The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  “With his hands tucked comfortably between the legs of his warm wife,” Hunter added. He raised his palms, shrugging.

  “Gentlemen, you’re breaking my heart!” Leistner exclaimed. A brief chortle contained little humor. He leaned across the table and formed a steeple with his hands. With eyes uncommonly dark, he looked straight at Daniel Masi Hunter. “So we change things. Now.”

  The heady declaration caused Hunter’s tiny eyes to widen, and the fixation in his dining companions’ eyes left him adrift. He searched for a suitable riposte, saying in time, “A bold statement, Minister. Very bold.”

  “Boldness will be a considerable factor in all our lives this next week, Mr. Hunter. I assure you.”

  The fat man found his desire for fish and wine suddenly diminished. His hand unconsciously sought out the pipe stored in his suit-coat pocket.

  “On Tuesday, July twenty-second, Mr. Hunter, four major events will occur. Four events which will alter the course of South Africa’s history,” said the minister of justice calmly. “The first of these will actually transpire on Monday the twenty-first, when the prime minister will announce a nationwide state of emergency. You can imagine the reaction. Trusted friends and bitter enemies alike will call it an act of totalitarianism. Political and economic barometers will plunge. The second event is an outside operation, military in nature and seven years in its conception. An operation which will send the gold-mining industry into a tailspin. Third. On Tuesday evening, the Federation of Mineworkers Union and its associate members will announce total work stoppages by their entire memberships. And finally, all factions of the Affiliated Union of Dockers, Stevedores, and Rail Workers will announce a simultaneous sympathy strike, also scheduled for midnight of the same day.”

  Daniel Hunter dared not look at the minister. Such a proclamation, coming from the second highest authority in the country, was madness, tantamount to treason. He concentrated on his pipe, tamping the tobacco, torching it with care.

  Finally, when this prop no longer sufficed as an alibi for silence, Hunter cleared his throat. “Minister, this second event of which you speak. The outside operation. Please elaborate.”

  Leistner attacked the question. “Elaboration is impossible. The project’s truest ally is secrecy. It concerns several mines on the Witwatersrand. That is sharing too much, except to say that its impact will be unparalleled.”

  The fat man thought rapidly. “A military operation of such magnitude,” he said. “The ANC perhaps. Could that be? Hardly. Their operations are generally hit-and-run affairs. Generally executed by bungling idiots. True, they’ve had successes, I grant you. Firebombing the synthetic petroleum plants outside of Jo’burg, now that was a bit of a coup. What, nine million worth of damage? Impressive, for their lot. Oh, yes, and then there was the refinery job in Pretoria last year. Most impressive breaking through their security system. Killed two people, pissed off a lot of others, and the refinery never did shut down. I’m dubious, Minister. With apologies.”

  Leistner smiled obligingly. “Your caution is admirable, Daniel.”

  Coffee and brandy followed dessert, and when Leistner faced his bulbous guest again, his eyes were cold, businesslike.

  “The ANC is a tool. Anyone with a bit of intelligence can read between the lines of their operations. Properly controlled, any tool can serve a function.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Of course you didn’t, Daniel.” The justice minister pulled away, lips pursed. He drew a cigar lazily from his breast pocket. When the ash glowed amber, he said, “The ANC is an army. You would be surprised at its size and discipline. Yet an army is only as good as its leaders, its plans of operation, its equipment. You would agree, I’m sure.”

  Hunter nodded, as if to say, “Of course,” while his brain measured the depth of the hole being dug beneath his feet.

  “This project has all three of those ingredients, Mr. Hunter, in quality as well as quantity. My word will have to suffice on that.”

  “And yet,” Hunter replied, drawing on his pipe, “my union is needed to back the whole operation.”

  “Perhaps a slight misnomer, using the word my.” Like a sculptor, Cecil Leistner chiseled a final accent onto his masterpiece. “You see, Daniel, over the years, Ian Elgin failed to mention certain things to you. The Affiliated Union has been a part of the whole operation since the very beginning.”

