Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  A red minibus fell in six cars back and held its position.

  Charles relaxed into his seat, oblivious to the jerky and reckless ride as the driver raced his way through the traffic. There are problems,’ he said. It was MacKay’s cue to hand over another envelope stuffed with money.

  ‘Who are you with?’ he asked. Charles smiled and shook his head. ‘I pay for results,’ MacKay continued. ‘You haven’t produced any.’

  ‘One of our people works for a Doctor Slavin who works inside the Pelindaba nuclear reactor plant,’ Charles said.

  MacKay’s eyebrows arched. Slavin was an Israeli scientist and the driving force behind project Prime. Without a word, MacKay handed over an envelope.

  Charles counted the money. ‘She will help you,’ he said.

  ‘She?’ MacKay asked, surprised that a black woman would have access to Prime.

  ‘There are things you don’t understand about our society,’ Charles explained. ‘Maids are a fixture in white households, much like furniture. It was easy to place her as a maid and nanny in the Slavin household.’ Charles spoke English with the characteristic lilt of many black clergymen in South Africa. A news reporter had told MacKay that preachers were the people to contact because they knew what was happening in the black community. Another reporter had introduced him to a minister, who in turn had set in motion the series of cutouts and contacts that led him to Charles. It had been a laborious process but he was nearing his goal.

  The minibus slammed to a halt for a young woman carrying two large bags. MacKay glanced at her, assuming she was the maid Charles had mentioned. It was only a momentary distraction for he was watching the red minibus which had also stopped. But it didn’t pick up. He counted eight passengers already in the minivan, all young men. The two taxis moved back into the traffic. ‘Everyone keep looking straight ahead,’ MacKay said. When he was certain his three companions were obeying, he continued, ‘We’re being followed. It’s the red minibus three cars back. It’s been on our tail since we picked up Charles.’

  Their driver let someone cut across in front so that the red minibus drew nearer. He checked his rearview mirror. ‘Tsotsi’ was all he said, and accelerated ahead, cutting in and out of traffic.

  ‘Is it BOSS?’ MacKay asked.

  Charles talked to the driver in Zulu. ‘I don’t think so,’ he finally answered in English. ‘Perhaps it is a taxi war.’ Taxi owners often paid tsotsis to eliminate their competition in a very direct way. But other tsotsis saw this as a money-making opportunity and became insurance brokers, offering ‘protection insurance’ to the taxi companies. This only added another layer to an already confused business with the result that no one took the time to check sides, or insurance policies, before the shooting started. It was the free enterprise system with a South African twist.

  ‘Is it the same group who tried to nail you in Soweto?’ MacKay asked. Charles had passed the incident off as an attempted robbery but MacKay thought it went much deeper.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s why we are going to Katlehong. The gangs don’t talk to each other and stay in their own territory.’

  Their driver easily outdistanced the loaded minivan following them. ‘She runs good, baas’ He grinned.

  MacKay was certain their minibus had a few extra horses under the hood from the way it accelerated and they soon lost their pursuers in traffic. He turned his attention to the girl and felt old. He was forty-two and she was in her early-twenties. She was tall, big-hipped and someday would be heavyset, probably after childbirth. Her hair was cropped short in the traditional Zulu way. A more pronounced bridge to her nose and slightly lighter than normal skin indicated a European or Asian ancestor in her lineage. She was definitely African and not beautiful in the European sense, yet she had an aura that captured him. She was a young queen, graced by an innate serenity and dignity.

  Charles waited before making introductions. He knew the effect Ziba Chembo had on people. ‘Ziba,’ he finally said, ‘this is the man I told you about, Mr John Arthur.’

  ‘Mr Arthur,’ she repeated, her voice low-pitched and controlled. ‘The man with two first names.’ She had a beautiful voice and spoke with an English accent.

  MacKay did not reply and for reasons he did not understand, wanted to tell her his real name, John Author MacKay. He wanted to explain how his mother, almost illiterate, had misspelled his middle name and had written Author instead of Arthur on his birth certificate. He wanted this young woman to know that he would never change it because that would hurt his mother. But he said nothing.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Ziba asked.

  ‘We want to find out what is going on inside Pelindaba.’

