by Mark Graham
“Drink,” he shouted, forcing the teacup into her hands. Wolfe held the stick at each end. He raised it high in the air. With a thick groan he brought it down across his knee, and the cedar shaft splintered. “Drink your tea, missy.”
****
Chamber 320 wasn’t a jail cell, nor a dungeon, nor even a keep. Comparatively speaking, Mansell thought, it resembled a hospital room. Freshly painted white walls, clean sheets, a private bath, a television set. Yes, all except for the solid door, the dual dead bolts, and the wrought-iron bars across the window.
A carton of cigarettes, his brand, lay in the middle of the bed. A tiny refrigerator was stocked with bottles of Castle Lager. Signs of a well-laid plan.
Enraged by the futility and the deception, Mansell slumped on the windowsill, gazing through checkerboard bars to the south, past the valley to the dirty brown hills on the highveld. The Voortrekker Monument, a squat tribute to General Alexander Becker’s cynical views, stood atop the highest of these.
Cynical though his views were, Becker was right about one thing, though, Mansell thought. The black unions were probably long overdue back in ‘79. He remembered Jennifer lobbying in their favor. He remembered feigning indifference, but when pressed, arguing intellectually against the idea. He’d cite the decay and decline of Nigeria, Zaire, Chad, or Uganda. Black African nations freed from colonialist rulers, thrust into civil war and eventually into tyranny. Military suppression, the black market, fallen bridges, idle factories, starving babies, bankrupt economies propped up by the Western countries they so conveniently disdained.
God, he thought, the arguments sounded so shallow now. Yeah, it was his usual devil’s advocate routine—they would argue for hours, sipping wine and watching the stars—but now all he could feel was embarrassment.
Mansell slid off the windowsill and stretched out on the bed. The room paled as evening wrestled another day away from the setting sun. He tucked a pillow beneath his head and lit a cigarette. But there was no solace in either physical comfort or nicotine, and he crushed the cigarette out in an ashtray. He closed his eyelids in self-defense. Merry’s face assaulted him from within. His voice stung Mansell’s ears. It might work. I’m not so sure it shouldn’t, man.
He felt the touch of Delaney’s hand on his shoulder. The words were reflected in her oval eyes, but he couldn’t understand the smile on her lips. They’d both been through it, she and Merry. And now he was dead, and Delaney . . .
Mansell fell asleep picturing the jail cell, the real jail cell in which Delaney was most assuredly now confined.
****
General Alexander Becker stood alone in the dark gloom of the NIS filing room in front of the paper shredder. He opened Nigel Mansell’s briefcase and carefully laid the contents on the wooden table off to his right. He switched on the pencil flash and stuck it between his teeth. Methodically, he worked his way through the stack, page by page, reading each in full.
The Elgin-Mabasu murder records were essential, and he set these back in the briefcase. The documents and timetable connecting Cecil Leistner and Ian Elgin were also of use, and these he laid on top of the murder records.
From Mansell’s chronicles on the gun-smuggling operation Becker extracted any and all information that might indicate a connection with the East Fields mine. These he placed in the mouth of the shredder. What remained went into the briefcase.
The tape and all documentation citing Cyprian Jurgen and his lease agreement with Leistner, and the photos and notes Mansell had taken at the mine, were also placed in the shredder’s waiting mouth. Details surrounding Merriman Gosani’s infiltration into East Fields and all evidence of his message and death were also fodder for the shredder.
Finally, all that remained was the evidence proving that Cecil Leistner was, in fact, not Cecil Leistner, and this Becker tucked neatly back into the briefcase, which he locked.
Then he turned on the shredder, and all matters pertaining to East Fields ceased to exist.
When he was seated behind his desk again, General Becker hailed Mr. Whittner and the NIS officer named Sean. It was well after midnight by now, but the two were still on call.
“Mr. Whittner. Contact our office in Gaborone in Botswana if you will. The illustrious Christopher Zuma has been holed up there for some time, is this not true?”
“In Moshupa, actually, sir.”
