The Colour of Gold

by Oliver T Spedding

  “Don’t talk shit! Tell me the truth!” the policeman shouted.

  The thin black weapon cracked down harshly on the soft flesh. The man screamed, trying desperately to wriggle free from his bonds. The third person in the fear-filled room stared down at the simpering black man unsympathetically. Although Captain Tiaan Botha preferred not to use physical violence he knew that it was a necessity in the job that he was doing. Psychological torture was far more effective but the safety of the white people of his country was at stake and any means of ensuring that safety was justified. Information was needed and the South African Security Police were certain that the man lying on the wooden bench had that information. Now they had to extract it by whatever means they could. Firstly they would apply physical torture and if that didn't bring the required results psychological means would be applied. One way or the other they would get what they wanted. And if the man died during the interrogation, well, that was too bad.

  The interrogator raised the whip again, but just as he was about to strike the defenceless man, the door to the interrogation cell swung open and a black policeman peered into the room. The plain clothed Captain who had been standing near the door of the cell watching his colleague beat the black man, looked around, irritated at the interference.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Captain Botha,” the black policeman said, “but something very urgent has come up. There’s someone in your office who says that she has some important information. She says that it may concern a terrorist bomb.”

  Captain Tiaan Botha nodded and walked to the door. He glanced back at the man with the whip.

  “Carry on.” he said. “I won’t be long.”

  As Tiaan closed the door behind him he heard the whip whistle down and bite into the black man’s flesh. The prisoner screamed hysterically as he realized how helpless he was.

  “Who wants to see me?” Tiaan asked.

  “It’s a white civilian woman who says that she saw something suspicious a few minutes ago but wants to speak to someone in authority.” the policeman said. “She’s scared that anybody else won’t take her seriously. She’s in your office.”

  Tiaan nodded and hurried up the stairs from the holding cells to the police station offices.

  The white woman waiting anxiously in Tiaan’s office was middle aged and slightly plump.

  “What can I do for you, lady?” Tiaan asked. “I’m Captain Tiaan Botha, from the anti-terrorist unit of the South African Security Police.”

  “Yes, Mr. Botha.” the woman said. “I’m Nancy Edgecomb. “I was on my way home from work and, as usual, walked along the street behind the police station. About fifty metres ahead of me I noticed two black men carrying a heavy object in a yellow plastic shopping bag between them. Suddenly they put the bag with its contents down next to the wall of the police station building and walked away. Why would they do something like that?"

  Tiaan felt his body go cold. As calmly as he could, he smiled at the woman in front of him.

  “How long ago did this happen, Mrs. Edgecomb?” he asked.

  “Less than five minutes ago.” the woman replied. “I came here straight away. Those two men were behaving in a very strange way and I didn’t like it.”

  “Stay here, Mrs. Edgecomb.” Tiaan said. “I’ll go and investigate. Do whatever my men tell you to do, but don’t worry. You’re quite safe here.”

  Tiaan walked briskly out of his office and climbed the stairs to the first floor which housed the bomb disposal squad. He hurried to their leader.

  “Piet.” Tiaan said, quietly and calmly. “A suspicious package has been reported lying against the back wall of the station. It’s very possibly a bomb. Get going!”

  The leader turned to his men who were gathered behind him.

  “You heard what Tiaan just told me.” he said. “There’s a possible explosive device at the back of the building. Get your equipment and let’s go!”

  Like a well-oiled machine the bomb disposal squad sprang into action, moving quietly but quickly out of the office and down the stairs. Some of the men spread out to organize the evacuation of the building while others left the police station through the front door and circled the building, effectively cordoning it off. The bomb experts moved carefully towards the yellow plastic bag and its contents. A small crowd of curious onlookers gathered on the far pavement, but was moved away by uniformed police officers.

  Two blocks away a small, thin black man stood leaning against the wall of an office building and watching the activity taking place behind the distant police station. He had seen the two black men leave their package next to the wall of the building and briskly walk away. He had also seen the white woman staring at them and suddenly change direction and head for the entrance to the police station. He knew with certainty that the intended bombing of the building had failed. This was confirmed a few minutes later when he saw policemen surround the building and move all civilians away. He also saw the two bomb disposal experts cautiously approach the yellow plastic bag and its contents. He nodded his head slowly, his thin lips compressing into a grim, thin line. He turned and limped away, favouring his shorter right leg to ease the pain that had built up while he stood motionless. The permanent frown that crossed his forehead deepened. He desperately needed more time to train and discipline his recruits. They just didn’t understand all the intricacies of subversive warfare. They had to learn that they were fighting a deadly war, not playing a game.

  The black man with the limp, whose real name was Joseph Matimba, was known to his comrades only by his code name “Shadow”. A secretive man, Shadow said very little but commanded respect from all who associated with him. Rumour had it that he was an extremely brave and fearless man who had performed incredibly daring feats against the white oppressors during the student uprising in 1976.

