by Mark Graham
The excitement and the anticipation infected every black man. Leaders, they all knew, were rare enough among the tribes of South Africa. Those who chanced stepping forward had a way of disappearing: prison, exile, death.
Christopher Zuma, the estranged leader of the African National Congress, had been living underground in Botswana for more than a decade. Still, despite distance and the persistent rumors of his demise, his power base had continued to grow. Where Mandela and Tambo still captured the fancy of the public and the attention of the Security Branch, Zuma was the acknowledged choice of the ANC’s rank and file.
Jan Koster had been quick to recognize this. Zuma had been his first choice in selecting a candidate to lead the movement following the East Fields operation. His charisma and poise in dealing with the white hierarchy were secondary only to his ability to light a fire under his own kind.
Cecil Leistner had never mentioned it to Koster, but Moscow had opposed Zuma’s selection from the beginning. The minister of justice had only met Zuma once, but he had been quick to detect the black man’s indignation at any outside interference in his affairs. It was an “unacceptable” quality, and he had been surprised that Koster had overlooked it. But it didn’t matter. Moscow had also determined Koster’s expendability, and Zuma’s replacement was already being groomed.
****
An early morning phone call shook Joshua Brungle out of a deep slumber. He knew, before answering, who the caller would be. “Nigel,” he said. “How’s the big city?”
“Sorry about the hour, Joshua. I owe you lunch at the Pic.”
“The Pic, is it?” Joshua scrounged through the mess on top of his nightstand until he found a pad and pencil. “You must need a favor. What is it?”
“The name is Cyprian Alfred Jurgen.” Mansell relayed Jurgen’s current address and explained about his status with East Fields. “Can you draw up a profile without causing a ruckus at Research?”
“With my charm, good looks, and insidious cunning? Of course. Give me an hour.”
Mansell left Joshua with the direct-dial number of his room, and then ordered melon, biscuits, and hot tea from room service. Fifty-five minutes later, the phone rang.
“Cyprian Alfred Jurgen. Born 1916 in Johannesburg.” Joshua capsulized Jurgen’s family history and his current holdings in real estate, construction, and oil, adding, “No mention of any mining interests, though. He sat on the Transvaal Provincial Council for sixteen years, and served as an adviser to Verwoerd for a year back in the early sixties. His Broederbond number is an ancient 4276.”
“Ah. That makes him an old hand,” replied Mansell.
“Not somebody to be messing around with, if that’s what you mean.” Joshua mentioned several of Jurgen’s social connections, his religious affiliations, and gave an update on his current situation, saying, “More or less retired at this point, it seems. He owns houses in southern France near Cannes and in the Bahamas. He smokes cigars and bets the horses. He grows roses and raises beagles.”
“A well-rounded chap, isn’t he?”
“Money does that.”
“What kind of cigars?”
“Christ sake, man. Havanas? Upmanns? How should I know?”
They broke the connection. Mansell dressed in a clean white shirt, a maroon knit tie, and a charcoal sports jacket. He clipped the pen microphone to the breast pocket of his jacket and slipped the cigarette-case-sized recorder inside his pocket.
Downstairs in the lobby, he sought out the head bellman. The man was suitably stiff and somber with a portly front and snow-white hair. In response to Mansell’s inquiry as to the location of the nearest tobacconist, he said, “You’re in luck, young man. The Princeville Pipe and Tobacco it’s called. Two blocks south on Twist at the corner of Union Square.”
Mansell debated between a box of Macanudos from Jamaica at R2.10 apiece and the Te-Amos from Mexico at R1.80. He settled on the Macanudos, disliking the aroma, but falling for the eccentric silver containers in which each cigar came.
At the Budget Master next to the hotel, Mansell rented a Cressida. He drove up Banket Street to Catherine, past the Girls’ School to Tudhope, and beneath the Louis Botha Highway to St. John’s Way.
A three-meter-high stone wall enclosed the whole of Houghton Estates. Ancient ivies covered the wall and jacarandas adorned the parkway out front. Wrought iron gates and a circular guardhouse obstructeed the entryway on Elm Street, and Mansell flashed his I.D. to a uniformed guard. He was admitted without questions.