  ‘I’m a housemaid, Mr Arthur. I work for a man who works at Pelindaba and I never go inside the compound.’

  ‘Ziba has a very good education,’ Charles explained. ‘She graduated from an English boarding school for girls. But this is the only job she can get. This is her day off and she is going to visit her mother.’

  ‘The man you work for,’ MacKay said, ‘Doctor Slavin, is a scientist. You must hear things, see documents.’ Ziba nodded. ‘What you see and hear may not make sense to you, but they are pieces to a larger puzzle that we can fit together.’

  ‘Doctor Slavin and his family are from Israel, Mr Arthur,’ Ziba explained. ‘They are very kind to me. Why should I betray their trust? What does he do that interests you?’

  ‘We think he makes nuclear weapons,’ MacKay answered.

  Charles said, ‘We know who they will use those weapons against.’ They exchanged words in a language MacKay thought was Zulu. At first, MacKay thought he was trying to cajole the woman into cooperating. Then he realized Charles was trying to establish his dominance over her and MacKay could almost smell the man’s lust. It was the first step in a seduction.

  Ziba stared at Charles coldly until he looked away. He was outmatched. She was no innocent housemaid. ‘They are not making nuclear weapons,’ she finally said in English. ‘Doctor Slavin wants to make electricity. That is all he talks about.’

  ‘We know he was at the test site in the Kalahari when it blew up,’ MacKay said.

  ‘I overheard him discussing it with his wife,’ Ziba explained. ‘He said it was an accident, a very small explosion. They learned much from it.’

  ‘It leveled two square kilometers of the Kalahari,’ MacKay replied, ‘left a smoking crater a hundred meters across, and killed over fifty people. I don’t consider that small.’ She recoiled at his words, shaken by the revelation. MacKay considered his next words as he studied her face. He sensed the intelligence behind her dark eyes and decided to play it straight. ‘It was a very small thermonuclear explosion, one of the smallest we have ever seen. But it was thermonuclear. Do you know what that means?’

  She stiffened, not ready to accept the truth. ‘Doctor Slavin does not build nuclear weapons. He is very proud of that.’

  ‘Then why does he work on nuclear projects?’ Charles asked.

  ‘To make electricity,’ she repeated. ‘Doctor Slavin is a peaceful man.’ The doubt in Ziba’s voice disappeared. ‘He is a good man and does not make weapons to kill people.’

  ‘Really?’ MacKay replied, disbelief in his voice. ‘There was another explosion at Pelindaba this morning.’ Her face turned solemn as he continued. ‘At least twenty people were killed or injured and a building was leveled. It won’t be in the papers.’

  ‘Was Doctor Slavin hurt?’ she asked.

  MacKay shook his head as the taxi slammed to a halt. They had reached Ziba’s stop.

  ‘What you ask is difficult,’ she told them. ‘I must think about it.’ Charles started to protest but she cut him off with a hard look. She got out and closed the door.

  ‘Baas, look behind,’ the driver said. He accelerated wildly into the heavy traffic, throwing them about. MacKay twisted around and saw the red minivan right behind them. It was too late. The minivan smashed into the rear of their taxi, knocking it sideways a
nd into a skid.

  MacKay dropped to the floor. ‘Get down!’ he shouted at Charles. But the man only held on to the back of the seat in front of him and twisted his head back and forth, his eyes wide with fear. MacKay reached up and pulled him down. The minibus tipped crazily to the left as they skidded, but somehow the driver recovered and kept them upright. They came out of the skid and shot down the dirt path alongside the road, scattering pedestrians. The red minivan hit them again and MacKay heard a dull thud and felt a hard bump. They had hit and run over someone.

  Submachine gun fire raked the back of the minivan. The rear window shattered, sending a shower of glass over MacKay. The driver shrieked in pain and tried to control the minivan as their pursuers rammed them again. The taxi broached sideways and rolled over.

  MacKay was vaguely aware of hands dragging him out of the van. He looked up into the face of a tsotsi. The boy said something and rolled MacKay over on to his stomach. He felt wire cut into his skin as his wrists were bound together. The teenager stood back and kicked him in the side of his head. Two more kicks and MacKay feigned unconsciousness. The tsotsis held a quick council of war, grabbed Charles, and stood him against the minivan. Two pinned his arms while a rag was stuffed into his mouth.

