by Wilbur Smith
Without removing the jacket, he sat down on the narrow bed and stared at the suitcase.
‘I am one of the only ones left,’ he thought. ‘It’s all up to me now. 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. A small band of true patriots, champions of the proletariat, almost all of them white and young, members of the young liberals or students and faculty members involved in radical student politics at the English-speaking universities of Cape Town and the Witwatersrand. Kobus had been the only Afrikaner in their ranks.
At first they had called themselves the National Committee of Liberation, and their methods had been more sophisticated than Umkhonto we Sizwe and the Rivonia group. They had used dynamite and electrical timing devices, and their successes had been many and heartening. They had destroyed power substations and railway switching systems, even a reservoir dam, and in the triumphant mood of those early days they had restyled themselves the African Resistance Movement.
In the end they had been destroyed in exactly the same manner as Mandela and his Rivonia group, by the inefficiency of their own security and the inability of the members who were captured by the security police to withstand interrogation.
He was one of the only ones left, but he knew that his hours of freedom were numbered. The security police had taken Berny two days ago and by now he would have talked. Berny was not made of heroic stuff, a small pale and nervous creature, too soft-hearted for the cause. Jakobus had argued against his recruitment, but that was too late now. The Bureau of State Security had Berny, and Berny knew his name. There was very little time left, but still he procrastinated. He looked at his wristwatch. It was almost one o’clock. His mother would be home by now, preparing his father’s lunch. He lifted the telephone.
Sarah Stander stood over the kitchen stove. She felt tired and dispirited, but she seemed always to be tired these days. The telephone rang and she turned down the hot plate of the stove, and wiped her hands on her apron as she went through to her husband’s study.
The room was lined with shelves of dusty law books that had once been a promise of hope to her, a symbol of success and advancement, but now seemed rather to be the fetters that bound Roelf and her in penury and mediocrity.
She lifted the phone. ‘Hello. This is Mevrou Stander.’
‘Mama,’ Jakobus replied, and she gave a little coo of joy.
‘My boy – where are you?’ But at his reply her spirits plunged again.
‘In the flat in Johannesburg, Mama.’ That was a thousand miles away, and her longing to see him devastated her.
‘I hoped you were—’
‘Mama,’ he cut her off. ‘I had to speak to you. I had to explain. Something terrible is going to happen. I wanted to tell you — I don’t want you to be angry with me, I don’t want you to hate me.’
‘Never!’ she cried. ‘I love you too much, my boy—’
‘I don’t want Papa and you to feel bad. What I do is not your fault. Please understand and forgive me.’
‘Kobus, my son, what is it? I don’t understand what you are saying.’
‘I can’t tell you, Mama. Soon you will understand. I love you and Papa – please remember that.’
‘Kobus,’ she cried. ‘Kobus!’ but the earpiece clicked and then there was only the hum of a broken connection.
Frantically she rang the exchange and asked to be reconnected but it took fifteen minutes before the operator called her back.
‘There is no reply from your Johannesburg number.’
Sarah was distraught. She roamed around her kitchen, the midday meal forgotten, twisting her apron in her fingers, trying desperately to think of some way of reaching her son. When her husband came in through the front door she rushed down the passageway and threw her arms around his neck, and she gabbled out her fears.
‘Manie!’ Roelf said. ‘I will telephone him. He can send one of his men around to Kobus’s flat.’
‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ Sarah sobbed.
The secretary in Manfred’s. ministry told them he was not available and would not be in again until Monday morning.
‘What will we do now?’ Roelf was as worried as she was.
‘Lothie.’ Sarah brightened. ‘He is in the police in Johannesburg. Ring Lothie, he will know what to do.’
Jakobus Stander broke the connection to his mother, and jumped to his feet. He knew he must act quickly and decisively now. Already he had wasted too much time, they would be coming for him soon.
He picked up the suitcase and left the flat, locking the door behind him. He rode down in the lift, still holding the heavy suitcase, even though the handle cut into his fingers. There were two girls in the lift with him. They ignored him and chattered to each other all the way down. He watched them surreptitiously. ‘It may be you,’ he thought. ‘It could be anybody.’
The girls barged out of the lift ahead of him, and he followed slowly, walking lopsidedly because of the weight of the brown suitcase.
He caught the bus at the corner and took the seat nearest the door, placing the suitcase on the seat beside him, but retaining his grip on the handle all the way.
The bus stopped outside the side entrance of the Johannesburg railway station, and Jakobus was the first passenger to alight. Lugging the suitcase, he started towards the station entrance, and then his steps began to drag and his mouth went dry with terror. There was a constable of the railway police at the entrance, and as Jakobus hesitated he looked directly at him. Jakobus wanted to drop the suitcase and run back to the bus which was pulling away behind him, but the press of other passengers bore him forward like a dead leaf in a stream.
He did not want to catch the constable’s eye. He trudged forward, head bowed, concentrating on the heels of the fat woman in white shoes just ahead of him. He looked up as he came level with the station portals, and the constable was walking away from him, his hands clasped lightly behind his back. Jakobus’s legs felt rubbery and his relief was so intense that he thought he was going to be ill. He fought down his nausea and kept on going with the stream of commuters.