The Estates reeked of Old World money. Narrow roads wound past sprawling houses of colonial, Old English, and Victorian architecture. Towering alders and gangly eucalyptus dotted every lawn, hibiscus and roses every garden.
A circular cobblestone drive fronted the colonial mansion at 49 St. Mark Street. Mansell parked at the curb. A flagstone walk led him to the entrance, where white colonnades supported symmetrical arches and a rooftop belvedere overlooked the grounds.
He leaned on the doorbell. Moments later, a butler in black tails answered.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, you may,” Mansell answered in brusque Afrikaans. It wouldn’t do to be English in this instance, he realized, nor from Port Elizabeth; too obscure. Pretoria always indicated something official, something urgent. It also wouldn’t do to merely be from CIB. Mansell flipped open his badge, obscuring the nameplate. “My name is Mitchell Wenn. Captain Mitchell Wenn. South African Police, Security Branch, Pretoria. I’d very much like a word with Mr. Jurgen. It’s a matter of some importance. And if you could present these to him, I would be appreciative.”
Mansell offered the box of Macanudos, and the butler eyed him with suspicious regard. Mansell responded with silent gravity.
“If you’ll be so kind as to wait,” the butler replied, allowing Mansell inside. “I’ll see if Sir’s schedule will allow him a moment.”
From the entryway, Mansell’s eyes drifted from English floor tiles to a crystal chandelier to a framed Picasso at the head of a circular staircase. He took note of the cameras positioned overhead and the red lights signifying their employment.
The butler returned shortly, saying, “If you will follow me, Captain.”
Cyprian Jurgen received his visitor in the billiards room. Rich oil paintings of clipper ships and seafaring galleons lent a masculine air to the room. A walk-in bar filled one wall. Gaming tables for pool, billiards, and snooker, and an octagonal poker table dominated the room. Drop lamps hung above each.
A wiry old man, with a cue stick in his hands, stalked about the pool table like a lioness on the prowl. The feline metaphor was compounded by a slender sunken face, a conspicuous hook nose, and busy, piercing eyes.
“Captain Wenn, is it?” Jurgen said eventually, his eyes leaving the table for only an instant. He spoke Afrikaans with thick German inflections. The voice, Mansell thought, sounded bored. “Pool is such a refined game in the correct setting, don’t you think? Do you play?”
“I was quite good at one time,” Mansell answered. “May I?”
Jurgen gestured toward the cue sticks. The balls were racked for straight pool. Jurgen broke. He cleared the table in three minutes, broke down his cue stick, and withdrew to the bar.
Mansell set the balls up again. “You shoot a good game, sir,” he said deferentially.
Sipping straight Scotch, Jurgen said, “Normally, Captain Wenn, I would have been informed in advance of a visit from SB. Perhaps I should have a closer look at your identification, please.”
Mansell ignored the request. Instead, he launched the cue ball. It hit the one ball with a loud crack, and the others scattered. When the table was still again, Mansell leaned on his stick. This was the moment. All his calculations, all the hints and innuendos that had formulated in his brain over the past twelve days would either expose him now or bear fruit. He circled the table, studying the balls.
“This is rather more of a personal matter, sir,” he said. “With regards to East Fields
.”
“Oh.” Jurgen intended that the word be spoken without commitment, but the edge in his voice betrayed him.
Mansell faced him now. “Yes, sir. What I mean to say is that the minister sent me personally.”
“A phone call wouldn’t have sufficed?” Jurgen touched the glass to his lips. “Cecil knows my number, I believe.”
A door opens, Mansell thought. He took his wallet from his back pocket and opened it to the shield. He said, “A phone call may have caused . . . more concern than necessary. Not to mention the . . . safety factor.”
“There’s a problem?”
“Yes, actually.” Mansell started forward slowly, offering Jurgen his credentials while saying, “I’m afraid there is a problem, Mr. Jurgen. One of considerable concern.”
