‘Yes?’
‘When I was staying with you in the cottage in Norfolk, I couldn’t help noticing some statements from an outfit called Spreadfinex.’
‘Couldn’t help noticing? You were snooping!’
‘You’d know about that.’ His father was referring to the year before when Calder had discovered bookmakers’ statements amongst the doctor’s papers.
‘Yes, well. It’s a kind of stockbroker. It’s to do with my investments.’
‘It’s a spread-betting firm.’
‘That’s just an easy way of buying and selling currencies or shares,’ Calder said.
‘It’s gambling.’
‘I said, it’s just a way of investing,’ Calder protested. ‘Just drop it, will you? And don’t go through my stuff.’
‘Alex,’ his father said. ‘I’m glad you persuaded me to go to Gamblers Anonymous last year. One of the first things they teach you is to recognize you’ve got a problem.’
Sitting alone in his hotel room in Cape Town, the anger welled up inside Calder. He opened his mouth to swear at his father, but put down the hotel phone instead. The idea that he had a gambling problem was absurd. Typical of his father to somehow ascribe his own flaws to his son.
Now in a foul mood, Calder stalked down to the hotel bar in search of more whisky.
*
The light from two candles flickered feebly in the vast Hall of Heroes, illuminating the gaunt face of Andries Visser and barely picking out the silhouette of Paul Strydom, the latest candidate for induction to the Laagerbond. They were in the heart of the Voortrekker Monument, a massive granite structure squatting on the brow of a wooded hill overlooking Pretoria. The monument had been built in 1938 in Nazi-Gothic style to commemorate the Great Trek of the Boers a hundred years before. Outside was the Laager wall, a stone circle of sixty-four ox carts, and reliefs of black wildebeest symbolizing the Zulu enemy. A frieze of twenty-seven scenes from the Great Trek itself stretched around the inside wall of the building, and right in the centre was a cenotaph, arranged so that at noon on 16 December, the day of the Battle of Blood River, the sun would shine down from a window in the ceiling high above directly on to the inscription ‘Ons vir jou Suid Afrika’, the last line of the old national anthem ‘Die Stem van Suid-Afrika’.
Visser sang the first line of that hymn now, his voice weak and hoarse. The refrain was quickly taken up by the twenty-one men standing in the deep shadows behind the candidate. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the men had gathered in the utmost secrecy, the usual combination of blackmail, bribery and threats ensuring that they would not be disturbed. The Laagerbond’s ceremony followed closely the pattern of the Broederbond induction of the old days. When the last verse had been sung, Visser coughed and began in little more than a whisper. ‘Paul Gerrit Strydom, your fellow Afrikaners, who are members of the Laagerbond, have after careful consideration, decided to invite you to become a member of this organization.’
He continued, following the prescribed order of ceremony, which revealed steadily more of the nature and aims of the Laagerbond to the candidate, requiring him at each step to accept what he had heard. Strydom stood straight and tall, answering a clear ‘Yes’ to each question as it was put to him. Most candidates had little knowledge of the identities of the other members of the Laagerbond until the end of the ceremony, but Visser assumed that Strydom, who was number three in the National Intelligence Agency, would have a better idea than most.
His voice nearly failing, Visser eventually came to the climax of the ceremony.
‘In the presence of your brothers gathered here as witnesses I accept your promise of faith and declare you a member of the Laagerbond. Be strong in faith if the struggle becomes onerous. Be strong in the love of your nation. Be strong in the service of your nation. Hearty congratulations and welcome.’
With that he shook Strydom’s hand, and the other members of the Laagerbond stepped forward out of the darkness to do likewise, one at a time.
More candles were lit. An old general of at least eighty-five approached Visser. ‘I hope you know what you are doing with Operation Drommedaris, Andries,’ he said gruffly.
‘It will be a wise investment, you’ll see,’ said Visser.
‘Humph. I was told The Times will cost ten billion rand.’
‘At least that,’ said Visser.
‘Ten billion rand will buy a lot of firepower,’ the general said.
