The Harbinger

by Mark Graham

  The door closed behind them. Leistner took Delaney by the arm, guiding her toward a chair. “You look terrific,” he said. “I’ve changed tailors.”

  “How’s the ankle?” he asked, glancing at the walking stick. “Stronger.”

  Leistner gestured toward the porcelain serving set at the center of the table. “Tea?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Cream but no sugar, if I remember correctly.”

  “You always remember correctly,” she teased.

  “You haven’t remarried,” Leistner said, pouring for them both. “I’m married to my work these days.” Delaney stirred cream into her cup. “It’s so much less combative.”

  Leistner studied Delaney over the rim of his cup, reminiscing, wondering. They talked for a time like long-lost friends meeting on a street corner. Finally, he tapped the sheaf of papers stacked before him. He said, “You’ve done well for yourself, Mrs. Blackford.”

  The use of Delaney’s surname signaled an end to the amenities. Old styles that never vary, she thought. Was she grateful or disappointed?

  “Thank you. As have you by all accounts. Though there is a motel owner in Johannesburg who no doubt has a complaint or two about some of your hired help.”

  “The motel owner in Jo’burg will be suitably compensated, I’m sure,” Leistner countered. “I am bothered more by the fact that someone in your position suspects that a quantity of American arms has been smuggled into the country, but for some reason, you’ve failed to transmit such information to the proper authorities.”

  “And I’m bothered by the fact that such information might be used to undermine my union.”

  “Come now, Delaney. Some of my colleagues, some of my less creative colleagues that is, have gone so far as to suspect fraud, or, if the facts are true, then at least complicity on your part.”

  “Come now, Minister,” Delaney remarked, though beads of perspiration were collecting at the base of her spine. “Three, maybe four people have died because of those guns, and one of them was a friend. I’d like to find out why.”

  “Ian was my friend as well. A very good friend,” said Leistner. For a moment, he seemed to languish over a memory. The moment passed. “So, also, was Steven de Villiers.”

  “Yes, I’m aware that Mr. de Villiers works in your office, and if I—”

  “Worked in my office, Delaney. Worked. Steven de Villiers is dead.”

  “Dead? My God, when? How?”

  “It’s my fault, really. Misjudgments. Sloppy work. Two good men dead, and for what purpose?” he said, regretfully. “You see, Delaney, it was I who enlisted Ian’s help nearly five years ago when we first heard about the possibility of arms coming in through Algoa Bay.”

  “You? You knew about the arms smuggling five years ago?”

  “Suspicions more than knowledge, unfortunately.”

  “Then Ian wasn’t . . . wasn’t part of it after all?”

  “Arms smuggling is NIS business, by and large. And it was only a rumor then, as I said. The dockers were trying to organize. So were the stevedores and the rail workers. It was a delicate situation. A situation too delicate to upset with negative publicity, and Ian was eager to help. You know how he was.”

  “I know he liked being where the action was.”

  Leistner ran a finger absently around the rim of his cup, musing again. “Our information said it was a freighter, midsized, possibly flying a Maltese or Liberian flag. It wasn’t much, but Ian still managed to identify the ship.”

  “ARVA II,” Delaney muttered.

  “Yes. That was more than three years ago. It was a small shipment, but NIS bungled the trace. The ship didn’t come back again for thirteen months. This time it was clean, legitimate mining stuff. NIS shelved the matter. They figured the ANC or the Democratic Front had worked a couple of deals, their source dried up, and it was finished. I told Ian to let the matter go. He wouldn’t. He was there the next time the ship came into port. This was a year or so ago.

  “A year ago June. The last time ARVA was here.”

  “I was in Rome at the time. Ian told me later there were two hundred crates or so. He inspected several and called my office. My idiot deputy refused to authorize a surveillance team. Instead, he called NIS and they sent someone out the next morning. It was too late. The guns had been moved by then. Ian tried to follow by car, which was a mistake. He lost the trail near Kimberley.”

  “Kimberley? Are you certain?”

  Leistner pushed a handwritten report across the table. Delaney studied it. The script was stilted and labored, exactly like Ian’s.