“Ah, yes, thank you. I’d like a status report on Mr. Zuma’s recent activities, please. Let’s say over the last three months, shall we?” “Something to do with Inspector Mansell, sir?”
Becker was busy rearranging an already well-tended desk. “What? No, hardly. Something else.” His eyes widened now in anticipation, his head bobbed. “Tonight, Mr. Whittner, if you would.”
When the younger man had departed, the general offered Sean tea, which he declined out of hand. It was a signal; what was to follow would be kept between the two of them, a matter to be handled out of the office and in confidence.
“Sean, I’d like you to contact the SDECE in Paris, please. Section Five. Talk to Colonel Guy Montclair. Drag the old fart out of bed if you have to. Tell him I’m afeared for the life of one Cyprian Jurgen, a prominent South African citizen. Jurgen has a home in Cannes, I’m told, and if the colonel would be so kind as to see to Mr. Jurgen’s well-being for the next several days, I would be grateful. Give him my respects and my thanks, and please tell the colonel that a bit of caution is in order unless I’m very much mistaken.”
A light tapping at the door nudged its way into the dream he was enjoying, and Becker’s eyes popped open. He glanced at the digital clock on his desk and was pleased to see he’d slept less than an hour. It didn’t surprise the general that he’d been dreaming about his papa. What surprised him was that it hadn’t been the old dream, the broken body inside a demolished car. They were fishing, just the two of them, off East London for garrick, just like in the old days, elfish bait and all.
Refreshed, the general arose. Mr. Whittner, on the other hand, wore an expression caught somewhere between obvious dismay and something that looked like controlled irritation.
“It appears we’ve had a communications foul-up somewhere along the line, General. Over the last three months, except for two day trips to Gaborone, one in late May and another in early June, Zuma never left Moshupa. Not until three weeks ago. The day trips were seen as pleasure. He stayed at the Kensington Hotel on both occasions and received a visit from the same black woman both times. A working girl as far as—”
“Until three weeks ago.”
Mr. Whittner sighed. “We lost him, General. He was seen leaving Moshupa by car on the third. An apparent boat switch on the Limpopo River was the last contact of record. Speculation—”
“Is worthless. Thank you, Mr. Whittner. Alert the border-control posts in the area, maybe they’ve heard something. Continue monitoring Gaborone and Moshupa. He’ll show up, I’m quite sure. That’s all.”
When the door had closed, Becker peeked at the photograph on the far wall once more and nodded his head.
The intercom sounded. The night desk. “Yes.”
“Your plane’s ready, sir. A car’s waiting out front.”
Chapter 12
“I hadn’t expected your call until this afternoon,” said Jan Koster, opening the car door for the minister.
Morning stretched its arms around a tawny sun. Coal smoke, the product of last night’s near freezing temperatures, added a wisp of reddishness to the eastern horizon. Inside the diner, two policemen drank coffee, and a milkman celebrated the end of his route. The diner smelled of sausage and biscuits.
“A change of plans,” replied Leistner. “This will be our last visit together for some time. The wheels cannot be stopped now, Mr. Koster. Inspector Mansell has been taken into custody by NIS. I’ve heard from Lucas Ravele and Daniel Masi Hunter. Their plans have been greeted with more enthusiasm than even I anticipated. But then power, or the scent of power, is completely corruptible, isn’t it? And
they all sense it.”
“Naturally.”
“The announcements will be made at organizational meetings this evening, as planned, and the shutdowns will follow at midnight. News releases for the Western press have already been prepared, of course. Oliver Neff will see to it that they’re released shortly after the takeover tonight. Cyprian Jurgen will be killed resisting arrest in France Wednesday morning. I have men standing by. The state of emergency has provided us with an unoccupied East Rand, and, more important, the justification we were seeking.”
“Yes. Truly.”
“I will be out of touch until Wednesday night. Out of the city altogether.”