‘It’s political power we want, not guns,’ said Visser. ‘And I can assure you the money will buy us power.’
The general shuffled off. There were a number of members of the Laagerbond who just didn’t understand, Visser reflected. Fortunately they were getting older and dying off. The Laagerbond was powerful. It hadn’t needed guns to achieve that power. It had money and knowledge. It used manipulation to get its way rather than brute force. Operation Drommedaris influenced public opinion at home and abroad. Dirk du Toit and his father had multiplied the original billions supplied by Nico Diederichs through inspired investments. Some of this money could be used to bribe. If that didn’t work, Freddie Steenkamp and now Paul Strydom could use their extensive intelligence files on all of South Africa’s important politicians and bureaucrats, both black and white, to persuade and extort. Everyone of any importance in South Africa had a past, and in that past they had done things they were ashamed of. The Laagerbond knew those things. And if all else failed there was Anton van Vuuren, the grey-haired, bespectacled professor of physics who was at that moment talking earnestly to Daniel Havenga, and the sizeable stash of weapons-grade uranium buried deep in a disused diamond mine near Kimberley.
Visser smiled to himself. Under his stewardship as chairman of the Laagerbond, the Afrikaner nation had been safe.
Then he saw Kobus Moolman, and frowned. He moved over to the former policeman. ‘I heard that Alex Calder is in South Africa?’
Moolman raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m surprised. He obviously doesn’t scare easily.’
Visser’s frown deepened. ‘You seem to have lost your touch.’
Moolman smiled confidently. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by a former civil servant, even if he was chairman of the Laagerbond. ‘Don’t worry, Andries. Now he’s on my home territory I won’t let him cause trouble.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Visser. ‘Because if this van Zyl business gets out of hand it could destroy everything.’
‘We’ll have him on a plane back out of the country in a couple of days,’ said Moolman. He grinned. ‘In a coffin if necessary.’ Then he moved off to talk to the new initiate.
Visser coughed, the pain wracking his chest and shoulder. He would be lucky if he lived long enough to attend another one of these ceremonies. He surveyed the frieze around the walls of the monument. That tiny group of brave men and women clinging to life and freedom on the edge of such a vast continent. He remembered how when he had studied history at the University of the Orange Free State he had read extracts from The Times castigating the ignorant Boer farmers. He smiled again. Soon that mighty mouthpiece of British colonial rule would be under the control of those ignorant Boers. That was a day he was looking forward to.
The next morning George Field called Calder at his hotel with the addresses of Daniel Havenga, Andries Visser and Libby Wiseman. Since Professor Havenga lived in Stellenbosch, less than an hour’s drive from Cape Town, Calder decided to start there. But first he wanted to see Hondehoek, Martha’s house.
He drove out of the city past Mitchell’s Plain and the teeming township of Guguletu towards the Hottentots Holland mountains. His head throbbed vaguely from the whisky he had drunk the night before. He was still angry, angry with his father for accusing him of gambling, angry with his sister for blaming him for what happened to her, angry with Edwin for threatening Kim, and above all angry with himself. He had made mistakes over the last few weeks, but he was going to atone for them. He was sure that he had made real progress with George. There was more to be do
ne, but the anger made him more determined to do it.
He left the highway and soon he was in wine country: rolling hills and acre upon acre of vines, russet and yellow. Many of these were watched over by low white farmhouses whose central gables proclaimed their Dutch ancestry. He skirted the town of Stellenbosch and followed a winding road up into a valley. The valley floor was lush: oaks, vines, pasture, a river, but on either side rocky mountain crags rose up into black clouds. It had just been raining, water dripped from the trees and glistened on the vines.
He rounded a corner and came to two white gateposts, one of which bore the name Hondehoek. The other had the usual series of badges threatening armed response and vicious dogs. He drove up the driveway, bordered by golden-leaved oak trees, to the farmhouse, proudly bearing the figures 1815 on the gable. In front of it was the garden: moist, luxuriant, mysterious.
