“You had best talk to Ssu.” The former mercenary took the directive from Coldewe's hands and smoothed it. “I expect it would play well with the crowd if we took it to court.”
Coldewe flared his nostrils. “I was afraid you'd say that.”
“That charming man Steen holds you and Anton responsible for the scare Juffrou Sanmartin is putting into him, and this is likely his way of saying he's going to get even,” Meagher added.
Coldewe stared at a spot on the wall. “This is starting to get personal. And as I told Anton, the problem with going legitimate is that it seriously cramps our style.”
Poikolainnen had reappeared during the exchange. “Sir, if we don't challenge it, we have to post it,” he said unhappily.
Coldewe nodded. “Paste a copy inside every wastebasket.”
Meagher grinned as Poikolainnen departed. “I don't suppose Steen will make an issue of it” He rubbed his chin. “Hans, it occurs to me that the battalion will need a new commander if your expedition ever does get off the ground”
“Yes. I suppose you want the job,” Coldewe said, trying not to meet his executive officer's eyes.
“I would, but the man it should go to is Sergei Okladnikov.” A smile creased Meagher's chunky face. “I'd rather tell you straight out that I'm the wrong man than have you wandering around thinking how to break the sad news to me.”
“Why are you so sure I want Sergei?” Coldewe asked. “Because you think the way I do, although not nearly as well. It’s true Sergei loves that tin can of his--I've always thought that light-attack people have something wrong in the head somewhere--but he understands the lads with rifles and his heart and soul belong to the battalion. As much as I'd try to deny it, a part of me still remembers being on the other side shooting at your lot” Meagher punched Coldewe lightly on the shoulder to show there were no hard feelings. “You nearly killed me, you know.”
“Thank you,” Coldewe said softly.
“Don't mention it. Sergei will also get along with the civs here better than I ever could, although this week that may not be our top priority.” Meagher glanced at his wrist mount “I see the time I've allotted myself is up, and it’s Aksu's turn. You're highly popular this morning.”
Wednesday (1171)
HENDRICKA SANMARTIN PAUSED AT THE END OF HER PREPARED REMARKS. “Many of you members of the press have asked me to comment on the false and extremely offensive rumors being circulated about me. Although my learned opponent has denied organizing this campaign, I will not lie to you by saying I believe him.”
“This should be worth half a column,” Booyse Zwick. Die Burger's morning editor, whispered to Seibert Wild, who was scribbling notes.
Sanmartin held up a large brown envelope. '“This came to Matti Harjalo in the morning post Some of you have already asked him about it. Uncle Matti tells me not to open it because it contains compromising photographs of six Nationalist party politicians and a note reading, 'People who live in glass houses should not sling mud.' “ She paused. “I have been assured that Heer Steen is not one of them.”
She tore the envelope and the pictures inside into small pieces. “I will not descend to their level.” She left the stage.
“We both represent responsible news organizations,” Zwick whispered. “We should stand upon our dignity.”
Matti Harjalo adjusted the microphone. “That’s all you get for today. I'm not taking questions either.”
“Dignity,” Wild agreed, grabbing for the pieces a half second ahead of Zwick.
Thursday (1171)
“NELLY ALWAYS LIKED THE BAGPIPES,” BATTALION SERGEANT Aleksei Beregov said as Nelson Bolaños's funeral cortege passed, preceded by an honor guard from No. 9 platoon and the battalion pipers playing “Flowers of the Forest.” “May God rest his soul.”
“Does his widow have family here?” Vereshchagin asked unnecessarily.
“Yes, sir. She is an Afrikaner.” A good battalion sergeant knew every conceivable thing, and Beregov was very good.
“Rikki should not cry,” Vereshchagin said, remembering what Ssu had said For the first day or two, outrage at an obviously politically motivated crime would move the indicators in Rikki's direction; then fear and the belief that Andries Steen was the person best suited to halt political violence would work to Steen's advantage.
“Colonel?” To Battalion Sergeant Aleksei Beregov, Anton Vereshchagin would always be a colonel.
