Rage c-11

by Wilbur Smith

  Tara introduced them to any of her guests they met in the corridors or public rooms. 'These are my son and daughter from Cape Town,' and they shook hands with German and French tourists who spoke no English, Pakistanis and Chinese, black Kenyans and coloured South Africans.

  'Where are you staying?" Tara wanted to know.

  'At the Dorchester." 'Of course." Tara rolled her eyes. 'Fifty guineas a day, paid for by the sweat of the workers in the Courtney mines. That is what your father would have chosen. Why don't you and Mickey move in here?

  I have two nice rooms on the top floor free at the moment. You would meet so many interesing people, and we'd see so much more of each other." Isabella shuddered at the thought of sharing the toilet at the end of the passage and jumped in before Michael could agree.

  'Daddy would be furious, he has prepaid for us - and now we know our way, it's only a short taxi ride." 'Taxis,' Tara sniffed. 'Why not take the bus or the underground like any ordinary person?" Isabella stared at her speechlessly. Didn't she understand that they weren't ordinary people? They were Courtheys. She was about to say so, when Michael sensed her intention and intervened smoothly.

  'Of course you are quite right. You'll have to tell us what number bus to take and where to get off, Mater." 'Mickey darling, please don't call me Mater any longer. It's so terribly bourgeois. Call me either Mummy or Tara, but not that." 'All right. It will be a little bit strange at first, but okay. I'll call you Tara." 'It's almost lunch time,' Tara announced blithely. 'I asked cook to make a bread and butter pudding, I know it's one of your favourites, Mickey." 'I'm not awfully hungry, Mater -- Tara,' Isabella announced. 'And it must be jet-lag or something, but --' Michael pinched her sharply. 'That's lovely, Tara. We'd love to stay for lunch." 'I just have to look into the kitchen - make sure it's all under control - come along." As they entered the kitchen a child came running to Tara. He must have been helping the Irish cook, for his hands were white with flour to the elbows. Tara hugged him, happily heedless of the flour that rubbed off on her sweater.

  A mat of short woolly curls covered his pate, and his skin was a clear light toffee colour. His eyes were huge and dark, and he had appealing gamine features. He reminded Isabella of any one of the dozens of children of the estate workers on Weltevreden. She smiled at him, and he gave back a cocky but friendly grin.

  'This is Benjamin,' Tara said. 'And these, Benjamin, are your

  ! ',!!i brother and sister - Mickey and Isabella." Isabella stared at the child. She had tried to discount and for all that Lothar had told her, and in some measure she had succeede But now it all came rushing back, the words roaring in her ears ll flood waters.

  'Your half brother is an attractive coffee colour,' Lothar had to her and she wanted to scream, 'How could you, Mater, how cou you do this to us?" But Michael had recovered from his obvious su prise, and now he held out his hand towards the child and said, 'Hi there, Ben. It's fine that we are brothers - but how about yc and me being friends also?" 'Hey, man - I like that,' Benjamin agreed instantly. To add Isabella's dismay and confusion, he spoke in a broad south Londc accent.

  Isabella spoke barely a dozen words during lunch. The pea sou was thickened with flour that had not cooked through and it stuc to the roof of her mouth. The boiled silverside lay limply in its ov watery gravy, and the cabbage was cooked pink.

  They sat at the table with Phineas, the receptionist, and five oth of Tara's guests, all black South African expatriates, and the boisteJ ous conversation was almost entirely conducted in left-wing jargo The government of which Isabella's beloved father was a minist was always referred to as the 'racist regime' and Michael joine cheerfully in the discussion about the redistribution of wealth an the return of the land to those who worked it after the revolutioz had succeeded and the People's Democratic Republic of Azania ha.

  been established. Isabella wanted to scream at him, 'Damn you Mickey, they are talking about Weltevreden and the Silver Rive Mine. These are terrorists and revolutionaries - and their sole purpose is to destroy us and our world." When the bread-and-butter pudding was served, she could take i no longer.

  'I'm sorry, Tara,' she whispered. 'I have a splitting headache, an I simply have to get back to the Dorchester and lie down." She wa so pale and discomforted that Tara made only a token protest and genuine noises of concern. Isabella refused to let Michael escort her 'I won't spoil your fun. You haven't seen Mater - Tara - in ages. I'l just grab a taxi." Perhaps it really was fatigue that had weakened her, but in the cal: she found herself weeping with chagrin and shame and fury.