“A problem with our lease agreement? Or the property?” Jurgen snapped. He waved Mansell away, pulling vigorously on his Scotch and leaning on the bar. “If Cecil wants some consideration or changes in our arrangement, or—”
Mansell held up a hand. He offered a sympathetic smile. “No, sir, not at all.” He replaced his wallet casually and withdrew. Jurgen’s earlier confidence was veneer, he thought, bolstered by his prowess at pool. “The problem, Mr. Jurgen, concerns . . . a matter of internal security. And my visit is simply exploratory, shall we say? Precautionary.”
Mansell stretched across the pool table. He tapped the cue ball against the six, and the green ball dropped into the side pocket. Then he approached the bar again.
In a lower voice, he said, “Some individual, or some group, no doubt the ANC or the SACP, has been smuggling guns into the country. They disguise the cargo with mining equipment. They’ve been using the corporate names and addresses of several small mining companies for shipping purposes, to legitimize the freight. It’s quite a sophisticated operation, and it came to our attention that one of their fronts is East Fields. There’s some muck flying about, as it were, in Pretoria, and the minister doesn’t want you involved.”
“But it’s his group that’s leasing the land, not--”
“Your name, sir. Your good name is still listed on the property. You are still listed as the chairman and major stockholder. The minister doesn’t want a friend implicated in any way. You know how the press preys upon formal hearings, the committee probes, the inquisitions. All that. We have leads, and . . . we are pursuing them.”
“Leistner controls these things,” Jurgen protested. “Why in the name of—”
“It’s Malan, sir. The minister of police is putting the pressure on.”
“That ungrateful bastard. On the prowl, as usual.”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Shall I take action?” asked Jurgen, suddenly anxious.
Mansell sidled over to the cue rack. Casually, he replaced the stick. “Perhaps, you could . . . Do you still winter in the south of France, Mr. Jurgen?”
Cyprian Jurgen sipped his drink thoughtfully.
“Margaret has been complaining lately. The usual. Politics, the servants, the coal smoke,” he replied. “That’s a good indication that Jo’burg is getting to her. I could surprise her with the idea. Call ahead and have the house ready. Not that many loose ends to tidy up anymore.”
“Expediency and a certain stealth would be helpful,” Mansell hinted.
Jurgen warmed to the idea, drumming the bar top with one hand, replenishing his drink with the other.
“I could have a few trunks packed and shipped up after us. After all, a servant’s only as good as his ability to take a simple instruction or two.”
“So true. However, if there were a way to limit the number of people who knew—”
“Yes, indeed,” Jurgen cut in eagerly.
Mansell returned to his car.- He drove half a block, stopped at the corner beneath a sprawling eucalyptus, and consulted his map.
In Bedfordview, on Beau Valley Street, he found an OK Bazaars Discount Store. He bought blue jeans, tennis shoes, a flannel shirt, and sweat shirt from the seconds bin for R16, and binoculars on sale for R13. From the grocery section, he selected red plums, club crackers, and a liter of seltzer water.
At 12:15 in the afternoon, Mansell set out east from Jo’burg on Highway R24. He lit a cigarette and munched on a plum. He thought about Cyprian Jurgen, wondering if a man like that would really drop everything and ship off for the south of France without making, at the very least, punitive inquiries as to the legitimacy of his brief encounter?
****
An addressee adjustor certificate is simply a form which indicates that the original shipping address on a package or parcel has been changed to some other locale. To obtain such a form for cargo shipped from outside the country, a letter of transmittal and acknowledgment, as it is called in South Africa, is required from the original addressor abroad. Normally, such a letter is sent to the port authority in the first city of receipt, where new freight tags are applied as the parcels are discharged from the shipping vessel. This letter is then transferred to the port goods officer and verified by customs.
Andrew Van der Merve bypassed these normal channels, having the letter of transmittal sent instead from the Porto National Iron Works in Sao Paulo direct to the stationmaster in Cradock. The letter requested a “discharge transferral” only, meaning that the goods were still destined for the original addressee, but that transfer to a secondary shipper would occur en route. The letter also requested that Andrew Van der Merve of Benori act as the subagent for both the seller and the buyer. The letter had arrived on the evening of the fourteenth, adding to its authenticity.