He rang the bell. The door was answered by a tall grey-haired man, dressed neatly in Ralph Lauren shirt and chinos. Calder explained that he was a friend of the van Zyl family, and the man smiled broadly and offered to show him round. It turned out that he was a German who had bought the house and land from Cornelius in 1989. The house and garden were in immaculate condition, and the German said he had taken back the management of the vineyards on the estate.
Calder asked about Doris and Finneas. The German knew them, and had kept them on when he had taken over the property. Finneas had left a few years later, weakened by AIDS, and was now dead. Doris too had died, of a stroke three years before. The new owner remembered Martha’s desk. It had been left behind by Cornelius, but he had sold it when he had moved in. As far as he could remember the desk had been empty; if there were any papers in it, they would have been thrown away. No diary.
As they wandered round the garden, Calder imagined Martha van Zyl working there. It was a beautiful place. Although only a few miles from Stellenbosch, the house seemed much more remote, wrapped in the mists and the valley. Everything was pristine, more pristine than Calder imagined it with Martha in charge. He was standing by a bell suspended from two white posts, when he heard a bird whooping loudly in the tree behind him.
His host swore in German.
‘What was that?’ Calder asked.
‘They call it a bokmakierie,’ the German replied. ‘The South Africans love them, but I think they’re a pest, especially in the summer, when they wake up at five o’clock in the morning and start yelling. There are two of them. I thought they’d gone a couple of years ago, but they seem to have returned.’
Calder thanked him and left, the call of the bokmakierie ringing in his ears.
Calder was aware that the theory he and George Field had hatched about the Laagerbond funding Zyl News was just that, a theory. There could be all kinds of innocent explanations for Havenga and Visser’s visit to Cornelius that day. If there was an innocent explanation, then Daniel Havenga would probably give it, so Calder decided the direct approach would be the best way to test the hypothesis.
Stellenbosch was a quiet town, where imposing modern university buildings shared the streets with much older residences. Havenga lived on Dorp Street, an oak-lined road of white Cape Dutch houses with black painted railings and window-frames, many of which had been turned into art galleries. Peaceful, wealthy, old, it felt more like New England than Africa. A gap-toothed woman with wild black hair enthusiastically ushered Calder’s car into a space outside an ancient-looking general store named Oom Samie’s: she would demand a small tip later for watching over it. Calder walked a few yards along the street to Havenga’s house and rang the bell. The professor answered the door himself. Calder could see what Caroline meant about the ears. He was a small man with white hair, a beard and a mischievous monkey face. He raised his eyebrows in puzzlement when he saw Calder, but he also smiled in tentative welcome.
‘Professor Havenga?’
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Alex Calder. I’m a friend of Todd van Zyl. I know you knew his parents. He has some questions he would like me to ask you.’
‘About what?’
‘About his mother.’
‘I see. Come in.’
Calder almost tripped over a compact suitcase that was lying in the hallway.
‘Sorry about that,’ said the professor. ‘I’ve only just got in from Pretoria this morning. Through here.’ He showed Calder into a cramped living room, made even more cramped by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that covered every wall. An attractive woman of about forty appeared, whom Havenga introduced as his partner and sent off to make coffee.
‘Do I detect a Scottish accent?’ Havenga said.
‘You do,’ Calder admitted.
‘Well, you’ve come a long way. How can I help?’ The professor’s eyes were bright, and his smile was friendly, but he was leaning forward nervously in his armchair.
‘I understand you were a friend of Martha’s?’
‘Oh, yes, a great friend. I thought it was a breath of fresh air to have an American around. It’s much better now, but in those days the university was very inward-looking, very insular.’
‘Do you have any idea who killed her?’
The professor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wasn’t it ANC guerrillas somewhere in the north? Near the Mozambique border?’
‘That’s what the police said.’
‘I see. And Todd doesn’t believe them?’
‘No.’
Havenga shrugged. ‘He may be right. All kinds of awful things were covered up by the authorities in those days. I suppose Martha’s death might be one of them. It’s very hard to unravel those mysteries now. It was what, fifteen years ago?’
