Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  He unlocked his door, went inside, and flopped down on the bed, not bothering to take his boots off or turn out the light. He was instantly asleep.

  Sam sat in her car and fumbled with her car keys. What is the matter with you? she chastised herself. Stop this. So you like him ... too much. She beat on the steering wheel. ‘Damn you, Matt Pontowski.’ Then, ‘Well, do something, Samantha.’

  She glanced at his room and saw the light was still on. Without thinking, she got out of the car and followed his path. She knocked lightly on the door but there was no answer. She tested the handle and pushed the door open. A gentle look crossed her face when she saw him passed out on the bed.

  ‘I suppose somebody’s got to take care of you,’ she whispered. She closed and locked the door behind her.

  *

  The sound of running water woke Pontowski. He tried to sit up but fell back into the bed. I don’t remember getting undressed, he thought, trying to get his bearings. On the second attempt, he managed to get his feet on the floor. Did I leave the shower running? He came fully awake with a jolt when he saw Sam’s vest and boots in a pile by the door. ‘Oh, no,’ he moaned.

  ‘You okay?’ she called from the bathroom.

  He stood up, glad that he still had his shorts on. Then he sat back down. He needed a cup of coffee, but the coffee maker was in the bathroom. ‘Here,’ she said. The bathroom door cracked open and a hand appeared, holding a full coffee mug. He took it and the door closed. He took a big gulp and, as usual, the caffeine went to work. He pulled on his trousers and sat back down.

  ‘Sam ... last night ...

  ‘You don’t remember, do you?’

  ‘I ... ah ...’

  The bathroom door came open and a fully dressed Sam stepped out. ‘I put you to bed.’

  ‘Where did you ... ah ...’

  ‘Sleep?’ she asked. ‘With you. Where else?’

  ‘And ...’

  She gave him an amused look. ‘Nothing happened. You were out of it.’

  ‘Who’s going to believe that?’ he mumbled.

  ‘You and me, Matt.’

  He liked the way she said his name.

  *

  Monday, February 2

  Bloemfontein, South Africa

  *

  Liz Gordon stood near the helipad at the Landdrost, Bloemfontein’s most luxurious hotel. She was wearing a safari outfit with a short-sleeved bush jacket, matching tan shorts, and hiking boots. She hadn’t intended to buy the expensive ensemble but the manager of the Landdrost had made it quite clear that it would be paid for by her host, along with the lavish suite and all her meals.

  The Landdrost had pampered her and catered to her every whim over the weekend and she was feeling very regal as the dark helicopter approached from the west. The pilot circled low in the French-built Gazelle and settled gently to the ground. The copilot jumped out and held the rear door open. She glanced at the silver roundel with a raised gauntlet clenched in a fist. It was the symbol of the Iron Guard — the black fist of steel against a silver background. Liz ducked her head and ran under the whirling rotor blades.

  This was the way she wanted to be treated.

  The pilot flew low over the road leading to the base and pulled up to hover just outside the main gate. The gate reminded her of the Porta Negra at Trier, Germany; a massive black granite structure. After she had seen the gate, they headed into the valley. ‘This looks more like a town than a military base,’ she told the pilots.

  ‘It’s our home,’ the copilot answered. The Gazelle touched down on the grass in front of the headquarters building and the pilot cut the turboshaft engine. Again, the copilot helped her as she got out. No one was waiting for her.

  ‘I was expecting to meet General Beckmann,’ she said. For the first time since arriving at Bloemfontein, she felt she was being ignored, a nobody.

  ‘You have,’ said a voice behind her. She turned to see the pilot. ‘Hans Beckmann,’ he said, taking her hand in his. Liz Gordon wasn’t sure if she was captured by his voice or his eyes.

  *

  It was a simple lunch at the home of Stafesersant Michael Shivuto, one of the Iron Guard’s black NCOs. Gordon had been surprised when Beckmann took her there and knocked on the door of the black family. He had been warmly received by the wife and children and made welcome. Now they were sitting on plastic chairs on the lawn eating sandwiches and drinking tea. ‘I thought the Iron Guard was lily white,’ Gordon said.

  Beckmann smiled. ‘Propaganda. We have many blacks in the Iron Guard. I met Sergeant Michael Shivuto when I was in Koevoet in Southwest Africa. He was one of our best trackers. Too bad you can’t meet him but he is with his men in the field.’

  ‘I never heard of Koo Foot,’ she said.

  He smiled at her mispronunciation. ‘It means “crowbar” in Afrikaans. In the 1980s the South West Africa People’s Organization sent terrorists across the border into Southwest Africa, it’s called Namibia now, to kill innocent people. Koevoet was an elite counterinsurgency unit that tracked the terrorists down.’ He grew very serious. ‘We lost. If men like Michael Shivuto had stayed behind, SWAPO would have butchered them. We take care of our own.’

  ‘Will he ever be an officer?’

  Beckmann shook his head. ‘It’s not possible. Maybe his son, Daniel. But not Michael.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, intrigued by his open manner and willingness to discuss anything.

  ‘Can you write poetry in Afrikaans?’

  ‘I can’t even write poetry in English,’ she told him.

