Rage

by Wilbur Smith

  ‘I did and it is,’ she replied, and her smile was cold and thorny. ‘Now why don’t you go off and give my bridesmaids the benefit of your charms. The poor things are panting like puppy dogs.’

  Sean turned the rebuff with a light laugh and handed her over to Michael for the rest of the dance. While he snapped his fingers at one of the waiters to bring him another glass of champagne, he surveyed the tent from the vantage point of the raised dais, picking out the interesting females, making his selections not only on the basis of their looks but on their apparent availability. Those who sensed his scrutiny and blushed or simpered or boldly returned his regard went immediately to the head of his list.

  In passing he noticed that Isabella had finally got around Nana, and was wearing one of those mini-skirts that were all the rage. The hem finished just below the creases of her cheeky little buttocks, and with the impartial eye of the connoisseur he saw that her legs were quite extraordinary, and that every man, no matter what his age, glanced down at them as she circled the dance floor.

  Thinking of Nana, he looked around for her quickly. Her seat at the high table was empty. Then he found her. She was near the back of the tent, sitting at a table with a big burly man who had his back turned to Sean. They were in earnest conversation, and his grandmother’s intensity interested him. He knew that Centaine never wasted effort on the trivialities. The man must be important. As he thought that, the man turned slightly and Sean recognized him. His heart skipped guiltily. It was the Minister of Police, Manfred De La Rey. He was the one who had quashed the charges against Sean, in return for his guarantee to leave the country and never return.

  Sean’s instinct was to slip away without drawing De La Rey’s attention to himself and then he grinned at his own stupidity. He had just stood up and made a dashing speech in front of them all. ‘How’s that for drawing attention?’ he thought, and then grinned again at his own daring. ‘Living dangerously is half the fun,’ he reminded himself, and jumped down off the dais without spilling a drop of champagne and deliberately sauntered across the tent towards his grandmother and her companion.

  Centaine saw him coming and placed her hand on Manfred’s sleeve. ‘Careful, here he comes now.’ It had just taken all her influence, a recital of all the debts and secrets between them, to protect Sean, and now here was the impudent young devil flaunting himself in front of Manfred.

  She tried to warn him off with a frown, but Sean stooped and kissed her cheek. ‘You are a genius, Nana, there has never been a party like this. The planning and the eye to detail – we are all proud of you!’

  He hugged her and though she pushed him off haughtily, saying, ‘Now don’t be a big booby,’ her frown was displaced by the ghost of a smile. ‘Damn it, he’s got the cheek of all the Courtneys,’ she thought proudly, and then turned to Manfred.

  ‘You don’t know my grandson. Sean, this is Minister De La Rey.’

  ‘I’ve heard of you,’ Manfred growled without offering to shake hands. ‘I’ve heard a great deal about you.’ And with relief Centaine turned to the couple who were returning to the table from the dance floor. ‘And this is Mrs De La Rey and her son Lothar – all old friends of the family. Heidi, may I present my grandson Sean.’

  Sean bowed over her hand, and Heidi considered him thoughtfully and said in her lisping German accent. ‘He is the only one of your grandchildren I have not met, Centaine. A fine boy.’

  Sean turned to Lothar and held out his hand. ‘Hello. I’m Sean – and if I didn’t know who you were, I’d be the only one in the country. Your play against the Lions on the last tour was magical, that boot of yours is worth a million rand.’

  The two young men sat down on a pair of empty chairs and were immediately engrossed in a discussion of rugby football and the recent visit of the British team. Although she continued her conversation with Manfred, Centaine watched her two grandsons covertly. Apart from their youth and self-assurance, they were so different in appearance, one blond and Germanic, the other dark and romantic, yet she sensed that they were in other ways very similar. Strong men, untroubled by unnecessary scruples, men who knew what they wanted and how to go about getting it. Perhaps they inherited that from her, she smiled to herself, and perhaps like her they were hard and unrelenting adversaries, prepared to destroy anything that stood in their way.

