Ivory Nation

by Andy Maslen

  Feeling that here at least he could work off some of his building frustration with Coetzee, Gabriel returned the pressure. Smiling broadly, he altered his grip minutely, placing pressure on a nerve bundle he knew lay between the thumb and index finger. Wincing at the unexpected pain, the pilot hurriedly ended the shake.

  ‘Alec Jensen. Something the matter with your hand, Brik?’ Gabriel asked.

  The pilot scowled and stumped away towards the Cessna, kicking out a couple of grapefruit-sized stones he’d used to chock the wheels.

  ‘I’m heading back to Jo’burg,’ Coetzee said. ‘Brik’ll take good care of you. Have a good trip, yah?’

  Five minutes later, after Todd had run through his pre-flight checks, the Cessna was rumbling down the airstrip towards a stand of trees at the far end. With a hundred yards to go, Todd lifted the nose and the plane took to the air. Gabriel turned to his left and watched the ground swing beneath the port wing as Todd banked the plane to the northwest.

  The greenish-brown veldt stretched to the horizon, dotted with acacias and other trees Gabriel couldn’t begin to name. A sinuous river wound north–south, glittering in the sun like a rope of diamonds on a sage-green velvet cloth.

  He watched a huge herd of antelope making their way towards the river, snaking back for a couple of miles.

  The Cessna’s drone made conversation impossible, which suited him fine.

  The flight took four hours. By the time Todd began his descent towards the landing strip, Gabriel felt his body was vibrating in time with the beats of the Cessna’s engine.

  The landing was rough but secure, and the Cessna rumbled over the ground before Todd swung it in towards a single-storey, cinder-block building. Above its white walls orange-painted steel letters were riveted to a frame:

  WELKOM BY NUWE HOOP

  ‘Know any Afrikaans, Alec?’ Todd shouted over his shoulder.

  Gabriel shook his head.

  ‘It means “Welcome to New Hope”. That’s the name of our town.’

  With his booted feet on Mother Earth again, Gabriel looked around. Beyond the airstrip, he could just make out a cluster of buildings a mile or so distant. Their white shapes floated in the heat haze. He swatted away a fly that landed on his nose and resettled his hat, tugging the brim down to block out the sun.

  Todd led him to a white pickup, its sides coated with red dust. Gabriel climbed in. Todd booted the throttle, spinning all four wheels and raising a cloud of dust before they found traction and the pickup lurched off towards New Hope.

  45

  NORTHERN CAPE

  Todd trundled down the town’s main street, a wide, dusty, unmetalled road. No markings, traffic lights, parking meters or pedestrian crossings broke up the tyre-flattened thoroughfare as it ran, ruler-straight, from one end of the settlement to the other.

  Something about the dust and the relative absence of vehicles put Gabriel in mind of the one-horse towns in the Westerns he’d been so mad about as a boy. Something itched at the back of his brain. He couldn’t reach to scratch it.

  ‘Hotel,’ Todd said, pointing at a single-storey building in a ranch house style. He continued pointing, first to the left, then the right. ‘Pub, general store, bodyshop, sporting goods. Yah, we have everything we need out here, man. And nothing we don’t.’

  Gabriel scanned the people thronging the pavements on each side of the street. He realised what had sent his soldier’s ‘spider sense’ pinging. Everyone was white. There must have been a hundred or more people, and not a black or brown face among them.

  ‘Like kaffirs,’ he said.

  Todd laughed, an ugly sound in the cab’s cramped confines.

  ‘In one. This is it, Alec. The capital city.’

  ‘Of?’

  ‘Ha! I’ll let Julius tell you,’ he said, as he swung the pickup off the main street and down a narrower track towards a fenced compound dominated by a two-storey wooden house fronted by a patch of lawn and a couple of shade trees.

  Arriving at the gate, he killed the engine and got out. He looked back in at Gabriel.

  ‘Come on, then. This is why you’re here, isn’t it?’

  Gabriel nodded and climbed out, knuckling his lower back. He reached back in for his bags and followed Todd through the gate and up to the front door.