“Should I know where?” asked Koster, peering over the rim of his teacup. He knew where already, but the question was required. “It’s not necessary that you know,” answered the minister. “I will contact you in Cape Town on Thursday as planned. Pretoria will have Christopher Zuma’s demands by then.” Leistner stifled a yawn. He accepted a refill and used the moment to think. His long-range plans included three possible exits from the country should anything go amiss. The information stored in his head alone would be invaluable. Privately, he almost hoped it would fall apart at the last, and he would be ushered home. But the image was tainted, and he knew it; there could be no hero’s welcome if this thing failed.
“I can’t think of anything else,” he said.
“We’ve created a monster, Cecil.”
“The world is full of monsters,” countered the minister of justice, laughing.
Leistner placed his call in a phone booth outside the diner. The recipient was a big man who favored bib overalls and dark sunglasses.
“Mr. Koster must not reach Cape Town, is that clear?”
“It can be done as soon as he leaves the mine tonight,” the man answered. “The road between Welgedacht and Springs would be perfect.”
“Fine,” Leistner replied. “Make it look like an accident.” “How will I know him?”
“He’ll be driving the blue-and-red Land Rover. The one he always uses.”
****
At 12:45 in the afternoon, General Becker himself delivered lunch. Outside, a storm was brewing. Thunderheads were busy forming jagged shores in which sporadic blue lakes blossomed, grew, and then shrank again.
“You look a little like a ghost after a long Halloween, General,” commented Mansell dully, his back pressed against the window.
“I feel more like a poker player after an all-night game and too many martinis.”
Becker’s normally ruddy complexion was pasty over a day-old shadow. The circles below his eyes accentuated the blood lines in his eyes.
He set a tray of steaming clam chowder, corn bread, a small salad, and hot tea on the stand next to the bed. It smelled marvelous, but Mansell didn’t budge.
“A last meal, General?” he suggested. “No thanks.”
“Eat, Mansell. You’ll need your strength before this day is out. And I need a shave.” At the door, he glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Save me some of that tea.”
Becker left the door ajar. Mansell listened to his footsteps, a hollow diminuendo fading down the length of the corridor. He scrambled away from the window, hustled across the cell, and stopped short at the door. Within every overt action, he thought, there lies an overt message. The message was clear enough. There was no place left to run. Mansell walked back to the unmade bed. He devoured the food in minutes, and then decided a shave wouldn’t do him any harm either.
General Becker returned dressed in a new suit and smelling of cologne.
“First I fly to Carnarvon and then I drive to Pampoenpoort,” he said without preamble. Mansell poured tea. Becker used two sugars and most of the cream. He borrowed a cigarette. “You were very thorough, even a bit creative. Except you discounted the vulnerability of your interviewees. The fear factor, Inspector. It appears the war veteran phoned the minister to apologize for calling him a coward.”
“How very human of him.”
“Yes. I thought so,” Becker said, nodding. “Do you know who Dr. Hendrik Bellof is, Inspector?”
“The plastic surgeon. From Jo’burg.”
“Ah, much more than that, really. An anthropologist of some note and an ethnologist as well. His specialty is reconstruction. Animal and human. An old school chum of mine, actually. Had the doctor take a look at some blowups of those photos you dropped in my lap yesterday. The ones of Leistner the tennis player and Leistner the minister. It seems the good doctor agrees with you. They aren’t the same person.”
“You’ve detained him, then?”
“It seems our esteemed minister is not available today. His office doesn’t know where he is. His housemaid informs us that her employer is out of town, but also doesn’t know where.”
“But—”
“Does the name Koster mean anything to you?” Becker held up the photo Mansell had taken at East Fields—the man standing astride the flatcar. “Jan Koster?”
For a split second, the hair on the back of Mansell’s neck stood up. “We’ve talked. It was Koster who let slip that Leistner was responsible for Ian Elgin’s positions with the FMU. Mr. Koster, the minister, and Elgin all had a common interest. Spelunking. A cave. The perfect setting for discussing matters of—”
“Yes, a triad of considerable influence,” Becker agreed. “We’ve issued a bulletin for Mr. Koster—”
“A bulletin? Why? You know where he is. Just send in a goddamn—”
“Last night I had an air-force Night Scout make a reconnaissance flight over the East Rand. Routine stuff.” Becker dropped a manila envelope on the bed. “These are infrared photos of the East Fields mine. I did the blowups myself. I didn’t think we needed the extra attention. If you look closely you’ll see some tractors, some trucks, a few boxcars, a half dozen flatcars. Forty or fifty men. Armed, yes. But then, armed guards are the rule, not the exception, among gold-mining operations in this country.”