  With me or without me? the fat man nearly blurted out. But the answer was obvious. The minister wasn’t asking. How long, Hunter wondered, had they been using him? Was it necessary to save himself now? To consent without some discussion would be an absolute sign of weakness, he decided.

  “To suggest an across-the-board workers’ strike by three major unions within five days, especially after agreeing to arbitration, will be a difficult task, Minister. I’m sure Lucas here will vouch for that.”

  Leistner chuckled. “Daniel, unions are impetuous creatures. Impulse is part of their personality. Part of their strength.” His voice dropped in volume and tone, a diminuendo in a sullen requiem. “You will consult with each union head at once. Outline your proposal. Make your position known. Use the rumor of an impending miners’ strike as leverage. Of course, under no circumstance will you mention this meeting or any part of this discussion.”

  The implication was clear. Leistner set the final peg. “Have you the influence to carry this off unaided?”

  “I do,” answered Daniel Masi Hunter soberly.

  ****

  Tme and circumstance dictated a foray into frontiers uncharted, in search of game best left undisturbed. . . .

  Mansell thought about the warrant for his arrest as he drove up R32 out of Port Elizabeth. Initially, a federal warrant would be issued only to the nineteen division headquarters throughout the country. Division Number Six, headquartered in Port Elizabeth, would act on the assumption that he was still in the city, unaware of his impending arrest. Therefore, until his disappearance became apparent, local police districts would not be notified of the warrant. Mansell figured he could count on twenty-four hours before that happened. Red tape and competition being what they were, it might be another day before the information sifted down to all 931 police stations and 39 border-control posts across the land.

  The rationale was supposed to give Mansell a degree of comfort, but it didn’t.

  At the city limits of Sheldon, he pulled off to the side of the road. He stared for the longest time at a road sign set at the foot of a narrow trestle bridge. The sign read, THE GREAT FISH RIVER. The river glistened a lusty blue in the noonday sun. A dirt road shadowed the water’s eastbound passage for as far as Mansell could see. So this is where I buried Steven de Villiers, he thought savagely. This I should see for myself.

  He started the engine again, cut the wheel to the right, and punched the gas. Momentarily, he slammed on the brakes. Idiot, he thought, take care of your ego later. He put the gear shift into reverse, swung the Audi back onto the highway, and pressed on toward Somerset-East.

  Somerset-East, 130 kilometers north of Port Elizabeth, proved to be a nondescript farming town boasting of one principal thoroughfare devoid of trees and character. Still, Mansell thought, the view of the Boschburg Mountains in the background, patches of pine forests and lazuline waterfalls, made the trip worthwhile.

  He located the police station a block off Oos-Main Street, behind the courthouse. The building was a fortress, six stories of granite with a crenellated roof line and a marble arch over the entrance.

  He parked across the street. Stone steps led through revolving doors into a room the size of a hotel lobby, and equally ornate. It was cool, quiet, and nearly deserted. Along one wall, a uniformed man, wearing half glasses and reading a newspaper, sat behind a high pedestal desk.

  Mansell approached him. The officer glanced up. “What can I do you for?” he asked.

  “Chief Homicide Inspector Mansell from Port Elizabeth.” Mansell produced his shield. “Where is everyone?”r />
  “Sergeant McCarty,” he said, extending his hand. McCarty removed his specs and panned the room, shrugging. “This is it, Inspector. Oh, Major Boutsen’s office is upstairs. I’ll ring him.”

  “No, don’t bother. We’ve got a bloody mess over Sheldon way. I’m in need of some computer time, rather urgent. I’ve heard Somerset’s particularly well equipped.”

  “All the latest. That’s a fact.” McCarty climbed down from his perch. He looked like a koala bear but moved like a penguin, and Mansell had to hurry just to keep up. “We’re up on the second floor. Research and Communications. Suzanne’s our computer expert. She’ll set you up.”

  When they entered, Suzanne was standing, arms akimbo, a pencil between her teeth, staring down at a data sheet. She was fortyish, dressed in blue jeans and a soccer jersey. She possessed a farm girl’s wholesomeness and a chorus girl’s figure. McCarty introduced them, and a smile lit Suzanne’s angular face at the prospect of working with a big-city inspector.