  Centaine had the trick of listening to two conversations at once and she heard Lothar De La Rey say, ‘Mind you, I’ve heard about you also and what you did in Kenya. Didn’t you get a citation for the George Cross for cleaning up the last of the Mau Mau gangs?’

  Sean laughed. ‘My timing was wrong. The Brits couldn’t give me a gong for shooting Mickey Mice at the same time as they were handing the country over to Kenyatta. Not really cricket, you know, old boy. But how did you find out about that?’

  ‘It’s my job to know these things,’ Lothar told him, and Sean nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course, you are in the police. Aren’t you a major or something?’

  ‘As of last week, a colonel in the Bureau of State Security.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘You know, anything you could tell us about Mau Mau will be useful. I mean the real first-hand stuff about anti-terrorist work. You see, I think we might have the same problem here one of these days.’

  ‘Well, the worst was over by the time I got there, but yes, of course – anything I can do. I’m going back up north in a few weeks, to Rhodesia. But if I can help—’

  ‘Rhodesia.’ Lothar dropped his voice so that Centaine could no longer hear. ‘That’s interesting. We’d like to know what’s going on there also. Yes, I think it is vital that we get together before you leave. A man like you in place could. be of really crucial help to us—’ Lothar broke off. His expression changed and he stood up hurriedly, looking over Sean’s shoulders.

  Following his gaze Sean looked around and Isabella stood close behind him. She draped one hand languidly over Sean’s shoulder, and leaned one hip against him, but she was watching Lothar.

  ‘This is Bella, my baby sister,’ Sean told Lothar, and Isabella murmured, ‘Not such a baby any more, big brother.’ She had not taken her eyes off Lothar’s face.

  She had first noticed him in the church during the ceremony and recognized him immediately. He was one of the most famous athletes in the country, a national heartthrob. Sean’s conversation with him had given her the opportunity she had been waiting for.

  Despite the fact that her voice was cool and her manner aloof and distant, Sean felt her tremble against him and he grinned inwardly. ‘Your ovaries are going off like fire crackers, little sister.’ But he said, ‘Why don’t you sit down and bring a little sunlight into our drab existence, Bella?’

  She ignored him and spoke directly to Lothar. ‘Do you spend all your time dressed up in a rugby jersey, pushing people around in scrums and kicking little balls? Or somewhere along the line did you learn to dance, Lothar De La Rey?’

  ‘Ouch!’ Sean murmured. Even for a Courtney, that was pretty direct. And Lothar inclined his head and asked gravely, ‘May I have the pleasure of this dance, Isabella Courtney?’

  They made one circuit of the floor without speaking and then Lothar said, ‘If you were my woman, I would not allow you to wear a skirt like that.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you like my legs?’ she asked.

  ‘I like your legs very much indeed,’ he replied. ‘But if you were my woman, I would not like other men to look at them the way they are doing now.’

  ‘You are a prude, Lothar De La Rey.’

  ‘Perhaps, Isabella Courtney, but I believe there is a time and a place for everything.’

  She pushed a little closer to him and thought happily to herself, ‘So let’s find that time and place, you big gorgeous hunk of brawn.’

  Morosely Manfred watched his son on the dance floor and his wife leaned across and echoed his thoughts.

  ‘That hussy is throwing herself at Lothie. Just look at her, showing everything she
has. I wish I could go and pull her away from him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, skat,’ Manfred advised soberly. ‘Nothing could make her more attractive to him than our disapproval. But don’t worry, Heidi. We have brought him up the right way. He might have a little man’s sport with her, but that’s not the kind of girl he will bring home.’ He stood up heavily. ‘Trust our boy, Heidi. But now you must forgive me. I must talk to Shasa Courtney – it’s very important.’

  Shasa, in full morning dress, a white carnation in his buttonhole, the black patch over one eye and a long black cheroot between his teeth, was in deep conversation with the groom, but when he saw Manfred approaching and recognized the seriousness of his mien, he slapped Garry’s shoulder lightly and said, ‘I think it’s a good bet, but you listen to what Sean has to say. Make up your own mind, then come and discuss it with me,’ and then he left Garry and came to meet Manfred.