  “The shipment,” he explained, “was tagged, like all the others, for the East Fields mine. Adjustor certificates were issued in Nou poort, a shipping change. As far as we can make out, the goods were loaded on trucks in Kimberley and diverted somewhere in transit. NIS staked out the route to East Fields, but the arms never arrived. Probably ended up in some ANC camp in Botswana. We don’t know if Ian’s death was related, but it would be difficult to refute. I thought I had to follow up for his sake. I sent another man down there.”

  “De Villiers.”

  “Yes, with Lucas Ravele’s help. Perhaps we should have let you in on the matter, but . . .” Carefully, Leistner warmed Delaney’s tea, offering condiments, smiling. “Anyway, Ian knew the ARVA was scheduled to dock sometime in July. By that time, NIS had managed to track down the shipper—according to the shipping manifests, a manufacturing concern in Brazil. As we suspected, it was a front. I knew Ian was too close to the situation. His interest was too obvious, especially to the trained eye. After he was dead, I tried to find someone inconspicuous, someone without direct union ties. Steven knew his business, but he got careless.”

  Delaney shook her head. “I don’t know if it was carelessness or just dumb luck.”

  “Meaning . . . what?” Leistner leaned closer. A show of concentration etched his face.

  Delaney recounted the night she had discovered de Villiers in her office sorting through the shipping manifests. “By then, I’d heard the ARVA mentioned in relation to Ian. It wasn’t hard to put the two together.”

  “Truly. Then perhaps dumb luck is right.” A mask of indignation covered Cecil Leistner’s face. “And you shared this information with Inspector Mansell.”

  Leistner noted Delaney’s reaction, a minute penetration of well-honed defenses. “That next morning,” she replied.

  “You see, Steven was killed the night the arms arrived in Port Elizabeth. His body was discovered in a shallow hole on the banks of the Fish River, near Sheldon. He was killed by a .38-caliber pistol found near the burial site. The gun is registered in Chief Inspector Mansell’s name and the fingerprints found on the weapon are his.”

  Blood drained from Delaney’s face. “Are you saying—?”

  “You’re unaware of the federal warrant out for the inspector’s arrest, I assume.” Delaney shook her head. The minister passed her a copy of the warrant.

  Delaney read through the arrest order, pushed it aside, and then sipped pensively on her tea. “He’s in custody, then?”

  “I’m afraid he’s eluded us to this point.”

  “Too bad,” she replied, sullenly. “And what about the arms? They were being escorted. By one man. He was—”

  Leistner raised a hand, nodding. “Yes. His name is Van der Merve. Colonel Andrew Van der Merve. The colonel is an NIS officer. Eighteen months ago, he signed on with the ARVA as a crew member. He was on board when the freighter arrived in port, Delaney.”

  “That’s why he was so curious about me. Mutual suspicion. Utterly brilliant.” Delaney buried her hands in her hair, nervously pushing it away from her face. “And then I passed the information on to the inspector in Bloemfontein.”

  “To his detective, yes.”

  Delaney’s mouth was parched. She arose, slowly, stretching her legs. Her ankle throbbed. “Then the guns would have been intercepted before they actually reached East Fields had everything gone a
ccording to plan?”

  Leistner fielded the theory routinely. “We can only presume. The route was monitored, of course, but without success. The trucks were impounded at the mine, and the drivers were arrested. A half a loaf is better than none at all, I suppose,” he said with a resigned shrug. “Where is Mansell now, do you know, Delaney?”

  Delaney leaned heavily on her walking stick. Don’t play games, she told herself. They know by now. At last, she answered. “As of this morning, he was in P.E. Fool that I am, I gave him permission to use my house last night. I didn’t know—”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Leistner said. Delaney sat down again and Leistner took her hand. “But his apprehension is vital, Delaney. Can you see that?”

  “I wouldn’t mind having a word or two with him myself, Minister.” “He’s fond of you. He’ll want to see you again. Help me. Please.” It was a request. Delaney was better prepared for importunity.

  Her voice husky and low, she said, “I’m expecting a call, either

  this evening or tomorrow.”

  “At your home?” Delaney answered with an exasperated nod, and Leistner offered her a business card. “The telephone number on the back is a private line. Leave a message. I’ll be back in -touch within ten minutes.”