“General, this is an underground operation, remember? When Leistner heard from Jaap Schwedler, he probably put a blanket over the whole operation.”
“As you might have guessed, I also thought of that.”
“Then you’ve warned the other mines.”
“No, I haven’t, Inspector Mansell. Yesterday, you mentioned the fact that you couldn’t see yourself presenting this case to anyone other than myself. Your decision was a wise one. Trust your instincts.” The general arose like a Caesar from his throne. He smoothed his tie and buttoned his jacket. “And now I think it’s time for a phone call.”
****
From inside a locked safe in his own office, General Becker extracted Mansell’s briefcase. He set it on the desk and returned the key to its rightful owner.
“Excuse me, Inspector, but as I said, there’s a call that needs to be made. I’ll use my private suite if you don’t mind. Make yourself comfortable.” There was a door at the rear of the office, and before he reached for the handle, Becker turned and nodded at the briefcase. “There’ve been some changes made.”
Becker’s “suite” was a windowless cubicle with a single metal desk, a secretary’s chair, two direct-dial telephones, and a telex machine.
The number he dialed was known by only nine others within the South African government and perhaps a dozen others worldwide, a number that connected the caller to a white telephone in the office of the nation’s highest-ranking official. It was known, jocosely, as “the white line.” The exchange lasted an eternal twenty-five minutes. At the end of the conversation, the telex machine spat out two formal replies, both with the undaunted scrawl of the prime minister at the bottom next to his official seal.
When he returned to the office, the contents of the briefcase were laid out upon the desk. Mansell was standing at the window smoking a cigarette. Outside, thunder rumbled dully. Rain painted the streets with liquid coal smoke. Mansell turned and their eyes met.
Becker borrowed a cigarette. Silently, he laid
a yellow telex sheet on the conference table, tapped the paper with his index finger, and nodded. Mansell scooped it up. It read:
ORDER #1001
For: Minister of Justice
Cecil Andrew Leistner
203 Cottonwood Road
Pilgrim’s Rest, Eastern Transvaal, South Africa
Notice in Terms of Sections [inclusive] of; The Suppression of Communism Act, 1950 [Act #44 of 1950]. . . .
Whereas, I, . . . Prime Minister and State President of the Republic of South Africa, am satisfied that you have engaged in activities deemed suspicious in the furthering, and calculating to further, of the achievement of any of the objects of Communism . . . that your hand may have been involved in the furthering, and calculating to further, of terrorism within the Republic . . . I hereby tender notice subjecting you to immediate detention and questioning by official members of the South African Police Force [SAP] . . . as of this day, the 22nd of July. . . .
Given under my hand at Pretoria on this, the 22nd day of
July. . .
/s/. . . . . . . .
Prime Minister and State President
“Official members of the SAP, it says.” Becker draped his jacket over the back of a chair. “I believe that includes you.”
The telex drifted irreverently from Mansell’s hand back to the desk top. “I’m not concerned with revenge, General.”
“Revenge?” growled Becker. “The man sets you up for slaughter three times. Do I care? Hell, it goes with the job. You got lucky. Now the shoe’s on the other foot. This is an arrest order. You carry a CIB shield. Do you want the job or don’t you?”
“I’ve never been moved by flattery, General. No thanks.”
Becker’s huge head tipped backward and a hearty pistol-report laugh bellowed forth. Then he turned, as if embarrassed, and peered out the window. In time, he returned to the room, business as usual.
“Listen, Inspector. You’re as good in your field as they come. Your record speaks for itself. You see things that others don’t.” Becker punched a finger at the address on the arrest order beneath Leistner’s name. “I don’t know where the prime minister came by this locale. Hell’s bells, man, I didn’t even know it existed myself, and that’s going some. But the P.M. seemed reasonably certain.