  'Damn her! Damn her to hell,' she whispered. 'She has disgraced and dishonoured all of us, Daddy and Nana and me and all the family." As soon as she reached her room she locked her door, threw herself on the bed and reached for the telephone.

  'Exchange, I want to put a call through to Johannesburg in South Africa--' She read the number out of her address book.

  The delay was less than half an hour and then a marvellously homey Afrikaans accent said, 'This is police headquarters, bureau for state security." 'I want to speak to Colonel Lothar De La Rey." 'De La Rey." Despite the thousands of miles that separated them, his voice was crisp and clear, and in her imagination she saw him again naked on the beach in the dawn, like a statue of a Greek athlete but with those glowing golden eyes, and she whispered, 'Oh God Lothie, I've missed you. I want to come home. I hate it here." He spoke quietly, reassuring and consoling her, and when she had calmed he ordered her, 'Tell me about it." 'You were right. Everything you said was true - even to her little brown bastard, and the people are all revolutionaries and terrorists.

  What do you want me to do, Lothie? I'll do anything you tell me." 'I want you to stay there, and stick it out for the full two weeks.

  You can telephone me every day, but you must stay on. Promise me, Bella." 'All right - but, God, I miss you and home." 'Listen, Bella. I want you to go to South Africa House the first opportunity you have. Don't let anybody know, not even your brother Michael. Ask for Colonel Van Vuuren, the military attach.

  He will show you photographs and ask you to identify the people you meet." 'All right, Lothie - but I've told you twice already how much I miss you, while you, you swine, haven't said a word." 'I have thought about you every day since you left,' Lothar said.

  'You're beautiful and funny and you make me laugh." 'Don't stop,' Isabella pleaded. 'Just keep talking like that." Adrian Van Vuuren was a burly avuncular man, who looked more like a friendly Free State farmer than a secret service man. He took her up to the ambassador's office and introduced her to His Excellency who knew Shasa well and they chatted for a few minutes.

  His Excellency invited Isabella to the races at Ascot the coming Saturday but Colonel Van Vuuren intervened apologetically.

  'Miss Courtney is doing a little job for us at present, Your Excellency. It might not be wise to make too much public display of her connections to the embassy." 'Very well,' the ambassador agreed reluctantly, 'But you will come to lunch with us, Miss Courtney - not often we have such a pretty girl at our gatherings." Van Vuuren gave her the short tour of the embassy and its a treasures, which ended in his office on the third floor. 'Now, my dear, we have some work for you." A pile of albums was stacked on his desk, each full of head-an shoulder photographs of men and women. They sat side by side or Van Vuuren flicked through the pages, picking out the mug shots the people she had met at the Lord Kitchener Hotel.

  'You make it easier for us by knowing their names,' Van Vuurc remarked, and turned to a photograph of Phineas, the hotel recei tionist.

  'Yes, that's him,' Isabella confirmed, and Van Vuuren looked u his details in a separate ledger. 'Phineas Mophoso. Born 194 Member of PAC. Convicted of public violence 16 May 1961. Violate bail conditions. Illegal emigration late 1961. Present location believe U.K." 'Small fry,' Van Vuuren grunted, 'but small fry often shoal wit big fish." He offered to provide an embassy car to drive Isabella bac to the Dorchester.

  'Thank you, but I'll walk." S
he had been alone at Fortnum & Masons and when she got bac to the hotel Michael was frantic with worry.

  'For heaven's sake, Mickey. I'm not a baby. I can look arte myself. I just felt like exploring on my own." 'Mater is giving a party for us at the Lord Kitchener this evenin She wants us there before six." 'You mean Tara, not Mater - and the Lardy, not the Lord Ki!

  chener. Don't be so bourgeois and colonial, Mickey darling." At least fifty people crowded into the residents' lounge of the Lord for Tara's party, and she provided unlimited quantities of draugh bitter and Spanish red wine to wash down the Irish cook's unforgett able snacks. Michael entered into the spirit of the occasion. He wa at all times the centre of an arguing gesticulating group. Isabell backed herself into a corner ai the lounge and with a remote and ic' hauteur discouraged any familiar approach from the other guests while at the same time memorizing their names and faces as Tan introduced them.