  Then MacKay heard a low chant start to build in the crowd. ‘Necklace ... necklace.’ It grew and changed, becoming a hypnotic command for action. The tsotsis grinned at each other and waited. Unobserved, MacKay moved his wrists, trying to free them. But any movement only tightened the wire loop holding the other wrist.

  An old car tire was rolled into the tight circle that surrounded MacKay and Charles. A low, animal-like wail erupted from the gagged Charles when two men grabbed him and threw him to the ground. The tire was pulled over his body and the tsotsis spreadeagled his arms and legs. The gag was jerked free and Charles screamed in terror, making MacKay’s skin crawl.

  One of the young thugs poured gasoline into the tire’s casing and set it on fire. A high-pitched, inhuman shriek split the air and drove nails of terror into MacKay. It was Charles. The flames flared, driving the tsotsis away, but not before a vicious kick to the head stunned the doomed man. Charles lay quiet as the flames enveloped his body. Someone threw a seat from the van on to the blaze, pinning him to the ground.

  ‘Necklace! Necklace!’ echoed louder as a wild frenzy gripped the crowd. The circle grew wider, forced back by the blaze. Another tire was rolled into the center.

  This tire was for MacKay. He scrambled to his feet and ran at the crowd, his head lowered like a battering ram. He speared one man and bulldozed his way through the crowd, kicking and butting. Twice, he stumbled but somehow stayed on his feet. He was almost free when two men clubbed him to the ground. Before they could drag him to his feet, a burst of submachine gun fire echoed overhead, scattering the crowd. Another burst and the crowd was gone.

  MacKay rolled to his right and saw Ziba, sweat pouring down her face, holding an Uzi. She had seen the red minibus chase MacKay’s taxi down and had run after them. But it had been a long run and the crowd had held her back until she pulled the Uzi out of her shopping bag and cleared a field of fire.

  Ziba flipped the select lever to short burst and raked the tsotsis with aimed fire. The professional in MacKay noted the way she stood and handled the weapon. She was good. Then it was over. The eight tsotsis and their driver lay in heaps around the burning pyre that had been Charles. She jammed a fresh clip into the Uzi.

  Fascinated, MacKay watched as she methodically checked each body. She was action in slow motion. One of the tsotsis was still alive and she spoke to him. He snarled an answer and she put a single bullet in his head. Then she walked over to MacKay and helped him to his feet. Again, with the same deliberate motion, she untwisted the wire that bound his wrists. ‘Come,’ was all she said. He followed her, rubbing life back into his hands.

  *

  MacKay sat on a kitchen chair stripped to the waist and let the woman clean the scrapes on his face and back. A light rain was falling, beating a tattoo on the tin roof of the two-room, cinder block hovel Ziba’s mother called home. The old woman’s hard, gnarled hands were surprisingly gentle as she ran her fingers down his corded neck muscles, prodding and poking. She stood back and studied the muscular development of his chest and shoulders. She spoke three or four words in Zulu. The only word he understood was ‘Shaka’, the name of the chieftain who had united the Zulus in the 1820s and sent his regiments across South Africa, ravaging the countryside and changing the geopolitical map.

  Ziba answered from the other room and again he caught the name ‘Shaka’. He didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the doorway to the other room. Ziba stepped through, washed and changed into a multicolored gown and shawl. The warrior was gone and the queen was back. She stood in the small room, appraising him, before she sat down.

  ‘Why the talk about Shaka?’ MacKay asked.

  ‘My mother was paying you a compliment,’ Ziba answered. ‘She said you look like Shaka.’ Legend had it that he possessed a magnificent physique, much like the American’s.

  ‘You questioned one of them,’ MacKay said. ‘Who were they?’

  Ziba gave him a long look he could not interpret. ‘They were ANC. They wanted Charles.’

  ‘Why?’ MacKay believed he was owed an answer since he had almost been killed.