At the centre of the concourse under the high arched skylight of glass there was a goldfish pond surrounded by wooden benches. Although most of the benches were crowded with travellers snatching a few minutes’ rest between trains or awaiting the arrival of friends, there was room for Jakobus at the end of one of them.
He sat down and placed the suitcase between his feet. He was sweating heavily and he had difficulty in breathing. Waves of nausea kept welling up from the pit of his guts and there was a bitter sick taste at the back of his throat.
He wiped his face with his handkerchief and kept swallowing hard until gradually he had control of himself again. Then he looked around him. The other benches were still crowded. In the centre of the one facing him there was a mother with two daughters. The youngest one was still in napkins, she sat on her mother’s lap with a dummy in her mouth. The elder girl had skinny sun-browned legs and arms and frilly petticoats under her short skirt. She leaned against her mother’s side and sucked a lollipop on a stick. Her mouth was dyed bright red by the sticky candy.
All around Jakobus passed a continual stream of humanity, coming and going down the broad staircase that led up to the street. Like columns of ants, they spread out to reach the separate platforms, and the loudspeakers boomed out information on arriving and departing trains, and the hiss and huff of escaping steam from the locomotives echoed against the high arches of glass above where Jakobus sat.
He looked down at the suitcase between his feet. He had drilled a needle hole through the imitation leather. A strand of piano wire emerged from the aperture, and he had fixed a brass curtain ring to the end of it, and taped the ring to the brown leather beside the handle.
Now he picked at the tape with his fingernail and peeled it away. He stuck his forefinger through the brass ring and gently pulled the wire taut. There was a muted cl
ick from the interior of the suitcase and he started guiltily and looked around him again. The little girl with the lollipop stuck in her cheek had been watching him. She gave him a sticky smile and shyly cuddled closer to her mother’s side.
Using his heels and the back of his legs, Jakobus pushed the suitcase slowly under the bench on which he was seated. Then he stood up and walked briskly across to the men’s toilets on the far side of the concourse. He stood in front of one of the porcelain urinals and checked his wristwatch. It was ten minutes after two. He zipped up his fly and walked out of the men’s room.
The mother and the two little girls were still sitting where he had left them, and the brown suitcase lay under the bench opposite. As he passed the child recognized him and smiled again. He did not return the smile but went up the staircase into the street. He walked down to the Langham Hotel at the corner and went into the men’s bar. He ordered a cold Castle beer and drank it slowly, standing at the bar, checking his wristwatch every few minutes. He wondered if the mother and the two little girls had left, or if they were still sitting on the bench.
The ferocity of the explosion shocked him. He was almost a block away but it knocked over his glass and the dregs of the beer ran across the bar top. There was consternation throughout the bar room. Men were swearing with surprise and astonishment and rushing to the door.
Jakobus followed them out into the street. The traffic had stopped, and people were swarming out of the buildings to block the pavements. From the station entrance a cloud of dust and smoke billowed and through it staggered vague shadowy figures, powdered with dust, their clothing hanging off them in rags. Somewhere a woman began to scream, and all around him there were shouted questions.
‘What is it? What happened?’
Jakobus turned and walked away. He heard the sirens of the police cars and the fire engines coming closer, but he did not look back.
‘No, Tannie Sarie, I haven’t seen Kobus since we last met at Waterkloof.’ Lothar De La Rey tried to be patient. The Standers were old friends of his parents, and he had spent many happy childhood holidays at the cottage on the Stander farm at the seaside. That was before Oom Roelf Stander had been forced to sell the farm. ‘Yes, yes, Tannie. I know, but Kobus and I live in different worlds now – I know how worried you must be. Yes, of course.’
Lothar was taking the call in his private office in the headquarters complex of Marshall Square, and he glanced at his wristwatch as he listened to Sarah Stander’s plaintive voice. It was just before two o’clock.
‘What time was it when he telephoned you?’ Lothar asked, and listened to her reply. ‘That was an hour ago. Where did he say he was speaking from? All right, Tannie, what is his address in Hillbrow?’ He scribbled it on the pad in front of him. ‘Now tell me, Tannie, what was it exactly he said. Something terrible and you must forgive him? Yes, that doesn’t sound very good, I agree. Suicide? No, Tannie Sarie, I’m sure he didn’t mean that, but I will send one of my men to check his flat, why don’t you ring the university in the meantime?’
One of the other telephones on his desk squealed and he ignored it. ‘What did they say at the university?’ he asked. ‘All right, Tannie, I will telephone you and Oom Roelf just as soon as I have any news.’ By now all three of his telephones were shrilling, and Captain Lourens, his assistant, was signalling him frantically from the door of his office.
‘Yes, I understand, Tannie Sarie. Yes, I promise I will telephone you. But I must ring off now.’ Lothar replaced the receiver and looked up at Lourens.
‘Ja, what is it, man?’
‘An explosion at the main railway station. It looks like another bomb.’
Lothar jumped to his feet and snatched up his jacket. ‘Casualties?’ he demanded.