  After the first hour the smoky claustrophobic atmosphere, and th volume of conversation lubricated by Tara's Spanish plonk, became oppressive and Isabella's eyes felt gritty and a dull ache started ir her temples. Tara had disappeared and Michael was still enjoyin himselfi 'That's my patriotic duty for tonight,' she decided, and sidled to.

  wards the door taking care not to alert Michael to her departure.

  As she passed the deserted reception desk, she heard voices from behind the osted glass door of Tara's tiny office, and she had an attack of conscience.

  'I can't just go off without thanking Mater,' she decided. 'It was an awful party, but she went to a lot of trouble and I am one of the guests of honour." She slipped behind the desk, and was about to tap on the panel of the door when she heard her mother say, 'But, comrade, I didn't expect you to arrive tonight." The words were commonplace, but the tone in which Tara said them was not. She was more than agitated she was afraid, deadly afraid.

  A man's voice replied, but it was so low and hoarse that Isabella could not catch the words, and then Tara said, 'But they are my own children. It's perfectly safe." This time the man's reply was sharper.

  'Nothing is ever safe,' he said. 'They are also your husband's children, and your husband is a member of the fascist racist regime. We will leave now and return later after they have gone." Isabella acted instinctively. She darted back into the lobby and out through the glass front doors of the hotel. The narrow street was lined with parked vehicles, one of them a dark delivery van tall enough to screen her. She hid behind it.

  After a few minutes, two men followed her out of the front entrance of the hotel. They both wore dark raincoats but their heads were bare. They set off briskly, walking side by side towards the Cromwell Road and as they came level with where she leaned against the side of the van, the street light lit their faces.

  The man nearest to her was black, with a strong, resolute face, broad nose and thick African lips. His companion was white and much older. His flesh was pale as putty and had the same soft amorphous look. His hair was black and lank and lifeless. It hung on to his forehead, and his eyes were dark and fathomless as pools of coal tar - and Isabella understood why her mother had been afraid. This was a man who inspired fear.

  Colonel Van Vuuren sat beside her at his desk with the pile of albums in front of them. 'He is a white man. That makes life a lot easier for all of us,' he said as he selected one of the albums.

  'These are all white,' he explained. 'We have got them all in here.

  Even the ones safely behind bars, like Brain Fischer." She found his photograph on the third page.

  'That's the one." 'Are you sure?" Van Vuuren asked. 'It's not a very good photo." It must have been taken as he was climbing into a vehicle, for the background was a city street. He was glancing back, most of his body obscured by the open door of the vehicle, and movement ha blurred his features slightly.

  'Yes. That's him all right,' Isabella repeated. 'I could never mistaN those eyes." Van Vuuren referred to the separate ledger. 'The photograph w taken in East Berlin by the American CIA two years ago. He is wily bird, that's the only picture we have. His name is Joe Cicer( He is the secretary general of the South African Communist Par!

  and a colonel in the Russian KGB. He is a chief of staff of tl: military wing of the banned ANC, the Umkhonto we Sizwe." Va Vuuren smiled. 'And so, my dear, the big fish has arrived. Now w must try and identify his companion. That will not be so easy." It took almost two hours. Isabella paged through the alburr slowly. When she finished one pile, Van Vuuren's assistent broug in another armful of albums and she began again. Van Vuuren st patiently beside her, sending out for coffee and encouraging her with a smile and a word when she flagged.

  'Yes." Isabella straightened up at last. 'This is the one." 'You have been wonderful. Thank you." Van Vuuren reached fc the ledger and turned to the curriculum vitae of the man in th photograph.

  'Raleigh Tabaka,' he read out. 'Secretary of the Vaal branch PAC and member of Poqo. Organizer of the attack on the Sharpeviii police station. Disappeared three years ago, before he could b detained. Since then there have been rumours that he was seen i: training camps in Morocco and East Germany. He is rated as trained and dangerous terrorist. Two big fish together. Now, if w could just find what they are up to!" Tara Courtney waited up long after her party had broken up. Th last guests had staggered through the glass doors, and Michael ha( kissed her goodnight and gone off to try and pick up a late cruisinl taxi in the Cromwell Road.