  Behind them, the chamber door opened. Lieutenant Baumgartner entered seemingly without notice.

  “I’ll make certain that you’re adequately . . . protected when you reach Port Elizabeth,” Leistner told her. He arose and offered his hand. “The lieutenant here will see you to the airport.”

  ****

  Northeast of Somerset-East, the abrupt cliffs of the Sneeuberg and Suurberg mountains punched wickedly toward the sky—the heart of the Great Escarpment. The Klien Vis, Vogel, and Sundays rivers and a hundred tributaries dug deep gorges into dolerite rock. Evergreens four hundred years old and boscages thick with willow and sage blanketed the hillsides.

  In Graaf-Reinet, amid rugged mountains of sandstone and shale, Mansell consulted the map. He filled the Audi’s tank at the local gas station and bought hot tea at the market across the road. The clock behind the counter read 3:08.

  Beyond the Sneeubergs, the Great Escarpment ceased with the rapidity of a shooting star. Beyond lay the Upper Karoo, the word karoo being derived from an ancient Hottentot phrase meaning “dry” or “barren.” And the Upper Karoo was both of these for as far as the eye could see.

  Mansell pushed the Audi now at a steady clip, and R63 drew out before him. The highway seemed to sway beneath the sun’s bleak rays, an iridescence glimmering hypnotically in the distance. The radio spat gospel music and static. Mansell smoked for companionship.

  Past Victoria West the farms diminished in size. Sheep grazed in brown pastures enclosed by tired barbed wire. Towns centered around one-pump gas stations, wind-weary diners, and mom-and-pop grocery stores.

  Thus, too, was Pampoenpoort—an unlikely oasis in a sea of sand. While pondering the reason for the town’s existence, Mansell heard the train whistle. Two kilometers away, he saw clouds of diesel smoke spewing from the chimneys of overworked locomotives. Exhaust beats sent tremors through the ground. Mansell checked his watch. It was 6:18. To the west, the horizon hid behind a veil of golds and oranges.

  He toured the town, calculating, fantasizing. The one-room schoolhouse and the steepled church, the feedlot and the silo, the drive-up diner and the laundromat. The village farmer who rose at dawn six mornings a week to tend his wheat and mealie and coax life from a land parched three hundred and sixty-five days a year by a cruel sun and a meager fifty centimeters of rain. The sheep rancher whose stamina was matched only by that of the stupid, lovable animal that produced wool for the market and mutton for the table. The soldier who fled the life of his forefathers in hopes of glory, freedom, and an easier way. The barn dances, the sheep-shearing contests, the frosted mugs of beer, the home-distilled sour mash.

  There were worse fates, Mansell thought as he parked the car in front of Mattie’s Inn and Restaurant. He stepped out and surveyed the main drag. Farmers, sheepherders, soldiers. The boundaries of birth, he thought. But a politician? Mansell locked the car and walked inside.

  Mattie’s lobby reminded him of a cramped, comfortable living room. Hardwood floors, a raging fire, a mantel crammed with clay figurines and thimbles, overstuffed chairs occupied by pipe-smoking farmers. Heads turned as he entered, and Mansell nodded. A hush followed. He approached the registration desk. A chatty woman of fifty with wire-rimmed glasses and gray bangs bade him welcome.

  “Good evening,” he replied. Afrikaans was the language of the Karoo, not English. “You have to be Mattie.”

  “That I do,” she said.

  “I need a comfortable bed, a hot shower, and a good meal.” “Then you’ve come to the right place.”

  Mansell paid for a single night. Mattie led him to the second floor. “What brings a handsome gentleman like yourself to these parts, I’m wondering.”

  Mansell understood that his arrival would be the source of some discussion among the patrons downstairs, and he wasn’t anxious to raise any eyebrows. “The railroad, actually,” he answered. “I’m with Transport Services. We’re computerizing some of the system between the Cape and the Orange Free State. I’m checking the line out. Surveying some land. That kind of thing. Boring stuff, if you want to know the truth.”

  Mattie turned down the bed and fluffed the pillow. “And Pampoenpoort?”

  “Won’t be affected,” Mansell assured her. “Though I could use some legal advice on a matter or two which came up in Victoria West. Is there a reputable lawyer here in town?”

