by Wilbur Smith
It was after midnight; the original bottle of wine and another that Isabella had dug out of her tiny stock in the kitchen were empty. The bedroom was thick with the smoke of Michael's Camels before she looked at her watch and exclaimed: 'You were invited for one drink, Mickey, and Ramsey is an invalid. Away with you, now.' She went to fetch his overcoat.
While she helped him into it, Ramsey said softly from the bed: 'If you are doing a series on the political exiles, it wouldn't be complete without one on Raleigh Tabaka." Mickey laughed ruefully. 'I'd give my chance of salvation for a crack at Tabaka, the mystery man. It just ain't possible, as old Rudyard put it, "if you know the track of the morning mist, then you know where his pickets are"." 'I've met him in the line of duty at the bank. We keep tabs on all the players. I might be able to arrange for you to meet him,' Ramsey told him, and Michael froze and stared at him with one arm in the sleeve of his coat.
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"I've been trying to get hold of him for five years,' he said. 'If you could..." 'Call me tomorrow, around lunchtime,'Ramsey told him. "I'll see what I can do." At the door Michael kissed Isabella. 'I take it that you are not coming home tonight?" 'This is home.' She hugged him. 'My temporary residence at Cadogan Square was just to impress you, but I don't have to do that any longer." 'He's a knockout, your Ramsey," Michael said, and she felt a sudden shocking stab of jealousy, as though another woman had challenged her for Ramsey's affection. She tried to suppress it. It was the only ugly feeling she had ever harboured towards Mickey, but the pain persisted as she went back to the bedroom and deepened again as Ramsey said: 'I like him. Your brother is one of the superior beings - they are rare enough." She felt ashamed of her unkind feelings towards Mickey. How could she harbour the slightest doubt that Ramsey was a man, a natural man. She knew that he liked Michael only for his charm and fine intellect, and because he was her brother - and yet, and yet that dirty sneaking feeling persisted.
She stooped over the bed and kissed Ramsey with a passion that surprised even her. After the first moment of shock, his mouth opened and their tongues slithered and rolled around each other, slippery as mating eels.
She broke away at last and looked up at him. 'You swan around Europe for weeks on end, leaving me pining, and when you do come home you lie around in bed, hogging food and sleeping,' she accused him in a husky voice, tight with her need of him. 'And never a thought for the maid or the nurse. Well, Master Ramsey, I'm here to tell you it's pay-day, and I've come to collect." 'I'll need some help,' he warned her.
"You just lie still. Don't do a thing. Nurse's orders. We'll take care of the details." -She drew back the bed-sheets and reached down under them, and her voice was a languorous coo. 'We'll take care of things, he and I. You keep out of it." She straddled him gently, taking care not to touch his bandaged chest. As she sank down on top of him, she saw her own deep need reflected in the green mirror of his eyes, and felt all her doubts evaporate. He belonged to her and to her alone.
Afterwards she lay at his good side, close and secure and happy, and they talked drowsily, hovering on the edge of sleep in the darkness. When he mentioned Michael again, she felt a twinge of remorse at her earlier doubts. She was so relaxed, so much off-guard, and she trusted Ramsey as she did herself She wanted to explain and share it with him.
"Poor Mickey, I never suspected the agony he has had to endure all these years. I am closer to him than any person in the world, and yet even I did not know about it. A few days ago, I found out, quite by accident, that he is a practising homosexual.
The words were out before she could stop them, and suddenly she was appalled by what she had done. Mickey had trusted her, and she shivered, waiting for some reaction from Ramsey. However, it was not what she had expected.
"Yes,' he agreed calmly. 'I knew that. There are some indications which are unmistakable. I knew it within the first half-hour." She felt a rush of relief. Ramsey had known, so there was no betrayal on her part.
"You are not repelled by it?" 'No, not at all,' Ramsey answered. 'Many of them are creative and intelligent and productive people." 'Yes, Mickey is like that,' she agreed eagerly. 'I was shocked at first, but now it means little to me. He is still my darling brother. However, I do worry about him being caught up in a criminal prosecution." 'I don't think there is much chance of that. Society has accepted-"
"You don't understand, Ramsey. Michael likes black boys and he lives in South Africa." 'Yes,' Rarnen agreed thoughtfully. 'That could present some problems."
Michael phoned the flat from a pay-booth in Fleet Street a little before noon, and Ramsey answered on the second ring.
"The news is good,' Ramsey assured him. 'Raleigh Tabaka is in London and he knows of you. Did you write a series of newspaper articles back in nineteen sixty under the title "Rage"?" 'Yes, a series of six for the Mail; it got the paper banned by the security police." 'Tabaka read them and liked them. He has agreed to meet you." 'My God, Ramsey. I can't tell you how grateful I am. This is the most marvelous break-" Ramsey cut short his thanks. 'He'll meet you this evening, but he has laid down some conditions." 'Anything,' Michael agreed quickly.