  Mansell let her down gently. “In P.E., you see, we live and die by the computer. If you can’t run your own unit,” he exaggerated, “you don’t work there. Would you mind terribly if I spend some time with the IBM over there?”

  Suzanne laughed. “If you insist.” She helped Mansell patch into the main research banks in Pretoria. “I’ll get some tea.”

  The profile on Cecil Andrew Leistner was, as with those of most Nationalist officials, sparse and protectively worded.

  Leistner was born in Pampoenpoort, a remote farming community on the Great Karoo in Cape Province. His father, Peter, farmed wheat and raised sheep. His mother, Anna Kathleen, taught school and played the organ and violin. Both were deceased. No brothers or sisters. Leistner’s great-grandparents, farmers as well, immigrated from Germany in 1861, settling in Calvinia. Thirty years later, Leistner’s grandfather, a schoolteacher, received an offer to open a new school in Pampoenpoort. He built the two-room schoolhouse with his own hands and named it after his wife, Virginia. The Virginia Pampoenpoort School of Education.

  The file included a copy of Leistner’s birth certificate, but his childhood years were not mentioned. He graduated from high school, from the V. P. School of Education, in June of ‘49. One month later, he enlisted in the South African Air Force. He trained as a navigator, bomber division. When the Korean conflict erupted in 1950, Leistner volunteered for the Number Two Squadron SAAF to aid the UN forces supporting the South Koreans. His squad was attached to the United States Air Force’s Eighteenth Fighter Bomber wing.

  He left for Korea in March of 1950, flew thirteen sorties into enemy territory, and was shot down and captured on the first day of May. A second plane was shot down during the same raid, and reports indicated that five parachutes were seen opening moments before the planes exploded. Seven months passed before the North Koreans issued an updated casualty and prisoner list. Two of the five, Captain Andrew Crooker and Private P. L. Fourie, were reportedly killed in action, while the other three, Leistner, Private Jaap Schwedler, and Lieutenant Chaney du Plessis, were listed as prisoners of war. Schwedler and Fourie, the file noted, also hailed from the Pampoenpoort area.

  Two weeks after the list was published, Christmas Day 1950, Cecil Leistner and twelve other South African prisoners were quietly released. Neither Private Schwedler nor Lieutenant du Plessis, Mansell noted, were among the other twelve. The Red Cross supervised the exchange through civilian channels, and Leistner arrived in Cape Town on January 6, 1951. He was twenty years old.

  One week prior to their son’s scheduled return, on December 31, Peter and Anna Leistner were killed in a one-car automobile accident. No details were given in the profile.

  Mansell read the last paragraph again. He shook his head, tasting the bitter irony and sympathizing with the man whose life he was now probing. He glanced over his shoulder. Suzanne was watching him. Mansell smiled, and she looked away, blushing. He sipped his tea, waiting. He lit a cigarette and peeked back again. Finally, he returned to the file.

  After a month’s convalescence in Van Riebeeck Military Hospital, Leistner was decorated and given his honorable discharge. He enrolled for the summer session at the University of Cape Town under the service bill. He took a flat on Kinga Street two blocks from campus. In June, Leistner joined the Junior Wing of the National party. By September, he was secretary of the organization, and the following January was elected president.

  During his rise in the Junior Wing, in which he emerged as a highly regarded party organizer, Leistner studied pre-law. He graduated with honors in three years. While in law school, he clerked at the parliamentary office of the current prime minister. After graduating second in his law-school class, Leistner apprenticed under the P.M.’s watchful eye for another two years.

  In 1956, at the minimum required age of twenty-five, Cecil Leistner was indoctrinated into the Broederbond; #5921. It was, Mansell thought, a rare achievement for one so young.

  Leistner won election to the House of Assembly in 1962 as a member of the George, Cape Province, constituency. Four years later, the prime minister, then minister of defense, named Leistner as his deputy. The following year, Leistner also accepted, voluntarily, the portfolio responsibilities for the Agency of Policy and Security Development. The vacancy occurred after the deputy minister of justice, Ira Baldwin, was killed in a mountain-climbing accident in Royal Natal National Park. Leistner, the profile noted, had also been a member of that expedition, but was unhurt in the accident.