‘Eighteen,’ Calder said. ‘And it is difficult. Which is why I am here.’
The woman arrived with a cafetière of coffee and two mugs. Havenga gave her a meaningful look and she withdrew. Havenga poured the coffee and swore as he spilled some. Definitely nervous.
‘I was very fond of Martha,’ Havenga said as he passed Calder his mug. ‘But I didn’t know her that well. If she had personal problems, I wouldn’t know about them. There were rumours of some difficulties with her husband, but there are always those kinds of rumours in Stellenbosch. The town is notorious for it.’
‘I wonder if you could tell me about a meeting you had with Cornelius van Zyl a short time before Martha was killed.’
Havenga sat up straight. ‘Meeting? I don’t follow.’
‘Yes. With Andries Visser, from the Finance Ministry.’
Havenga looked nonplussed. He didn’t say anything.
‘You do know Andries Visser?’
‘Um … We served on some committees together, I think. A long time ago.’
‘Right,’ Calder said. ‘And one day you and he paid a visit to Cornelius.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Caroline saw you.’
‘Caroline? Martha’s daughter? She was only a kid, wasn’t she?’
‘An observant kid with a good memory.’
‘She might have a good memory, but I don’t. I don’t remember any meeting.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ The smile had gone, the eyes were no longer twinkling, but wary.
‘Were you a member of the Broederbond, professor?’
Havenga forced a laugh, pleased with the change of subject. ‘That’s something I couldn’t possibly divulge to you. But I am a current member of the Afrikanerbond, which is its successor organization. As you no doubt know, my field is journalism, and so I have a close professional interest in the Afrikaans language and its role in modern-day South Africa.’
‘How about the Laagerbond?’
Havenga was just about to take a sip of his coffee. He paused with the rim of the mug millimetres from his lips.
‘The Laagerbond,’ Calder repeated. ‘Are you a member of the Laagerbond?’
Havenga recovered, lowering his coffee and pursing his lips. ‘Laagerbond? Interesting name. I can’t say that I have heard of it, tho
ugh.’
‘What about Operation Drommedaris?’
Havenga slowly shook his head, his lips tightly shut.
‘No, of course not,’ Calder said. ‘Thanks for your time, professor. I think I’ve found what I was looking for.’
Havenga put down his mug and leaped to his feet. ‘I don’t see how. I had no idea what you were talking about.’
Calder smiled at the professor. ‘Oh, you were very helpful. Believe me, very helpful.’
Daniel Havenga was severely agitated after Calder left. He paced about the tiny living room, playing over the conversation in his head. He hadn’t made any slips, had he? Alex Calder had seemed to think he had. He was shocked at how much that man had been able to piece together. Martha’s death had devastated him at the time, and even now, eighteen years later, his eyes prickled at the thought of it. The irony was that neither he nor Andries Visser nor the Laagerbond had been responsible. He wished he could just tell Calder that but he couldn’t. There was too much else at stake.
He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Andries? It’s Daniel. I’m worried …’
23
As soon as Calder arrived back in Cape Town he booked a flight for that evening to Johannesburg. It was obvious that Havenga had been lying about his meeting with Visser and Cornelius and that he knew very well what the Laagerbond was. Calder decided to track down Andries Visser at the address George Field had given him: a farm near Pretoria.
Before leaving for the airport he called Kim. She had decided to speak to Todd, who had been shocked at the idea that Cornelius might have been financed by the Laagerbond. In fact, he hadn’t believed it, and he wanted to confront his father about it. This seemed a very bad idea to Calder and he urged Kim to try to stop him. Kim promised she would do her best.
Todd’s proposed action annoyed Calder. While at the outset it had been reasonable that Todd and Kim called the shots, now Calder felt he had just as much right to decide how they approached Cornelius. His sister had lost a leg, and he was risking his neck in South Africa. It seemed to him to be a clear mistake to show their hand now. But there was little he could do about it at this distance.
See No Evil Page 26