"You are to come to the meeting alone. No weapons, of course, and no tape-recorder or camera. He does not want his voice or appearance on record. There is a pub in Shepherd's Bush.' He gave Michael the address.
"Be there at seven this evening. Carry a bunch of flowers - carnations.
Someone will meet and take you to the rendezvous." 'Right, I've got that." 'One other condition. Tabaka wants to read all your copy on the interview before you print it." Michael was silent for a slow count of five. The request contravened all his journalistic principles. It amounted to a form of censorship and cast a slur on his professional ethics. However, the price was an interview with one of the most wanted men in Africa.
"All right,' he agreed heavily. 'I'll give him first read."
And then his tone brightened. 'I owe you a favour, Ramsey. I'll come around and tell you all about it tomorrow evening." 'Don't forget the bottle of wine." Michael rushed back to Cadogan Square. As soon as he reached the telephone he cancelled all the rest of the day's appointments, and then settled down to plan his strategy for the interview. His questions had to be searching, but not so barbed as to cool Tabaka's co-operative mood. He had to be sincere and sympathetic, and yet at the same time, severe, for he was dealing with a man who had deliberately chosen the path of violence and bloodshed. To achieve credibility his questions must be balanced and neutral, and at the same time designed to draw the out. In particular he did not want a mere recital of all the radical slogans and revolutionary jargon.
"The term "terrorist" is generally applied to a person who for reasons of political coercion commits an act of violence on a target of a non-military nature during which there is a high probability of injury or death being inflicted on innocent bystanders. Do you accept that definition and, if so, does the label "terrorist" apply to Umkhonto we Sizwe?
He worked that out as his first question, and lit another Camel as he studied it.
"Good.' That was what you called jumping straight in with both feet, but perhaps it needed a little honing and polishing. He worked on steadily, and by five-thirty he had prepared twenty questions that satisfied him. He made himself a smoked-salmon sandwich and drank a bottle of Guinness while he reviewed and rehearsed his script.
Then he shrugged on his overcoat, armed himself with the bunch of carnations which he had bought at the comer stall. It was drizzling rain.
He flagged down a taxi in Sloane Street.
The pub was steamy with body heat. The condensation ran down the stained-glass windows in rainbow rivulets. Michael displayed the carnations ostentatiously and peered through the soft blue mist of tobacco smoke.
Almost immediately a neatly dressed Indian in a three-piece blue wool suit left the bar-counter and made his way down the crowded room.
"Mr. Courtney, my name is Govan." 'From Natal.' Michael recognized the accent.
"From Stanger.' The man smiled. 'But that was six years ago.' He glanced at the shoulders of Michael's coat. 'Has it stopped raining? Good, we can walk. It's not far." His guide struck out down the main thoroughfare. Within a hundred yards he turned abruptly into a. narrow alleyway and increased his pace. Michael had to trot to match him. He was wheezing when they reached the exit to the alley.
"Damned fags - I must cut down." Govan turned out of the alley, and stopped abruptly round the corner.
Michael was about to speak, but Govan gripped his arm to silence him. They waited for five minutes. Only when it was certain that they. were not being followed did he relax his grip.
"You don't trust me,' Michael smiled, and dumped the carnations in the rubbish-bin that bore a warning of the penalties for littering.
"We do not trust anybody.' Govan led him away. 'Especially not the Boers.
They are learning new kinds of nastiness each day." Ten minutes later they stopped again outside a modem block of flats, in a broad well-lit street. There was a rank of Mercedes and jaguars parked at the kerb. The lawn and small garden in front of the apartment-block was carefully groomed. It was clearly an expensive residential enclave. 'I will leave you here,' said Govan. 'Go in. There is a porter in the lobby. Tell him that you are a guest of Mr. Kendrick, Flat 505." The lobby was in keeping with the facade of the building, Italian marble floor, wood-panelled walls and gilded doors to the lift. The uniformed porter saluted him. 'Yes, Mr. Courtney, Mr. Kendrick is expecting you. Please go up to the fifth floor."
. When the lift doors opened, there were two unsmiling young coloured men waiting for him.
"Come this way, Mr. Courtney." They led him down the carpeted passage to number 505 and let him into the flat.
As the door closed, they stepped in on each side of him and swiftly but thoroughly patted him down. Michael lifted his arms and spread his legs co-operatively. As they searched him, he looked around him with the journalist's eye. The flat had been decorated with flair and taste, and money.
His escorts stepped back satisfied, and one of them opened the double doors ahead of him.
"Please,' he said, and Michael went through into a spacious and beautifully decorated room. The sofas and easy chairs were covered with cream-coloured Connolly leather. The thick pile of the wall-to-wall carpet was a soft cocoa. The tables and the cocktail-bar were in crystal and chrome. On the walls hung four large Hockney paintings, from his swimming-pool series.
Fifty thousand quid each, Michael estimated, and then his eyes flicked to the figure who stood in the centre of the room.
There had been no recent photograph of this man, but Michael recognized him instantly from a blurred press picture in the Mairs archives which dated back years to the Sharpeville era and the subsequent enquiries.