  Shadow had been twenty three years old when the students rose up against their white oppressors who were forcing them to do their studies in the hated Afrikaans language. As he was unemployed at the time Shadow had been able to join the students and help organize them into effective gangs fighting the well-armed white security forces. Although the only weapons the young black people had were stones and petrol bombs, they did themselves proud against the guns, stun grenades and teargas of their enemy.

  On the third day of the revolt Shadow had taken a heavy calibre bullet in the upper part of his right leg. The missile had shattered the femur bone and the young fighter had collapsed in a sea of excruciating pain. His companions had dragged him to safety and hidden him in a small shack while they searched for a doctor. They dared not take him to the hospital because the authorities would arrest and imprison him for defying the State. It was automatically assumed that any black man with a bullet wound had received it while fighting against the white government.

  When the doctor eventually arrived there was very little that he could do except to fix a rough wooden splint to the broken leg and hope that the bone would knit and allow Shadow to walk again. He gave the wounded man the few painkillers that he had and left, shaking his head sadly.

  For six months Shadow lay on the cheap steel bed with its thin, dirty mattress, willing his leg to heal and listening to the bitterly one-sided war going on around him. Every day he vowed that some day he would he able to take up the fight where he had left off and lead his comrades to victory over the white oppressors. The young black people were fighting a war that they could never win without help from outside the country and by the time Shadow was able to walk again the only alternative open to young black fighters was to leave the country and seek military training in countries such as Mozambique, Zambia, East Germany and Russia.

  Although Shadow’s femur bone had knitted securely, the makeshift splint had not aligned the two pieces of bone correctly and this put tremendous strain on his hip joint causing him searing pain each time he took a step. Eventually he perfected a technique of walking that minimized the pain but the pronounced limp allowed him to walk no more than a few
hundred metres before having to rest. This didn’t stop the determined young man and over a period of several months he walked more than four hundred kilometres to the border of South Africa without being detected and joined the external network of the A.N.C. From Mozambique he was flown to Moscow where he leg was re-broken and set correctly. Too much damage had already been done to the leg though and for the rest of his life Shadow walked with his pronounced limp, albeit with a great deal less pain.

  As soon as Shadow left the Moscow hospital he began training for his return to South Africa. His instructors were impressed with his single-mindedness and dedication as well as his determination to learn everything that was necessary to help him free his people from the oppression that they were enduring. He wasn’t interested in politics or negotiations. He was only interested in fighting the enemy and bringing them to their knees using the same methods that they were using to demean and subdue his people. He was happy to leave the talking to those who thought that it would make a difference.

  After two years of intensive training in subversive warfare Shadow was ready to return to his beloved country. His instructions were to recruit cadres for the African National Congress’s armed wing called Umkhonto weSizwe or Spear of the Nation and train these men and women to commit acts of sabotage that would destabilize the country and eventually lead to the downfall of the illegitimate white government.

  Recruiting young black people to fight for freedom wasn’t difficult but training them to perform their tasks efficiently and effectively was almost impossible. There were no facilities where weapons could be demonstrated and usually the first time that recruits actually used their weapons was when they had to use them in the field. Many of the recruits were only semi-literate and gazed blankly at the diagrams of weapons that Shadow showed them. The other detrimental factor was the constant fear of being caught by the Security Police who had a sophisticated network of both black and white informers who were prepared to betray their own people for money.

  The failed attempt to bomb the police station in Durban was a typical example of how the lack of proper training affected the fight for freedom. The two men who had carried the bomb to the back of the police station had no idea of how the timing mechanism worked and even when they were told repeatedly that the bomb would only explode thirty minutes after they had planted it, they had defied their leader’s instructions and hurried away immediately after placing the device next to the wall, thus arousing the suspicion of the middle-aged white woman who had reported what she had seen to the police. The bomb had been defused and another operation had failed.

  When Shadow reached the tiny shack that he was staying in while in the black township of Umlazi, about twenty kilometres south of the city centre of Durban, he found a coded message in his secrete post box. The message was from his superiors, instructing him to hand over command of the Durban cell to a suitable cadre and travel to Johannesburg where his expertise was needed to orchestrate an attack on more important and politically strategic targets that would attract the attention of the outside world and also deal a damaging blow to the State.

  Shadow met with his deputy, gave him what instructions he could, and then packed his few belongings into his dark blue knapsack. After making sure that he had not left any evidence of his presence in the shack he began the long trip to the city centre where he planned to catch the daily Railways bus to Johannesburg and which departed from the Durban station at nine every morning. This, he reasoned, was the quickest and safest way to get to his destination.

  At the station he purchased a ticket for the following morning’s bus using his meager A.N.C. funds and spent the night in an alley behind a well-known hotel. The following morning he rose early and waited at the station next to a young black man wearing a colourful blanket and sitting with his back against the station wall.

  There was quite a variety of nationalities amongst the passengers waiting to board the bus and Shadow watched a small family of three Indians anxiously waiting in the early morning sunlight, their large leather suitcase carefully guarded by the father. He also saw a tall, balding white man with a heavy black moustache and his long-haired wife arrive, each carrying a red suitcase that they allowed the black supervisor to store in the hold. The couple spoke with a strange accent that Shadow guessed labelled them as recent immigrants from Eastern Europe. There were several other blacks and Indians and Shadow estimated that the bus would be only half full which would allow him to find a window seat and give him the privacy that he sought.