  Since first she had met him, Joe Cicero had been associated will danger and suffering and loss. There was always an aura of myster'.

  and a passionless evil surrounding him. He terrified her. The ma] with him she had met for the first time that night. Joe Cicero ha( introduced him only as Raleigh, but Tara's heart had gone out t( him immediately. Although he was much younger, he reminded he so strongly of her own Moses. He had the same smouldering intensit,.

  and compelling presence, the same dark majesty of bearing an( command.

  i They came back a little after two in the morning, and Tara let them in and led them through to her own bedroom in the back area of the hotel.

  'Raleigh will stay with you for the next two or three weeks. Then he will return to South Africa. You will provide everything he asks for, particularly the information." 'Yes, omrade, Tara whispered. Although she was the registered C owner and licensed proprietress of the hotel, the money for the purchase had been provided by Joe Cicero and she took her orders directly from him.

  'Raleigh is the nephew of Moses Gama,' Joe said, watching her carefully with those expressionless black eyes as she turned to the younger man.

  'Oh Raleigh, I didn't realize. It is almost as though we are one family. Moses is the father of my son, Benjamin." 'Yes,' Raleigh answered. 'I know that. This is the reason that I am able to give you the object of my mission to South Africa. Your dedication is proven and unquestioned. I am going back to Africa to free your husband and my uncle, Moses Gama, from the prison of the fascist racist Verwoerd regime to lead the democratic revolution of our people." Her joy dawned slowly with her understanding. Then she went to Raleigh Tabaka and as she embraced him she was weeping with happiness.

  'I will give anything to help you succeed,' she whispered through her tears. 'Even my life." Jakobus Stander had only two classes on a Friday morning, and the last one ended at 11.30. He left the grounds of the University of the Witwatersrand immediately afterwards and caught the bus down to Hillbrow. It was a ride of only fifteen minutes and he reached his flat a little after midday.

  The suitcase was still on the low coffee table where he had placed it the night before, after he had finished working on it. It was a cheap brown case made of imitation leather with a pressed metal lock.

  He stood staring at it with pale topaz-coloured eyes. Except for the eyes, he was an unremarkable young man. Although he was tall, he was too thin and the grey flannel trousers hung loosely around his waist. His hair was long, flecked with dandruff, hanging over the back of his collar, and the elbows of his baggy
brown corduroy jacket were patched with leather. Rather than a tie he wore a turtle-neck jersey with the collar rolled over. It was the self-consciously shabl uniform of the left-wing intellectual, adopted by even the Profess, of the Department of Sociology in which Jakobus was a senior le turer.

  Without removing the jacket, he sat down on the narrow bed ai stared at the suitcase.

  'I am one of the only ones left,' he thought. 'It's all up to me no They have taken Baruch and Randy and Berny - I am all alone." There had been less than fifty of them even in the best times.

  small band of true patriots, champions of the proletariat, almost of them white and young, members of the young liberals or studen and faculty members involved in radical student politics at the Enl lish-speaking universities of Cape Town and the Witwatersran, Kobus had been the only Afrikaner in their ranks.

  At first they had called themselves the National Committee ( Liberation, and their methods had been more sophisticated th Umkhonto we Sizwe and the Rivonia group. They had used dynami and electrical timing devices, and their successes had been many an heartening. They had destroyed power substations and railw switching systems, even a reservoir dam, and in the triumphal mood of those early days they had restyled themselves the Africa Resistance Movement.

  In the end they had been destroyed in exactly the same manner Mandela and his Rivonia group, by the inefficiency of their aw security and the inability of the members who were captured by t security police to withstand interrogation.

  He was one of the only ones left, but he knew that his hours ( freedom were numbered. The security police had taken Berny tw days ago and by now he would have talked. Berny was not made ( heroic stuff, a small pale and nervous creature, too soft-hearted fc the cause. Jakobus had argued against his recruitment, but that wa too late now. The bureau for state security had Berny, and Bern knew his name. There was very little time left, but still he procrastir ated. He looked at his wristwatch. It was almost one o'clock. Hi mother would be home by now, preparing his father's lunch. H lifted the telephone.