"Mr. Tabaka,'he said. He was as tall as Michael, probably six foot one, but broader in the shoulder and narrower in the waist.
"Mr. Courtney.' Raleigh Tabaka came forward to offer his hand. He moved like a boxer, fluidly in balance, poised and aggressive.
"You live in style?' Michael put a question in his voice, and Raleigh Tabaka frowned slightly.
"This is the apartment of a sympathizer. I have no call for such frippery." His voice was firm and deep, melodious with the unmistakable echoes of Africa. Despite the denial, his suit was of pure new wool and draped elegantly over his warrior's frame.
There were the tiny stirrups of the Gucci motif on his silk tie. He was an impressive man.
"I am grateful for this opportunity to meet you,' Michael said.
"I read your "Rage" series,' Raleigh told him, studying Michael with those black onyx eyes. 'You understand my people. You examined their aspirations with a fair and impartial eye." 'Not everybody would agree with you - especially those in authority in South Africa." Raleigh smiled. His teeth were even and white. 'I have very little to tell you that will comfort them now. But first may I offer you a drink?" 'A gin and tonic." 'Ah, yes, the fuel on which the journalistic mind functions.' Raleigh's tone was scornful. He went to the bar and poured the clear liquid from a crystal decanter, and squirted the tonic from a hand-held nozzle connected to the bar by a chrome-sheathed hose.
"You don't drink?' Michael asked, and Raleigh frowned again.
"With so much work to be done, why should I cloud my mind?' He glanced at his wristwatch. 'We have only an hour, then I must go." 'I mustn't waste a minute of it,' Michael agreed. As they settled facing each other in the cream Connolly-leather chairs, he said: 'I have all the background I need: your place and date of birth, your education at Waterford School in Swaziland, your relationship to Moses Gama, your pre sent position in the ANC. May I go on from there?' And Raleigh inclined his head in assent.
"The term "terrorist" is generally applied to.
Michael repeated his definition, and Raleigh's features tightened with anger as he listened.
"There are no innocent bystanders in South Africa,' he cut in brusquely.
"It is a war. Nobody can claim to be a neutral. We are all combatants."
"No matter how young, how old? No matter how sympathetic to your people's aspirations?" 'There are no bystanders,' Raleigh repeated. "From the cradle to the grave, we are all in the battlefield. We all fall into one of two camps, either the oppressed or the oppressors." 'No man or woman or child has a choice?'Michael asked.
"Yes, there is a choice - to take one or the other side. Neutrality is not an option." 'If a bomb explodes in a crowded supermarket, some of your own people, your own sympathizers may die or be maimed. Would you feel remorse?" 'Remorse is not a revolutionary emotion, just as it is not an emotion of the perpetrators of apartheid. Those who die are either enemy casualties or courageous and honourable sacrifices. In war both are unavoidable, even desirable." Michael's pen dashed across the sheets of his notepad as he attempted to capture these frightful pronouncements. He felt shaken and aroused, both excited and terrified by what he heard. He had the feeling that, like a moth that circled the flame too closely, he would be scarred by the white heat of this man's rage. He knew that he could faithfully record the words, but he could never reproduce the fierce spirit in which they were uttered.
The allotted hour sped away too fast, as Michael tried to use every second to the full, and when at last Raleigh glanced at his wristwatch and stood up he tried desperately to prolong it.
"You have spoken of your child warriors,' he said. 'What age, how young are they?" 'I will show you children of seven who will bear arms, and commanders of sections who are ten years old." 'You will show rne?" Michael asked. 'Is that possible -that you will show me?" Raleigh studied him for a long moment. The intelligence that Ramsey Machado had passed on to him seemed to be valid. Here was a useful tool. One that could be fitted to his hand and his purpose. He might be well worth the effort that would be needed to develop him fully. He was one of Lenin's 'useful idiots' who, to begin with, could be made to serve the cause unwittingly. Later, of course, it would be different. At first, he would be the spade and the ploughshare; only later, when the time was ripe, would he be forged into the sword of war.
"Michael Courtney,' he said softly, 'I am disposed to trust you. I think that you are a decent and enlightened man. If you keep my trust, I will open doors for you into places you have never dreamt existed. I will take you into the streets and hovels of Soweto. Into the hearts of my people and, yes, I will show you the children." 'When?' Michael demanded anxiously, aware that his time was running out.
"Soon,'Raleigh promised, and at that moment they heard the front door open.
"How will I find you?' Michael persisted.
"You won't. I will find you when I am ready." The double doors to the sitting-room swung open and a man stood at the threshold. Even in his preoccupation with Raleigh Tabaka's promise, Michael was struck, his attention was diverted. He recognized the newcomer instantly, even in his street clothes. The name Kendrick should have alerted him.
"This is our host who owns this apartment,' Raleigh
Tabaka introduced them.
"Oliver Kendrick, this is Michael Courtney." 'I saw you dance Spartacus,' Michael said, his voice subdued with awe.