“Yes?”
“The men have discussed the way of things, no officers present,” Beregov said crisply. “Should you decide that Steen and his gang need turning out. . . .” Beside him, Company Sergeant Isaac Wanjau nodded agreement. On a backward world, on the back side of nowhere, the endgame of a small-time election was being played out as if it meant life and death, as in a sense, it did
“Have you discussed this with anyone?” Vereshchagin asked.
“No, sir.”
“Please do not. Thank the men, on my behalf.” He inclined his head. “The record of military governments, however well intentioned, is abysmal.”
He spoke to Piotr Kolomeitsev afterward. “Piotr, what is wrong? One casualty should not affect me like this. I feel as though we have lost our focus.”
“We have,” The Iceman said, including himself as a courtesy.“We care.”
Friday (1171)
GRAAFF REINET WAS A QUIET TOWN, THE CENTER OF A CONSERVATIVE FARMING COMMUNITY in the rain shadow of the Drankensberg Mountains. The trees planted to line its streets had never grown very tall, and the cattle being driven to market sometimes nibbled its flowers.
A small house on Taalstraat served as Union party headquarters. At four minutes after nine, it exploded.
Sunday (1172)
WHETHER NEWS WAS GOOD OR BAD, ANDRIES STEEN NEVER ALLOWED his expression to change. Other men did, and Steen could see from the expression on Tertius Schreiner's face that the news was very bad indeed. “Well?”
Schreiner mopped his face nervously. As an economy measure, Steen kept the air-conditioning in the staatsamp turned off. Privately, Schreiner doubted whether the savings in electricity offset the loss of productivity. “Church and business boycotts against backsliders are having an effect in the smaller towns, and we have asked the dominees to make clear who they are neutral in favor of.” He shook his head. “Still, with a week left, the race is too close to call. We purchased more television time. You have a lead.”
“Made of sand, trickling through the hourglass,” Steen said bitterly.
Schreiner spared a look of sympathy for Jooste van Drooste, who was gradually turning into a large pool of sweat in a corner of the room. Van Drooste had been demoted from his leadership position and reassigned to the president’s entourage for the unforgivable crime of losing control of his district, which was likely to swing to the Uniates. “There is a time to attack and a time to compromise,” Schreiner urged. “You may not have a lead come the day.”
“Jooste?” Steen baited van Drooste. whose eclipse would presumably spur other Nationalist party members to greater efforts. “Do you also think I should tuck my tail between my legs and
crawl?”
Van Drooste licked his lips and looked at Schreiner. “Perhaps there could be an accident”
Steen hurled his coffee mug against the wall, shattering it into pieces. The fragments cascaded onto the floor. “Jooste, were you always this much of a fool?”
Flinching, Schreiner explained in a low voice, “Jooste, God help us if Hendricka Sanmartin suffers an accident Make no mistake of it-there would not be any hole deep enough for us to hide in.” He returned his attention to Steen. “Andries, there is a time for stiff-necked pride and a time to be certain of the main thing. If we lose now, we may not have another opportunity.”
“Our grandfathers came here to preserve the essence of the Volk. To make ourselves masters of our own destiny. People forget,” Steen said with searing rancor. He touched the intercom on hi
s desk. “Goetzee, are you there? Get in here.”
When his personal assistant entered, Steen said, “Goetzee, get Vereshchagin to come here. Then help Jooste clear up that mess by the wall.”
An hour later, Anton Vereshchagin found Steen seated at his desk, signing official correspondence. “Heer President”
“Sit down,” Steen said. “Would you prefer English or Afrikaans?”
“English.”
“English then.” Steen studied him. “You are much shorter than I pictured you.”
Vereshchagin inclined his head “I will consider that a compliment, Heer President”
“Let us dispense with polite flattery. We are alone. Just we two, no witnesses.” Steen used his handkerchief to mop a spot of moisture on his desk. “You are my enemy, and I am yours.”
“Louis Snyman once said the same to me,” Vereshchagin said, remembering Louis Snyman and Willem Strijdom and Suid-Afrika's other men of wrath. “In some ways, you remind me of him.”