  ***

  “Subversive activity is growing throughout the country,” Major Snyman said, “and we’re getting more and more leads that have to be followed up. Most of them are hoaxes and lead to nothing, but they all have to be treated seriously.”

  Captain Tiaan Botha nodded as he sat on the hard, wooden chair on the opposite side of his superior’s desk. He was wearing a grey safari suit with short sleeves and long trousers. The shirt hung from his thin shoulders as if hanging from a coat hanger. His grey shoes were scuffed and in need of a coat of polish. His thin face was heavily lined for a man of thirty five and his light brown hair was thinning rapidly. His pale blue eyes stared at the man in front of him expressionlessly and his mouth was no more than a straight slash above his pointed chin.

  “We’ve had several snippets of information hinting at an increase in attacks on government installations in or near Johannesburg.” the Major continued. “There’s nothing definite though, but headquarters wants you to investigate the matter. You’ve got a lot of contacts and informants in Jo’burg and they think that you might be able to find out if there is any substance behind the rumours. They want you up there as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.” Tiaan said. “I’ll take the Railways bus from the station.”

  “Okay.” the major said. “I’ll arrange a ticket for you. Good luck.”

  Tiaan left the office and went to the room that he had been using as an office since his arrival in Durban three months previous. He collected his documents and files, stuffed them into his thin briefcase, and left the police station. Outside there was no sign of the bomb disposal team’s presence at the back of the building and the group of curious spectators had long since dispersed.

  Tiaan walked to the cheap, dirty residential hotel that he had been staying in since he had been consigned to investigate terrorist activity in the Durban area. Once in his room he put his STAR PD single action ,45 automatic on top of the small table next to the bed. He was glad that he was finally leaving Durban. Every time he visited the city he felt uncomfortable. The heat, and especially the humidity, always made him feel as if he needed to take regular hourly showers. His hands were always sweaty and his feet began to swell after a few days. His clothes always felt as if they hadn’t dried properly. Once he had left a sweet in his pocket and by the following morning it had completely dissolved into the cloth of his trousers. In Johannesburg the air was dry and although his sinuses had to contend with the ever- present dust from the mine dumps that littered the Reef, he always felt comfortable there.

  He lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

  What was the A.N.C. planning in Jo’burg? he wondered. If the bosses thought that it was worth him investigating then it had to be something serious. The Stock Exchange, perhaps? Park Station? Military headquarters? He shook his head. It could any of a hundred potential targets. This would really test the strength of the web of informants that he had built up over the past seven years. If there was a major strike being planned then he had no doubt his contacts would have heard of it.

  Tiaan glanced out of the window. It was already dark outside. He stood up, tucked the ,45 under his belt in the small of his back and went in search of food.

  The following morning Tiaan rose early and, after he had shaved and dressed, walked to the police station and collected the bus ticket that had been purchased for him. He put it into his grey safari suit top pocket and returned to the
hotel. He packed his clothes and other belongings into his black, leather suitcase and left the building. The Police accounts department would attend to the hotel bill. He walked to the station and gave his suitcase to the black man supervising the storage of the bus passenger’s luggage. He glanced around at the other people waiting to board the bus. His eyes flicked over the Indian family of three. Why were they so anxious? he wondered. Perhaps they’d never travelled on a long distance bus before. He saw a black man sitting with his back against the building wall with a brightly coloured blanket over his shoulders. I’ll bet he’s going to look for work on the mines, Tiaan thought to himself. He glanced at the short, thin man with the deeply etched, permanent frown across his forehead standing next to the seated man. He frowned. There was something unusual about the man. An almost unnerving sense of secretiveness surrounded him.

  Tiaan turned and walked to the door to the white section of the bus. He scarcely glanced at the tall, white couple waiting to board. He was already thinking of which of his Johannesburg informants to contact first.

  CHAPTER 3

  At five minutes to nine the white bus driver, wearing a thin khaki coat over his light blue safari suit, walked briskly out of the station building and hauled himself up through the driver’s doorway and into his worn, leather seat. After making an adjustment to the rear-view mirror he turned on the ignition. The powerful diesel engine roared into life and thick, black smoke belched from the exhaust. The passenger’s windows rattled noisily as the driver revved the motor. With a sudden hiss the two passenger doors swung open and the passengers began embarking, each showing the man who had been supervising the stowing of the luggage their tickets which he perforated with a small silver punch.

  Bala Desai struggled up the three steps carrying his heavy suitcase, closely followed by Fatima carrying Salona at her hip. They chose one of the steel bench seats halfway towards the back of the bus. Isaiah Zuma headed straight to the back seat and settled in the one corner, his blanket still over his shoulders. Shadow limped to the front seat and silently settled next to the window, knowing that few people liked to sit there right up against the steel and glass partition that separated the white and non-white sections of the bus. The other passengers found seats to suit themselves, mainly towards the back of the “non European” compartment.