  ‘We must talk – privately,’ Manfred greeted him.

  ‘Now?’ Shasa looked incredulous, but Manfred insisted.

  ‘It will not take long.’

  ‘Let’s go up to the house.’ Shasa took his arm, and chatting amiably led him to the exit, as though they were going off to the men’s room together. As soon as they were outside the marquee, they headed for the carpark behind the grandstand.

  Manfred prowled around Shasa’s gun room, restlessly peering at the framed photographs of hunting safaris, at the mounted animal heads and the racks of sporting rifles and shotguns in their glass-fronted cabinet, while Shasa slouched in one of the armchairs and watched him patiently, letting him take his time, puffing on the black cheroot.

  ‘Is this room secure? We cannot be overheard?’ Manfred asked, and Shasa nodded.

  ‘Perfectly secure. I do much of my private business here – besides which, the house is deserted. Every last servant is down at the polo held.’

  ‘Ja, nee, goed!’ Manfred came to take the armchair facing Shasa.

  ‘You cannot go off to England as you planned,’ he said, and Shasa laughed.

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘I will tell you why,’ Manfred assured him, but made no attempt to do so. Instead he asked, ‘Did you ever see a film called The Manchurian Candidate?’ He pronounced it in the Afrikaans fashion ‘fi-lim’.

  For a moment Shasa was surprised by the irrelevance of the question. Then he replied, ‘No, I didn’t get around to the movie, but I did read the book by Richard Condon. Rather enjoyed it, to tell the truth.’

  ‘Do you remember the story-line?’

  ‘Yes. It was about a plot to assassinate one of the American presidential candidates.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Manfred nodded. ‘The assassin was hypnotized and programmed to respond to the sight of a playing card, one of the aces, I think.’

  ‘Ace of spades,’ Shasa agreed. ‘The death card. He would respond like an automaton to any command he received after he had seen the ace. In a hypnotic trance he was ordered to carry out the assassination.’

  ‘Do you think the idea was credible? Do you think a man could be completely subjected to the hypnotic suggestion of another?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Shasa admitted. ‘The Koreans and the Russians are supposed to have perfected the technique of brain-washing. Perhaps it is possible, in special circumstances, with a particularly susceptible subject – I don’t know.’

  Manfred sat in silence for so long that Shasa began to fidget. Then he spoke curtly, ‘Our jobs are in danger,’ he said, and Shasa went very still. ‘Ja.’ Manfred nodded heavily. ‘Verwoerd is thinking of reshuffling the cabinet. You and I will be sacked.’

  ‘You have done a difficult job,’ Shasa said softly. ‘And you have done it as well as was humanly possible. The storm is over, the country is calm and stable.’

  Manfred sighed. ‘Ja, you also. In a few short years since Sharpeville, you have helped rally the economy. Foreign investment is pouring in, thanks to your efforts. The value of property is higher than it was before the crisis. You have done an excellent job building up the armaments industry. Very soon our own atomic bomb – but we are going to be sacked. My information is always reliable.’

  ‘Why?’ Shasa asked, and Manfred shrugged.

  ‘Verwoerd took two bullets in the head. Who knows what damage that caused.’

  ‘He shows no signs of any permanent damage. He is just as logical, rational and decisive after the operation to remove the bullets.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Manfred asked. ‘Do you think his obsession with race is logical and rational?’

  ‘Verwoerd was always obsessed with racial matters.’

  ‘No, my friend, that is not so,’ Manfred contradicted him. ‘He didn’t want the Ministry of Bantu Affairs when Malan first offered it to him. Race meant nothing to him. He was concerned only with the growth and survival of Afrikaner nationalism.’

  ‘He certainly threw himself into it body and soul, when he did take the job,’ Shasa smiled.

  ‘Ja, that’s true, but then he saw apartheid as uplifting to the blacks, a chance to conduct their own affairs, and become masters of their own destiny. He saw it as exactly similar to the partition of India and Pakistan. He was concerned with racial differences, but he was not a racist. Not in the beginning.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Shasa was dubious.