“Strijdom, Snyman, Steen-there is a continuity.” Steen stood and began pacing the room in front of Vereshchagin. “Their mantle is mine.”
“Strijdom was shot dead. and Snyman paralyzed. You might profit from their example.”
Steen accepted the comment with an acrid satisfaction. “Old man, you were dead for years, why didn't you stay dead?”
“At one time,I thought that the Tokyo mission was the most important event in my lifetime. Our contact with Neighbor has the potential to be even more important.”
Steen stared at him in surprise. He barked, “You don't believe that.”
Vereshchagin said very quietly, “I do.”
Steen continued pacing. “Perhaps you do. Enough then. Name your price.”
“My price?”
“I erred,” Steen admitted forthrightly. “I should have let you go to Neighbor. I admit this. I thought you safely buried. I should have checked your corpse to see if it was cold. You have shown that you can seriously inconvenience me. Now what are your terms? Call off the campaign you have raised against me and you have my word that your expedition will depart. I am sure you will find a way to gouge the treasury, but it will be worth it to see the back of you, and with luck you will not return.”
With a sudden insight, Vereshchagin realized that Steen did not, perhaps could not, visualize Rikki Sanmartin as an opponent. “Heer President, the campaign is not mine to call off. In a sense, it is campaign for Suid-Afrika's soul.”
“Why did you come here then?”
“The campaign has gotten very dirty of late. I would like this to stop.”
“As you have said,” Steen remarked, turning away, “it is a campaign for Suid-Afrika's soul. I will not be defeated by a woman half my age.” He touched his intercom. “Goetzee, show Heer Vereshchagin out.”
Monday (1172)
AS HE WAITED, ADRIAAN SMITH FIDDLED WITH IDS PIPE. HE LAID it on the table. “Politics isn't the same without a smoke-filled room, but I can't keep it lit. Matti, have you done something to it?”
“Me?” Harjalo lied smoothly. “What did you tell McClausland to keep him away?”
”When McClausland ran three years ago, Ssu bet him that he would lose by ten thousand votes and he never paid up, so I told him that Ssu thinks he's a runny-nosed brat.” Smith chuckled. “I sometimes enjoy telling the truth.”
“Don't make a habit of it or they'll throw you out of the politician's guild,” Harjalo said.
As he spoke, Ssu entered, precisely on time. Reed-thin, with a head almost too large for his body, the former senior censor was incredibly dignified. He turned his head from side to side. “Where is our presidential candidate?”
“Groggy with exhaustion,” Haljalo told him. “Betje put her to bed.”
Ssu bobbed his head abruptly, flexing the tendons in his neck. Then he sat to await questions.
Adriaan Smith set his pipe aside. “So, where do we stand?”
“The party will lose,” Ssu said with icy precision. “We will fall three delegates short in the Assembly and Mistress Sanmartin will fail to gain the presidency.”
“Are you sure? We have gained ground steadily, Rikki especially,” Smith retorted.
“Despite high positive ratings, many voters who favor her will ultimately cast ballots for President Steen. If the election were held two weeks from now, the indications are that she would win. With the election one week away, she will lose. She will lose narrowly; nevertheless she will lose.” He consulted his notes. “Over the last week, Union party candidates have been outspent by a margin of two to one. Mistress Sanmartin has been outspent by a margin of three to one.”
“How is that?” Smith asked, surprised.
Ssu explained patiently, “There is a traditional bias toward funding incumbent candidates regardless of party affiliation, which currently favors the Reformed Nationalist candidates, and the Reformed Nationalists have prepared better. Over the last eight days, interests strongly opposed to the current environmental legislation have apparently struck a tacit deal.”
“Why do you say we'll lose the Assembly?” Haljalo asked, dampening the anger he was feeling.
“In the Assembly, there are six seats in which the margin of victory will be no more than a few hundred votes.” Ssu gave the two of them what could only be described as a pitying look.