‘There are bodies and blood all over the place.’
‘The bloody swines,’ Lothar said bitterly.
The street was cordoned off. They left the police car at the barrier and Lothar, who was in plain clothes, showed his identification and the sergeant saluted him. There were five ambulances parked outside the station entrance with their lights flashing.
At the head of the staircase leading down into the main concourse Lothar paused. The damage was terrible. The glass in the arched skylights had been blown out and it coated the marble floors, glittering like a field of ice crystals.
The restaurant had been turned into a first-aid station and the white-jacketed doctors and ambulance crews were at work. The stretcher-bearers were carrying their grisly loads up the staircase to the waiting vehicles.
The officer in charge of the investigation was a major from Marshall Square. He had his men searching the wreckage already, working methodically in an extended line across the concourse. He recognized Lothar and beckoned to him. The glass crunched under Lothar’s feet as he crossed to join him.
‘How many dead?’ he asked without any preamble.
‘We have been incredibly lucky, Colonel. About forty injured, mostly by flying glass, but only one dead.’
He reached down and pulled back the plastic sheet that was spread at his feet.
Under it lay a little girl in a short dress with a frilly lace petticoat. Both her legs and one arm had been blown away, and the dress was soaked with her blood.
‘Her mother lost both eyes, and her little sister will lose one arm,’ the major said, and Lothar saw that the child’s face was miraculously unscathed. She seemed to be sleeping. Her mouth was bright red with sticky sugar and in her remaining hand she still clutched the stick of a half-eaten lollipop.
‘Lourens,’ Lothar said quietly to his assistant. ‘Ring Records. Use the telephone in the restaurant. Tell them I want a computer run on my desk when I get back to the square. I want the name of every known white radical on the list. It had to be a white man in this section of the station.’
He watched Lourens cross the concourse and then he looked down at the tiny body under the plastic sheet.
‘I’m going to get the bastard who did this,’ he whispered. ‘This one isn’t going to get away.’
His staff were waiting for him when he got back to the office forty minutes later. They had already vetted the computerized list and checked the names of those in detention, in exile or those whose whereabouts could be assumed to be outside the Witwatersrand area.
There remained 396 suspects unaccounted for. They were listed in alphabetical order and it was almost four o‘clock before they had worked down to the ‘S’ section. As Lothar folded over the last sheet of the print-out the name seemed to leap from the page at him:
STANDER, JAKOBUS PETRUS
In the same moment Sarah Stander’s plaintive voice echoed in his ears.
‘Stander,’ he said crisply. ‘This one is a new addition.’ He had last checked the list twenty-four hours before. It was one of the most important tools of his trade, the names upon it so familiar that he could conjure up each face clearly in his mind’s eye. Kobus’ name had not been there on his last reading.
Captain Lourens picked up the internal telephone to Records, and spoke to the files clerk on the section, then he turned back to Lothar as he hung up the receiver.
‘Stander’s name comes from the interrogation of a member of the African Resistance Movement, Bernard Fisher. He was arrested on the 5th, two days ago. Stander is a lecturer at Wits University.’
‘I know who he is.’ Lothar strode out of the operations room into his private office and ripped the top sheet off his notepad. ‘And I know where he is.’ He drew the .38 police special from his shoulder holster and checked the load as he gave his orders. ‘I want four units of the Flying Squad and a break-in team with flak jackets and shotguns — and I want photographs of the bomb victims, the girl—’
The flat was on the fifth floor at the end of a long open gallery. Lothar placed men on every stairwell and both fire escapes, at the lift station and in the main lobby. He and Lourens went up with the break-in team, and they all moved stealthily into position.
With the police special cocked in his right hand, his back against the wall, clear of the door, he reached out and rang the bell.
There was no reply. He rang again, and they waited tensely. The silence drew out. Lothar reached out to ring a third time, when there were light hesitant footsteps beyond the glass panel door.
‘Who is it?’ a breathless voice called.
‘Kobus — it’s me, Lothie.’
‘Liewe Here! Sweet God!’ and the sound of running footsteps receded into the flat.
‘Go!’ said Lothar and the hammer man from the break-in team stepped up to the door with the ten-pound sledgehammer. The lock burst open at the first stroke and the door crashed back against its hinges.
Lothar was the first one in. The lounge was deserted and he ran straight through into the bedroom.
Behind him Lourens shouted, ‘Pasop! Look out! He might be armed!’ But Lothar wanted to stop him reaching a window and jumping.
The bathroom door was locked and he heard running water beyond it. He took the door with his shoulder, and the panel splintered. His own momentum carried him on into the bathroom.
Jakobus was leaning over the washbasin, shaking tablets from a bottle into the palm of his hand and cramming them into his mouth. His cheeks bulged, and he was gagging and swallowing.
Lothar brought the barrel of the revolver down on the wrist that held the bottle, and the bottle shattered into the basin. He caught Jakobus by his long hair and forced him to his knees. He wedged open his jaws with thumb and forefinger and with the fingers of his other hand hooked the crushed damp porridge of tablets out of his mouth.