  ‘But if your daughter was raised speaking Afrikaans, could she write poetry in our language?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Gordon allowed. She was beginning to understand his thinking. She looked around, enjoying the quiet garden. Children were running and playing in a playground. ‘What are those buildings over there?’ she asked. ‘The ones behind the double fence.’

  ‘Our Intelligence offices. As you can see, it is not a big compound. We can go there if you want, but I’ll have to call ahead and tell them to hide all the secrets.’

  She laughed and shook her head. Maybe Sam was right about asking a direct question, she thought. ‘What can you tell me about Prime?’

  He looked at her expectantly as if she were going to say more. How much does she know? he wondered. ‘Yes?’ he replied, urging her on.

  ‘I heard a rumor ... that you had nuclear weapons.’

  Relief masked as understanding crossed his face. ‘Ah, that. Come. I’ll show you.’ He thanked Sergeant Shivuto’s wife and drove Gordon to a man-made cave sunk into the side of the eastern ridge. The massive double blast doors leading into the cave were standing open and he led her inside. Gordon had never been in a nuclear storage bunker but she recognized its function at once. Along each wall were rows of steel vault doors. ‘Open any one you want,’ he said.

  She pulled at a small locking wheel and was surprised how easily the massive door swung open. Beckmann switched on a light. Only an empty bomb cradle was inside. ‘At one time, we had twenty-one nuclear devices. But we destroyed them all before the elections in 1994.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Because it was the only responsible course of action,’ he told her. ‘Now, what else can I show you?’

  ‘Everything.’ She laughed.

  ‘Of course.’

  *

  Dinner, like lunch, was a simple affair in Beckmann’s quarters. And as in the base, Gordon missed what was going on beneath the surface. A world-class chef had spent hours preparing this simple and unadorned meal. ‘I appreciate your taking so much time,’ she told her host. ‘I didn’t expect you to show me around personally. I wish my partner had been able to photograph this.’

  ‘It was my pleasure,’ he said. ‘We have video tapes of the base you can have.’ They went into the lounge for coffee and he showed her old photos of his family that went back to the 1870s. ‘My family were voortrekkers,’ he told her. ‘They fought the English in the Boer
War and later the Germans in both World Wars.’ He opened his family bible and traced his ancestry. ‘These are the men and women who brought civilization to this land. This is our land, our heritage. This is the reason we want our own nation.’

  Time for another direct question, Gordon thought. ‘But won’t it be apartheid all over again? Only on a smaller scale?’

  ‘We were wrong in creating apartheid. Now we want to make an island of peace and security in an ocean of chaos. Look at the violence and starvation sweeping my country.’ His words were etched with pain. ‘But not where we are building the Boerstaat. Here we can raise our families.’

  ‘Tell me about your wife and children.’ She smiled at the way he blushed.

  ‘I ... ah ... have never married. This’ — he swept his hand in a large circle — ‘is my life.’ He stood up and extended his hand, helping her to her feet. Their fingers held for a moment longer than necessary. ‘It is time to take you back,’ he said. She felt a sudden sadness that the day was over.

  Gordon sat in the copilot’s seat and they flew back alone. The lights of Bloemfontein glowed in the night sky, welcoming them. ‘This is a beautiful land,’ he told her. She agreed and wanted to touch him. They flew in silence and he landed the Gazelle on the hotel’s helipad with a gentleness that made her think of his touch. He escorted her to her suite and held the door open. ‘Good night, Elizabeth Gordon,’ he said.

  She looked at him. ‘Can you stay?’ she murmured. To her surprise, he blushed and stammered.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ he finally told her. ‘Perhaps ...’ He dropped the thought. ‘Please come back. God speed.’

  She watched him go, feeling very lonely.

  *

  Tuesday, February 3

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  Sam sat at the keyboard of the video editor in the TV studio, fast forwarding the tape she had recorded at the air base. She stopped the tape and framed Pontowski. He was in the staff meeting outlining his ideas for the COIC. ‘Watch how they respond to him,’ Sam said, and ran the tape.

  ‘He does use colorful language,’ Gordon observed.

  ‘True,’ Sam admitted. ‘But he is not offensive.’ She found the scene in the tents where he confronted the Afrikaners. ‘He doesn’t back down,’ she said. Again, she fast forwarded the tape. ‘This is his room. Monks live better.’

  Liz Gordon listened to her and studied her face. She’s fallen for the guy, Gordon decided.

  ‘This is when they launched the rescue,’ Sam said. She framed Bouchard as he climbed on board the C-130 with all his equipment.

  ‘Scary,’ Gordon muttered.

  Sam saved the sequence of the planes taxiing out in the dark for last. It was powerful visual drama as lights pierced the night, casting odd shadows, while engines roared and crew chiefs hurried to launch the planes. ‘He may have gotten four hours sleep out of sixty, but he never blew his cool once. And they rescued the C-130 and the UN ground team without a single casualty on either side.’

  ‘You make him sound like some sort of little tin god.’

  ‘He’s very human, believe me. He’s really grouchy and a zombie when he wakes up. It takes about three cups of coffee to get his brain engaged.’