“The Nationalists currently control the Assembly, and any vote to resolve a disputed election will proceed along partisan lines. With an insignificant margin, it will be a relatively simple matterto disallow enough votes to ensure victoiy of the correct candidate.”
“What can we do to change things?” Smith asked.
“What can be done has already been done,” Ssu said primly.
Harjalo asked, “Does the other side know they're going to win?”
“They are very much unaware.” A note of outrage crept into Ssu's voice. '“Their methods are not scientific.”
“God in heaven!” Prinsloo Adriaan Smith said, half to himself. “What do we tell Hendricka?”
“Nothing.” Ssu shook his head firmly. “One does not say such things to candidates.”
“If she asks, let me do the lying.” Harjalo turned around and reached for a telephone. “I'll call Hans. He'll tell Anton. There is truly going to be the absolute Devil to pay.”
Evening editorials, reacting to the increased violence, abandoned neutrality and called on the government to suppress the Suiwerheidwagte. Government spokesmen wrung their hands but downplayed the problem.
Tuesday (1172)
EVA MOORE, DIRECTOR OF PRETORIA'S LARGEST HOSPITAL AND A former Imperial lieutenant-colonel. grunted when her telephone lit up. She tapped a key and stared at her administrative assistant’s image. “What is it, Kirsten?”
“You have a visitor. An important visitor.”
Moore inhaled deeply. “Send him in.”
She willed her body to relax. “Shut the door, Anton. Pull up a chair. It’s been a few years.”
“It has been a few years,” Vereshchagin agreed, seating himself.
Moore propped her elbows up on her desk and looked at him thoughtfully. “For no particular reason, a few days ago, the feeling suddenly hit me that you'd drop by. I've been wondering what to say.”
“How about, 'Hello'?”
Sbe grinned. “Hello, Anton.”
“How have you been?”
“Royally peeved of late. I'm coming up on mandatory retirement age, the hospital's boand of directors is politely asking me what I want inscribed on my gold watch, and I am pissed that I didn't have enough sense to shave a couple years off my age when I filled out that damnable application twenty years ago.”
“I know, Eva”
“It occurs to me that if you get to jaunt off to that planet of yours, by the time you get back I'll be a little old lady. Probably with a damned cat. How does the election look?”
“Not promising.”
“I fig
ured as much when Natasha Solchava-Snyman called. I've been twisting arms for you.” “Thank you, Eva”
“Don't thank me. Thank Natasha. And thank Steen for being an ass. Want a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Good.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a bottle of local brandy and two glasses. “I hate diluting good liquor. So have a drink and tell me what you want.” She tapped a key. “Kirsten, tell everybody not to bother me for a few hours.”
Vereshchagin waited for her to finish. “Am I that transparent?”
“Anton, you are such a warm and caring person that occasionally even I forget bow much of a snake you are.” She filled a glass and banded it to him. “I was jealous as all hell when I heard Mutaro had tapped you. You remember Metal Molly?”
“Your adjutant?”
“Sweet and stupid. She lives in Komsburg, now. She called to tell me that she was going to name her third child after me, poor kid. That’s immortality. I get a baby named after me. You get planets.”
Vereshchagin shut his eyes. “I would rather have the baby.”
“No, you don't You just think you do.” Moore sipped her brandy reflectively. “If you were half as self-effacing as you sometimes let on, I'd be scared silly.”
“Cruel, but quite accurate, I am afraid.”
“I've been keeping secrets for you for more years than I can remember, so tell the truth, who's going to win the election?”
“I am very much afraid that Steen will win,” Vereshchagin said quietly. “So Ssu believes.”
“Then you aren't here on a social visit, so tell me what you need.”
“I need you to be ready to handle an influx of casualties.”
“Gunshot, or something else?”
“Q-fever. QF8 to be precise.”
”Bio weapons?” Moore whistled. “And QF8 is a killer.” Biological weapons unleashed during the crack-up had decimated Earth's population. “Using that is likely to get you crucified. I doubt that folks here have forgotten the psittacosis37 you used to finish off the first rebellion.”
Cain's Land Page 9