  A furious barking erupted from the side of the house and a large, tawny-coated dog bounded around the corner, coming straight for him. He knelt and let the animal skid to a stop in front of him, its blocky head pushing towards his, slack jaws slobbering as it sniffed his hairline. He offered the back of his hand, fingers curled under, and let the dog sniff, then lick his skin. Apparently satisfied he wasn’t a threat, the dog wagged its tail and trotted off, the stiff fur along its spine gradually settling into a softer peak.

  ‘I see you’ve met Pikko,’ a man said from above his head.

  Gabriel got to his feet and turned to take in the master of the house whose guard dog he had just charmed into retreat. The master of the house, leader of the BVR and, as was looking increasingly likely, murderer of the fallen Paras and their Botswanan comrades.

  Julius Witaarde’s bow-shaped mouth was smiling as he held out his right hand. Gabriel noticed a gold signet ring inset with a red seal as he took it. The Afrikaaner’s face was composed of angular planes: high cheekbones shadowing a square, clean-shaven jaw, a tall forehead grooved with lines that met in a sharp V between heavy eyebrows. Gabriel estimated his age at somewhere between thirty and thirty-five.

  ‘You must be Alec,’ he said, in lightly accented English. ‘Julius Witaarde at your service. Welcome to New Hope, and to my home. Please, come in.’

  Glad to be out of the burning sun, Gabriel placed the daysack beneath a coat-rack in the hall. He removed his hat and hung it by the cord over one of the pegs.

  Witaarde was wearing khaki shorts and a matching shirt, open at the neck and loose over his hips. Gabriel detected a tell-tale rumple to the fabric over the right side. He followed Witaarde into a kitchen dominated by a plain wooden table, its worn surface scarred by what looked like decades if not hundreds of years of use.

  ‘Drink?’ Witaarde asked, standing by a tall refrigerator.

  ‘A lager would be good, if you have one.’

  Witaarde smiled, running a hand over his straight dark hair, held in place by some sort of gel into a breaking wave.

  ‘I’m a Boer, of course I have lager!’

  He took two bottles from the fridge, flipped the caps off on an opener screwed to the underside of a worktop and motioned for Gabriel to sit at the table.

  ‘Gesondheid,’ Gabriel said, raising the neck of the bottle and tilting it towards Witaarde.

  Witaarde smiled as he clinked his own bottle against Gabriel’s.

  ‘Gesondheid. I appreciate a man who troubles himself with the culture of a new country.’

  Gabriel took a pull on the cold lager, which was excellent: yeasty and lemony.

  ‘My father told me it was good manners.’

  ‘Your father was right. What was his line of work?’

  ‘He was a diplomat. Hong Kong.’

  ‘Ah. Another British colony vinnig afdraaide gaan. It’s what we say. You know, going downhill fast?’

  Gabriel grimaced. It was hard to disagree. In recent years he’d watched as the Chinese had begun dismantling the rule of law and the former colony’s independence, despite playing lip service to the ‘one country-two systems’ mantra.

  ‘You think that’s bad,’ he said. ‘Have you seen what’s happening in the UK? They elected a fucking communist, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Yah, I saw that. You said, “they”?’

  ‘Yes, you know. The idiots who swallowed Tammerlane’s bullshit about free this, free that, free everything for ‘the people’. Who do they think’s paying for it all?’

  Witaarde shrugged.

  ‘Not my fight, Brother, but I feel your pain. It’s why New Hope exists.’

  Sensing that this was Witaarde’s i
nvitation for him to start talking business, Gabriel leaned forwards across the table, pushing the half-empty bottle of lager to one side. Witaarde mirrored the gesture so their faces were only a foot or so apart.

  ‘My friends and I want to help you,’ Gabriel said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, even though they were alone.

  ‘Help me with what?’

  Gabriel smiled.

  ‘Come on, Julius, let’s not pussyfoot around. Why do you think I came halfway around the world to meet you? Because I’m telling you, it wasn’t for the luxury travel. My kidneys feel like your dog’s been chewing on them for the last six hours.’

  Witaarde smiled.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what you think you know and we’ll take it from there?’