  As head of Policy and Security Development, Leistner’s innovations in the Security Branch and in the border patrols won him acclaim from his peers in the face of rising terrorist activities. Most notable among these, Mansell thought, remembering the early seventies, was the increased power of arrest granted to Security and the “immunity clause” given them in interrogation and investigative matters. The innovations, he thought, no doubt increased Leistner’s powers far beyond those granted by his positions.

  Following the 1978 Department of Information scandal, during which then prime minister Vorster was forced to resign, the current P.M. won election. Cecil Leistner accepted his present cabinet position as minister of justice.

  Mansell remembered the rumors. The prime minister, it was said, had offered Leistner the head post in the Defense Ministry. Leistner declined, holding out for the more prestigious Justice position instead. An internal squabble erupted between certain key House of Assembly members and the prime minister over Leistner’s qualifications. Ulterior motives were also mentioned. In the end, Mansell thought, the dispute only served to enhance Leistner’s already considerable influence.

  Leistner’s profile contained only minor references to his personal life. He was not married. He was a deacon in the Dutch Reformed Church. His special interests were listed as rock climbing, spelunking, and Afrikaner history. His current address had been deleted in favor of a mailing address at the Union Building.

  Mansell copied the file on a daisy-wheel printer. He erased the transaction from the computer’s memory, bade farewell to Suzanne and Sergeant McCarty, and left without encountering another soul.

  On his way out of town, Mansell stopped at the Somerset-East Public Library. He went straight to the sociology department, hailed the nearest clerk, and requested a copy of the current Who’s Who in South Africa. On. page 312, he found a half-page official government photo of Cecil Leistner sitting at his desk, preparing to sign some document or other, and staring serenely back at the camera.

  It occurred to Mansell that he hardly recognized the face. He remembered seeing an interview with the minister on public television, perhaps two years ago, but couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen Leistner’s photo in either the newspaper or any recent periodical.

  Scanning the empty corridor, and feeling like a purse snatcher with a conscience, Mansell quickly ripped the page from its binding. This he put in his briefcase along with Leistner’s personal profile, the Elgin-Mabasu file, and the daily log he’d started while
at Delaney’s house.

  ****

  Petoria was cold this day.

  Coal smoke hung heavily above the valley. Outside, the smell reminded Delaney of the old gravity furnace her folks once had in the basement of their first house. Inside the car the stench of stale cigarettes filled her nostrils.

  In time, they came upon a checkerboard park in the center of the city known as Church Square. Here, two hundred years ago, the Voortrekkers had built their first church. Now a bronze statue of former president Paul Kruger marked the spot. Palm trees and street vendors encircled it. Corner to corner, history surrounded the square: the Old Raadsaal, the South African Bank, and the Palace of Justice. It was here, in a narrow drive fronting the palace, that Sergeant Linder now parked.

  Lieutenant Baumgartner escorted Delaney past an entrance of stone and brick into an interior of similar elegance: marble stairways and turned banisters, domed ceilings and turn-of-the-century reliefs. The east wing of the palace housed the Transvaal Supreme Court; the west, segments of the South African Police. It was the steps of this wing they now mounted. On the second floor, Baumgartner opened a heavy mahogany door that led into a lofty chamber. At the head of a long conference table sat a man smoking a pipe and reading. The pose, Delaney thought, was still familiar, still engaging.

  Cecil Leistner arose. A smile creased his face as he hurried across the floor to greet her.

  “Delaney,” he said, taking her hand. “It’s been ages.” “Two years.”

  “Two years, one month, and eight days,” he corrected. “Ancient history.”

  “Not so ancient. I haven’t cared for anyone since.”

  Delaney threw her head back, laughing. “Minister, you always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

  The laughter was contagious. Leistner joined in, grasping her by the shoulders. He noticed Baumgartner. “Lieutenant, if you’ll make yourself scarce for a time, please.”