  “One and only one. On the corner of this very block, as a matter of fact. An English-speaker like yourself, but a good chap nonetheless. Named Chesney. Lloyd Chesney.”

  From the pocket of her apron, Mattie produced a copy of the restaurant’s menu. She recommended the house specialty, lamb chops and fried potatoes. Finally, she cracked the room’s only window and left her guest alone.

  Mansell stripped off his jacket. He lit a cigarette. Laughing and shouting drifted up from the street. He walked to the window, parted the shades, and gazed down. A tractor crossing the road interrupted four boys kicking a soccer ball. The sound of a guitar filtered up from the tavern next door. The last light of day touched the hood of the Audi, now caked with the dust and grime of a six-hundred-kilometer journey. A dark Impala pulled into the parking space next to it. Fumes spewed from the car’s tailpipe. The beam of a flashlight filled the interior. From Mansell’s vantage point he could see the dashboard, the steering wheel, and the movements of the flashlight. For an instant, an arm appeared outside the front window. Mansell noticed a momentary reflection, like a wristwatch or a bracelet. The beam from the flashlight scanned the outside of the Audi, and then lit its interior. Just as quickly, the arm withdrew. The light was extinguished. The car backed away from the space and started down the street. Mansell pressed against the window, squinting, but darkness obscured the license plate. Gloves, he thought, remembering the reflection. The bastard wore gloves.

  ****

  Flight 691 from Johannesburg to Port Elizabeth was scheduled for departure at 4:15. Delaney Blackford declined Lieutenant Baumgartner’s invitation for a drink, and he escorted her to the boarding gate. He watched the stewardess accept Delaney’s boarding pass, waited until she was aboard, and then strolled back to the coffee shop. He ordered blueberry pie and black coffee.

  Delaney waited ten minutes before deplaning. She waited another five minutes in the boarding corridor until the plane began to taxi. Finally, she sidled back into the waiting area, peered along the concourse, and then slipped through an Emergency Exit Only door that led down to -the airfield.

  From there, she followed an empty baggage wagon back underneath the terminal into, a shed filled with conveyor belts, baggage handlers, and luggage. Swinging doors led to the baggage-claim department, revolving carousels, and weary travelers. An escalator led to the passenger pickup
area. Delaney hailed a cab.

  A fifteen-minute drive east on R29 brought them to the entrance of the Motor West motel in Edenvale. The No Vacancy sign flashed its neon message in red and yellow. Delaney studied the parking lot of the We Deal used-car dealership across the road; the Jetta was gone. She pressed a twenty-rand note into the cabby’s hand and told him to wait ten minutes.

  She climbed two flights of outside stairs to the third floor. The corridor was empty. Delaney started down the hall. A television blared from an opened door on the right, a “Mystery Theater” rerun. The sounds of a party resounded from another; laughing, loud voices, pulsing reggae. A door opened. A robust man dressed in baggy slacks and a wrinkled shirt swept into the hall with his arm draped around a working girl with a painted face and tombstone eyes.

  Outside room 343, Delaney scanned the corridor. Hastily, she opened the maid’s closet, pulled the light cord, and stepped inside. She closed the door, behind her. She waited fifteen seconds, holding her breath, listening; looking. Something was wrong, she thought. It didn’t look the same. Hadn’t the bed linen been on this side? Weren’t the mops and brooms in this corner? One thing was certain; only two cartons of toilet paper remained.

  Delaney pushed the top carton aside. The box below had a familiar bend in the flap, and it gave way without resistance. She peered inside, remembering. Quickly, she tossed a half dozen rolls from the top layer onto the floor. She stabbed a roll from the center of the second layer and ripped away the tissue. Wrong roll. Delaney exposed a second and third roll with the same results. No film canisters.

  Suddenly, her heart was thumping against the walls of her chest. Shredding tissue paper indiscriminately, Delaney searched the entire second layer. No film. She paused long enough to collect herself, breathing deeply, drying damp palms. Methodically now, she checked every roll in the box. And then the first box, roll by roll.

  The canisters were gone.

  The door opened behind her. Framed by the doorway and illuminated by the dim light of the hall stood SB Sergeant Angus Linder. He held out a hand. “I’ll take the film now, I think.”