  ‘You are the founder of Boerevryheid an Regte, and—’

  ‘Wrong,’ Witaarde interrupted. ‘That was my father.’

  ‘My apologies. You are the leader of Boerevryheid an Regte.’

  Witaarde nodded.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You believe in the right of white South Africans to establish their own homeland, free of the corrupt control of the black-dominated ANC government in Pretoria. How am I doing so far?’

  ‘Very well. Tell me something, Alec. We have kept a low profile so far. How did you find out so much about us?’

  Gabriel smiled and swallowed some more lager.

  ‘My friends and I have what you might call an intelligence department. We make it our business to know about and, if possible, befriend, those organisations around the world that share our worldview. The BVR is one of those organisations. We wish to offer you moral support and something more. May I?’ He pointed to the attaché case.

  ‘Please.’

  Witaarde shifted his weight in his chair and his hand strayed to his hip.

  Gabriel lifted the case onto the table, popped the catches, lifted the lid and swivelled the case round so Witaarde could see its contents.

  He had a flashback. A former Delta Force operator named Shaun Cunningham, looking with wonder at a similar sight, moments before Sir Toby Maitland blew his head off by shooting him through the lid. He shook his head to clear the horrific image.

  Witaarde closed the lid and regarded Gabriel over the top.

  ‘There’s twenty-five thousand US in there,’ Gabriel said. ‘A token of our goodwill. I’m sure you can put it to good use.’

  Witaarde lifted the case down and placed it beside his right leg. The hand hovering by his right hip had relaxed and joined its fellow on the table top.

  ‘Thank you. Dankie.’

  Gabriel waved his hand.

  ‘Call it a gesture of solidarity.’

  ‘Tell me, Alec, you talk about you and your friends. Who, exactly, are these “friends” and where do they get their money from?’

  ‘Smart question. We have been active for the last fifteen years. Our agenda is one of facilitating separatist movements who reject the global trend towards the mongrelisation of the races. Though this might surprise you, we are also happy to fund non-whites, provided they pursue a strict racist agenda.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  Gabriel had worked up his script with Eli before she’d left for England. They’d gone for fanatical-meets-just-this-side-of-crazy. Now he tried it out.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Look around you, Julius. Not here, in New Hope, but in the wider world. Lift your head above the horizon, beautiful though the veldt is. The world is on the brink of a catastrophe. Not climate, either. I am talking about the breakdown of human society itself. Intermingling blood is a recipe for disaster. We are sleepwalking into a racial apocalypse!’

  He’d raised his voice and deliberately not wiped away the spittle that had collected at the corners of his mouth. Stopping suddenly, he looked at Witaarde, whose stark blue eyes were shining. Now he’d learn whether they’d pitched it right.

  ‘My friends and I believe we have a God-given duty to halt that,’ he finished.

  ‘Amen,’ Witaarde said, finally. ‘Amen to that, Brother. Thank you for this money. But what do you want in return?’

  Gabriel shook his head sadly, letting his mouth curl downwards and his eyes grow heavy.

  ‘Julius, Julius, don’t talk like a trader. There is no quid pro quo. We have money, more than we know what to do with. Do you think we’re investors, looking for a return? No! I just told you what sort of a world we’re trying to create. That’s the dividend!’

  Witaarde held eye contact for five seconds. Gabriel searched deep in those hard, blue irises for a sign of trust. He noticed a faint wrinkle at the corner of the left eye smooth out. Got you!

  ‘Come for dinner tonight, Alec. I want you to meet Klara.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘Yes. And the best cook in New Hope. Come at six-thirty.’

  Gabriel checked in at New Hope’s only hotel: Die Wit Huis. It shared little with the official residence of the US president beyond the name. But the manager had been welcoming and had assured Gabriel he’d allocated him the best room in the house. Gabriel thanked him. News of his generosity had clearly spread beyond Witaarde’s house.

  46

  Pikko sniffing his left hand, which was curled around the necks of two bottles of wine, Gabriel knocked on the door of the Witaardes’ house.

  ‘It’s open, come in!’

  A woman’s voice. Mrs Witaarde – Klara – Gabriel assumed.