In Cradock, Van der Merve presented himself at the stationmaster’s office, where the formalities were completed, but not without creating a stir. A bloody nuisance, the assistant stationmaster called it. And it was, of course, Van der Merve agreed. Retagging 253 crates would require the better part of an entire shift, a four-man work crew, and reassigning the boxcar to another train. A bloody nuisance.
Van der Merve, as he had done five times before, in various towns, offered a solution. If the adjustor certificates could be provided now, he suggested, the forms could be assigned to the crates as they were unloaded in Kroonstad. If the East Fields office in Brakpan County and the stationmaster in Kroonstad were notified beforehand, that might solve the dilemma.
It never failed to amaze him. Such a transaction, Van der Merve knew, would have been impossible back home. Black marketeering would have been immediately suspected, and every participant would have faced certain arrest. Ian Elgin had assured him from the outset that no such entanglements would occur here.
None ever had.
The assistant stationmaster reacted to the suggestion with relief and enthusiasm. He placed two long-distance phone calls. He received assent from both East Fields and Kroonstad. Van der Merve signed the discharge transferral, and the assistant placed the necessary forms trustingly in his hands.
As he exited the office, Van der Merve nearly collided with a striking young woman walking with the aid of a cane. He juggled his papers, apologized, and hurried out. He had seen her before. In Port Elizabeth talking with the chief engineer. Why was she here now? he wondered. Alarm set in. It had to be the arms, he thought. But then, she had hardly looked at him. In fact, she’d displayed no signs of recognition at all. And if she did know, then where were the Intelligence people or Security Branch?
Inside the stationmaster’s office, Delaney confirmed that only two auto transport cars, two boxcars loaded with auto parts and rubber goods, and a flatcar of processed wool had been deposited here in Cradock.
From his station inside the East Fields boxcar, Andrew Van der Merve studied Delaney as she returned to the employees’ car at the head of the train. Ten minutes later, train number 407 set out again, and he breathed a temporary sigh of relief.
Between standing watch over the East Fields cargo during stopovers in Rosmead and Noupoort and the undulation of the steel wheels, Delaney Blackford felt stiff and groggy by 7:30 Wednesday morning
when the freighter pulled into Colesberg.
A farming town of ninety-six hundred, Colesberg lay on the outskirts of the Great Plateau. In the distance, bleak, rambling kopjes stretched as far as the eye could see. Cattle and sheep scrounged among tussock and plowed fields. Delaney devoured the crisp morning air, walking briskly along the tracks until the fatigue in her legs and arms disappeared.
The chief engineer suggested breakfast at the station diner. Inside, the smell of steaks grilling, eggs frying, and coffee brewing set her stomach on fire. They sat at a dinette with a vinyl top and simple wooden chairs. Purposely, Delaney sat opposite the window with a view of the train yard.
The waitress served coffee and tea. Smit recommended the house specialty, sirloin and eggs.
When they were alone, Delaney said, “This is fabulous country on the hinterland.”
“Big country, for sure,” Smit replied warily. “The problems seem smaller for the size, but they’re still here. The waitress is black and so is the cook. But the owner is an Afrikaner. The shepherds and the farmhands are all black, and they live in grass huts in the valley. The farm and the sheep are owned by an Afrikaner who lives in a fifteen-room mansion on the hill.”
“There are worse things,” Delaney said. She didn’t want to talk politics. She glanced outside. The train began to roll forward, and her eyes widened. It stopped with a jolt.
“They won’t leave without us,” the engineer said, seeing her reaction. “We’re dropping seven cars here, picking up five others.”
Delaney blushed. “Of course. We are in the delivery business, aren’t we?” she said, looking aside.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the door to the East Fields boxcar open. Delaney immediately recognized the man stepping down from the car, and she marveled more at her own self-control than at the turn of her discovery. It’s him, she thought, almost passively. The guy who nearly ran me over in Cradock.
