the door.

  “Inspector Mansell,” the prosecutor called out. “Might we have a last word or two, please?”

  “I’ll see you back at the station,” Terreblanche said, releasing him. The door closed. They were alone.

  “You’re not convinced that Mabasu murdered Ian Elgin, are you?” Mansell didn’t answer. His stomach growled from hunger. He called on the panacea of a cigarette to help squelch the pangs. The district prosecutor came from behind his desk. “I’ve arranged an agreement with the Ciskeian police for your office to have complete jurisdiction over the Sylvia Mabasu case, assuming you also consider it a case worthy of further investigation. And, since there are considerable, shall we say, similarities between it and the Elgin case, I will make certain that all the information on both investigations is made available to you.”

  “I see,” said Mansell. Their eyes met briefly, and he nodded. “Very well.”

  “Oh, and since the incident occurred in Ciskei, Security’s not really a factor in this case. We’ll have to do without their help, I think.”

  Four hundred people were demonstrating on the steps of City Hall.

  Seeing this, Mansell used a rear exit onto Court Street. He walked down Main to the corner, where another two hundred demonstrators assaulted the entrance to the station house. Kids in dirty T-shirts waved handmade banners. Women in cotton wraps and bright headdresses shouted “Amandia, amandia.” Men in worn jeans and baseball caps extended fists into the air.

  On the opposite corner, next to the Wool Exchange, Mansell sat in a deserted shoeshine stand. He watched two dozen riot policemen sidling behind flimsy barricades. A man in a clergyman’s cassock mounted the station-house steps. Thrusting a thick book into the air, he exhorted the crowd, and the chant escalated. “Power, power.”

  Power, thought Mansell. A many-colored beast. Ian Elgin had wielded enough power in his time to have the minister of justice ramrodding his murder investigation, but not the power to fend off his own killer. True, a sharp blow to the neck wasn’t enough to fell him, but a second blow breaks his nose and renders him helpless, maybe unconscious. Had he been unable to defend himself, or hadn’t he expected the second blow? Could the blow to the nose actually have come first? A frontal assault that took him completely by surprise? Which might indicate that he knew his killer. Which might indicate that his killer was a woman. The chiffon scarf.

  Two things bothered Mansell. First, the fingers on Elgin’s right hand, those locked beneath the rope, weren’t heavily bruised. The skin wasn’t shredded. There was scarcely any indication of bleeding. Second, Sylvia Mabasu had fought off her attacker by reaching forward, clawing at the dashboard. Normally, a person aware of his imminent strangulation instinctively reaches for the ligature; fights it without regard for fingernails or skin; fights it until there’s no more skin left; fights it until . . . until death intervenes.

  ****

  Cecil Leistner returned from the prime minister’s office in good spirits. With a cabinet meeting looming the next day, the P.M. seemed resigned to the fact that an unrestricted state of emergency was their only course of action in countering the rash of violence currently sweeping the country.

  Oliver Neff, his press secretary, greeted Leistner with the news of Anthony Mabasu’s confession and subsequent suicide.

  “Very dramatic,” Leistner replied. He led Neff into his office. “Is the story out yet?”

  “The early editions. The streets are full already.”

  The room smelled of ginseng tea. Neff filled two cups.

  Leistner watched the manicured hands of his longtime associate as he stirred cream into their cups.

  Since his early days in the House of Assembly, Leistner had cultivated two relationships beyond all others. Two men. One now occupied the prime minister’s chair in the office above him. The other was Oliver Neff.

  Neff was a gnome of a man with a flair for words and two strikes against him. One, he was homosexual, which, in South Africa, meant certain and immediate expulsion from the Nationalist party, dismissal from the Dutch Reformed Church, and exile from the fraternity of Afrikaner brotherhood. Two, he was an addict, his poison being a white powder made from the leaves of the coca plant. Still, after all these years, only a handful of people knew of his “peculiarities.”

  But Cecil Leistner knew, had known for twenty-four years, ever since that freak meeting in Madagascar at the resort in Toliara. Yet he had, throughout the years, guarded the secret as if it were his own. In return, Oliver Neff, press secretary, had mastered the art of disinformation.

  Neff could plant a story with a simple whisper or a major news conference. He could produce the lies to back up any story or the facts to deny it. His sources were too numerous to name: an aide-de-camp on Margaret Thatcher’s personal staff, an aging official in the White House, a colonel in the KGB. His direct contacts in the media were likewise as varied: a Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist from Washington’s most prestigious newspaper, an anchorman with the BBC in London, a commissioner with the South African Broadcasting Corporation in Johannesburg.

  “Then it’s finished,” Leistner said in time. “Release a statement from your office immediately. Give it some flair, Oliver. You know, something to do with South Africa’s black unions having been the victims of a direct assault by a disgruntled ex-member. Something like that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Leistner watched the door close behind his associate.

  A last task remained. He crossed the office to a chrome-framed mirror situated against the outside wall between two bay windows. The mirror was hinged on one side and secured to the wall on the other by a magnetic catch. Behind the mirror was a wall safe constructed of half-inch-thick hardened steel with three locking bolts and a three-wheel combination lock.

  The letter was inside the safe.

  It had been written three months ago by Ian Elgin, in what must have been, Leistner thought, a fit of recklessness. He glanced through it one last time, shaking his head. The contents, he recalled, had nearly unraveled him then. His reaction now was more dismay. But in time, dismay was replaced by a bitter smile. It was all ove
r now.

  From his pocket, Leistner produced a butane lighter. He held the flame beneath a corner of the letter, and the paper ignited. Orange flames devoured the words. Then, mastering an inexplicable trace of reluctance, he returned to his desk and dropped the shrinking ash into the wastebasket.

  An hour later, Leistner met Jan Koster in a coffeehouse on Bailey Street. Government workers, college students, and the smell of baking bread and almond croissants filled the room.

  “We’re close, Minister. Seven years of work.”

  “More than that,” Leistner replied. “A lifetime.” And yours, loyal fellow, he thought, eyeing Koster, has such a few short days left to it. A pity. Koster he would miss.

  “And now we can put this business of Ian Elgin behind us. The case is closed,” Leistner said, elaborating. “I’ve turned the whole thing over to Oliver Neff. It will be old news very soon.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Koster said vaguely. He knew as much already. He had received a message from Neff forty minutes earlier. It had taken nearly a year to discover Neff’s “secrets,” but the paybacks since, Koster thought, had been well worth the effort. He thought again of their conversation that night in February and wondered why he had never destroyed the recording. Someday, he mused, I’ll hold it under Leistner’s nose and we’ll have a good laugh over it.

  Koster didn’t mention his telephone interview with the Port Elizabeth chief inspector. Instead, they discussed Leistner’s meeting with the prime minister, and his latest round of talks with Lucas Ravele of the Federation of Mineworkers Union. Then they touched on the last stages of preparation at East Fields: the explosives, the progress of the arms, the “workers” from Mozambique, the expected arrival of Christopher Zuma.

  “Unfortunately,” said Koster, as a waitress freshened their tea, “we do have a problem. A potentially dangerous problem. It seems that two of our men were arrested this morning in Springs. Drunk and armed. Their work permits were confiscated. Worse, they’ve been accused of raping a sixteen-year-old girl.”