  He went in, leaving the inquisitive Pikko keening softly on the stoop. Klara Witaarde greeted him just inside with kisses on each cheek. Her eyes, a softer blue than her husband’s, were unadorned by makeup, as was the rest of her pleasant, apple-cheeked face. The constant sun had turned her skin the colour of cinnamon, though she must use some sort of moisturising product, because it was unlined and smooth beneath the weathering.

  She wore a loose-necked white cotton peasant blouse above a suede skirt, covered by a flour-dappled apron. The apron was embroidered with the same design as the pennant he’d seen at Yusuf’s factory.

  She stood back, holding Gabriel’s right hand with both of hers. Her smile revealed small, white teeth, and he noticed a tiny triangular chip in one incisor.

  ‘Alec, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she said, ‘come inside and let me get you a drink.’

  Gabriel followed her into the kitchen. When they reached it, he held out the bottles.

  ‘South African Chenin Blanc and a Pinot Noir. I wasn’t sure what we’d be eating.’

  Her smile widened as she took them from him, placing the red on the counter and the white in the fridge.

  ‘That’s so kind of you. Thank you. And before Julius gets back, let me just say what an incredibly generous gesture you made this afternoon.’

  ‘Call it an earnest of my good intent. I knew Julius would be suspicious of an Englishman arriving unannounced. He had every right to be.’

  ‘Yah, we do have to be careful. Those kaffirs in Pretoria keep trying to penetrate our defences. Lucky for us, we can sniff them out like Pikko hunting vlei rats.’

  ‘Vlei?’

  ‘It means marsh.’

  ‘You have marshes out here? It looks so dry.’

  ‘No, there are plenty of lakes around here. It’s how we get our water. I like to take Pikko with me and he has some fun hunting the rats. Now, what about that drink?’

  ‘If you have any wine already chilled, I’d settle for that,’ he said with a smile.

  With a glass each, she untied her apron, draped it over the back of one of the hard wooden chairs and motioned for him to sit. As she took a chair for herself, she leaned forward and the front of her shirt gaped for a second, revealing the inner slopes of her breasts.

  ‘So, Alec, tell me about yourself,’ she said, taking a delicate sip of her wine.

  ‘Private school in England, then I went to work in the City of London. Finance?’ Klara nodded. ‘I made my money in investment banking. Cross-bord
er mergers and acquisitions. That’s how I met my mentor.’

  ‘Mentor?’

  ‘A very wise man named Paddy Stirling. He showed me how the races were never meant to intermix. He had all this amazing evidence he’d spent decades putting together. He invited me to join his organisation. Basically I never looked back.’

  She dropped her eyelids for a second, then looked back up at him. Her expression was hard to read. Lips parted slightly, finger on the point of her chin.

  ‘Does it have a name, this organisation you joined?’

  ‘The Committee for Policy Progress.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very exciting!’

  ‘Paddy always said, “If you’re running a group dedicated to racial cleansing, Alec, you don’t call it The White Power Commando. Make it sound boring, so people don’t notice you until it’s too late”. I always thought that was rather clever. Not exciting, but definitely clever.’

  She took another sip of her wine, regarding him coolly over the rim.

  ‘Does that description fit you, too?’ she asked, one eyelid fluttering.

  Had she just winked at him? Gabriel shrugged, buying time with a sip from his own glass.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m either, to be honest. I got by in banking because I was good at forming relationships. Clients like that. Paddy says one good relationship with the right person is worth a thousand soldiers.’

  ‘And you think Julius is the right person?’

  Gabriel heard footsteps.

  ‘The right person for what?’ Witaarde said as he entered the kitchen.

  Gabriel stood and turned to greet Witaarde, holding out his hand.

  Witaarde ignored it, enveloping Gabriel in a hug noticeable for the wiry strength behind it as much as the affection. He smelled of sweat and something else. Propellant. Witaarde had been shooting. He stepped back, holding Gabriel by both shoulders.

  ‘Here he is! The man with the money!’ Witaarde glanced down at the table. ‘You’ve got a drink. Good.’