  ‘Since those bullets in the head he has changed,’ Manfred said. ‘Before that he was strong-willed and certain of his own infallibility, but since then he will brook not the slightest criticism or even a hint that anything he says or does might be wrong. Race has become an obsession, to the point of lunacy – this business with the coloured English cricketer, what is his name again?’

  ‘Basil D’Oliviera – and he is South African. He plays for England because he can’t play for South Africa.’

  ‘Ja, it’s madness. Now Verwoerd even refuses to have a black servant to tend him. He would not attend the film version of Othello because Laurence Olivier had painted his face black. He has lost all sense of proportion. He is going to undo all the hard, painstaking work we have done to restore calm and properity. He is going to destroy this country – and he is going to destroy us personally, you and me, because we have stood up to some of his wilder excesses in cabinet. You even suggested he permanently abolish the pass laws – he has never forgiven you for that. He calls you a liberal.’

  ‘All right, but I can’t believe he would take the Ministry of Police away from you.’

  ‘That is what he plans. He wants to give it all to John Vorster – combine Justice and Police into a single portfolio and call it “Law and Order”, or some such other title.’

  Shasa stood up and went to the cabinet at the end of the room. He poured two large cognacs and Manfred did not protest when he placed one of them on the table at his elbow.

  ‘You know, Shasa, for a long time now I have had a dream. I’ve never told anybody about it, not even Heidi, but I will tell you. I dreamed that one day I would be the Prime Minister, and that you, Shasa Courtney, would be the state President of this country of ours. The two of us, Englishman and Afrikaner, side by side as South Africans.’

  They sat quietly and thought about it, and Shasa found himself becoming angry at being cheated of that honour. Then Manfred went off at another tangent.

  ‘Do you know that even though the Americans are refusing to sell us arms we still cooperate very closely with their CIA on all matters of intelligence that affect our mutual interests in Southern Africa?’ Manfred asked, and although Shasa could not fathom this new change of direction, he nodded.

  ‘Yes, of course, I know that.’

  ‘The Americans have just interrogated a Russian defector in West Berlin. They passed on some of the intelligence to us. There is a Manchurian Candidate in place, and his target is Verwoerd.’

  Shasa gaped at him. ‘Who is the assassin?’

  ‘No.’ Manfred held up his hands. ‘They don’t know. Even though the Russian was highly placed, he did not know. All he
could tell the Americans was that the assassin has access to the Prime Minister, and he will be used soon, very soon.’ He picked up the cognac glass, and swirled the oily brown liquid around the crystal bowl. ‘There was one other small clue. The assassin has a history of mental illness, and he is a foreigner, not born in this country.’

  ‘With that information it should be possible to identify him,’ Shasa mused. ‘You could check every single person who has access to the PM.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Manfred agreed. ‘But what we must decide – here in secret, just the two of us – is, do we really want to find the Manchurian Candidate and stop him? Would it be in the best interest of our country to prevent the assassination?’

  Shasa spilled the cognac down the lapels of his morning jacket, but he did not seem to notice. Aghast, he was staring at Manfred. After a long pause, he set down his glass, drew a silk handkerchief from his inner pocket and began to mop the spilled liquor.

  ‘Who else knows about this?’ he asked, concentrating on his cleaning, not looking up.

  ‘One of my senior officers. He is the liaison with the military attaché at the American Embassy, who is the CIA man here.’

  ‘No one else?’

  ‘Only me – and now you.’

  ‘Your officer is trustworthy?’

  ‘Completely.’

  At last Shasa looked up. ‘Yes, now I see why I should cancel my trip to London. If something should happen to Verwoerd, it would be essential for me to be here when his successor is chosen.’

  He lifted his glass in a salute, and after a moment Manfred returned the gesture. They drank the silent toast, watching each other’s eyes over the rims of the crystal glasses.

  There were only two couples left on the dance floor, and except for the band and the servants who were cleaning up and stacking the chairs, the marquee was empty.