  ‘Charles was Inkatha,’ she answered. Now MacKay understood. The Zulus’ political party, Inkatha, and the ANC, African National Congress, were deadly enemies. ‘There was another thing,’ Ziba continued, ‘you couldn’t see it but the way they tied your wrists together is an old BOSS trick. Where did they learn that?’

  And where, MacKay thought, did you learn about BOSS’s use of wire as an interrogation technique and how to use an Uzi? He suspected it was at the ‘boarding school for girls’ that Charles had mentioned. ‘Are you Inkatha?’

  She shook her head. ‘We only want to get on with our lives.’ He didn’t believe her and she gave him that look again, the one he could not interpret. A heavy silence came down in the room.

  Ziba’s mother finished with MacKay and studied him for a moment. She spoke a few words in Zulu and Ziba translated. ‘She says you should grow a beard. It will help.’ MacKay scratched his chin, agreeing with her. He had never grown one because of Army regulations and had never subsequently considered it out of habit. The older woman stood back and spoke in a low voice. It was a long speech and Ziba listened quietly, not interrupting. Her mother was a woman who expected others to listen.

  Finally, Ziba nodded in answer. ‘My mother says Slavin is not one of us and you are a righteous man. She says I should trust you.’

  MacKay was still in the ball game.

  *

  Wednesday, August 13

  Fredericksburg, Virginia

  *

  The dream came in two parts, as it always did. Shoshana was running nude down the golden sand of the Grecian beach where they had spent their honeymoon. Her wet skin glistened in the sun and a warm feeling surged through Matt Pontowski. But before she reached him, the dream changed. Now he was coming awake, drifting in the half-world of sleep and full consciousness. Pontowski knew he was dreaming and wanted to prolong it. But another, much stronger, instinct willed him to wake up. Shoshana was now sitting on the edge of his bed. Her hand reached out and her fingers extended to touch his lips. But this time, she was dressed and her eyes full of worry.

  Pontowski came awake with a jerk. His subconscious had sent him a message that something was wrong. He checked his watch — four-thirty in the morning. He sat on the edge of the bed and listened, getting his bearings. He and his son were in the Piccards’ home, house guests while he was TDY, temporary duty, to the Pentagon. Silently, he slipped into the hall and checked the room next to his where Little Matt was sleeping. The bed was empty.

  For a split second, the old panic gripped Pontowski. It was the fear of any parent when their child is missing. Then as quickly the panic was gone. Pontowski padded down the
stairs, wearing only a T-shirt and his pajama bottoms. It worried him that Little Matt was still walking in his sleep. He found his seven-year-old son standing by the front door and without a word, he picked up the sleeping child and carried him upstairs. The boy’s eyes were closed when he laid him back in bed.

  Little Matt stirred, waking up. ‘Mommy,’ he half whispered, confirming Pontowski’s guess that his son had been waiting for Shoshana by the door.

  ‘It’s okay, Good Buddy,’ Pontowski soothed. ‘I’m here.’

  ‘Will you ever go away like Mommy?’ Little Matt asked.

  Pontowski stroked his son’s face. I can see so much of Shoshana in you, he thought. ‘I’ll always be here when you need me,’ he said.

  ‘Promise?’ Little Matt said, turning over and going back to sleep.

  ‘I promise,’ Pontowski said. He waited until he was sure Little Matt was sleeping peacefully. A week from Friday, he calculated, pinpointing the next time his son would walk in his sleep, then walked back into his own room and lay down. But sleep wouldn’t come. Frustrated, he rolled out of bed, picked up his briefcase and went down to the kitchen. He could get in at least two hours of reading before he had to dress and head for the Pentagon and another round of briefings.

  Pontowski had been appointed commander of the 442nd Fighter Wing but before he could assume command, the Air Force had called him to the Pentagon with two other new wing commanders to be briefed. Nothing was left to chance and every conceivable subject, ranging from wife-beating to environmental pollution, was being covered. The two other new commanders were brigadier generals and carried on as if Pontowski, a full colonel in the Reserves, wasn’t there. It didn’t bother him — he had seen it before. He was a reservist and they were regular Air Force and outranked him. But there was another price he paid for having a grandfather who had been a President of the United States. People either assumed a toad-like position to ingratiate themselves or ignored him.