  ‘Sam! You didn’t?’ Gordon chastised. Sam blushed brightly and shook her head. ‘Look,’ Gordon continued, ‘why don’t you knock off and go back to the hotel? General Beckmann gave me some video tapes and I want to see them. I’ll catch up later for dinner.’

  After Sam had left, Gordon found a studio technician and went to work. She was going to set the record straight.

  *

  Friday, February 6

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  *

  The phone message was waiting for Mazie Hazelton when she returned from the NSC staff meeting in the Executive Office Building across the street: Carroll wanted to see her soonest. It was a summons she couldn’t ignore and she hurried down the stairs. Midge waved her right in. Cyrus Piccard was with Carroll, sitting in an overstuffed easy chair. His knees were crossed and his head lay against the back. The old statesman was asleep and gently snoring. He let out a honk and woke.

  ‘Mazie, my dear,’ Piccard said, ‘so good to see you again.’ She couldn’t help smiling at him and his courtly ways.

  ‘We were talking about Gordon’s performance last night on the six o’clock news,’ Carroll said from behind his desk, ‘and engaging in some damage control.’

  Mazie frowned. ‘We’ve got our hands full without a distraction like this. The network gave her almost six minutes and she made Matt look like a recovering Neanderthal.’ Carroll shook his head. ‘It’s payback time for when he embarrassed her at that news conference.’

  Piccard humphed. ‘Matt’s references to “sucking at the big blue tit of the Air Force” or “making some shit happen around here” don’t play well in the heartland of America.’

  ‘It’s not that bad,’ Mazie protested.

  Piccard gave an expressive sigh. ‘Unfortunately, many of our countrymen equate profanity with immorality and wickedness.’

  ‘It’s the comparisons to the Iron Guard that hurt,’ Carroll said angrily. ‘She presented us as stumbling fools who run over kids and get chased out of a relief center while the Iron Guard creates stability.’

  Piccard’s chin slumped to his chest and his eyes closed. Mazie smiled indulgently at Carroll, thinking he had fallen asleep again. She was wrong. ‘When I was very young,’ Piccard said, ‘a gentleman denied nothing and apologized for nothing. Perhaps that would be a wise course of action at this time.’

  ‘The media, not to mention Congress, will eat us alive,’ Mazie told him.

  ‘My advice is to ride this one out. I’ll speak privately to the Lords of the Hill and warn them about Beckmann.’

  Carroll nodded. Piccard’s powers of persuasion and influence with key legislators were well known. ‘Mazie,’ Carroll asked as he picked up the phone, ‘can you give Cyrus some dirt on Beckmann to pass on?’

  ‘You’ll have a file today,’ she told Piccard.

  Carroll buzzed his secretary. ‘Midge, I need to speak to the Secretary of Defense.’ He waited for Midge to call John Elkins, the bookish cabinet officer. ‘There’re many ways to send the public a message of confidence in your people,’ he told them. Elkins came on the line. ‘John, have you seen the results of the last promotion boards?’ Elkins said that he had. ‘You might want to speed up the release of the brigadier general promotion list,’ Carroll suggested.

  Elkins thought it was a good idea.

  *

  Thursday, February 12

  UN Headquarters, Constantia, Cape Town

  *

  Pontowski looked up from his desk when he heard the knock. Piet van der Roos was standing in the doorway of his office, an uncomfortable look on his face. ‘Samantha Darnell is on the phone,’ he told Pontowski. ‘This is the fourth time she’s called.’

  ‘She still wants to see me?’ Pontowski asked. Van der Roos nodded a reply. Do I want to see her? Pontowski thought. She’s been calling since Gordon did the number on us on TV. For damn’ sure I can’t trust either of them. What was I thinking of when I let her roam around and shoot at will? ‘Set up an appointment for this afternoon,’ he told his aide. ‘Fifteen minutes. No cameras, no cassette recorders, no notebooks.’

  *

  Van der Roos was waiting for Sam when she walked through the headquarters entrance. She was wearing a simple but very becoming summer dress and her hair had been carefully arranged. ‘This way, please.’ He was rigidly formal, his way of telling her that he also disapproved of Gordon’s latest TV expose.

  Pontowski was standing when van der Roos ushered her into his office. He motioned for the aide to remain, not wanting to be alone with Sam. It was a sign of his deep-seated distrust. She glanced at the Afrikaner and understood that Pontowski wanted a witness to whatever was said. ‘Thank you for seeing me,’ she said.

 
‘Please sit down, Miss Darnell.’ Van der Roos pushed a chair forward and retreated to stand by the door while they sat.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Matt ...’

  He cut her off. ‘It’s Colonel.’ He stared at her, forcing his message across the desk that separated them.

  She tried again. ‘Colonel Pontowski, I want to apologize for what Liz did and assure you that I had nothing to do with that broadcast.’ He didn’t respond and continued to stare at her. He doesn’t believe me, she thought. She had to convince him of the truth.

  ‘I showed the tapes to Liz, but she edited them on her own. I wasn’t there when she did the voice over and sent it out. I would have stopped her ...’ Her voice trailed off, withering under his look.

  ‘Miss Darnell, I believe you.’ Pontowski’s voice was toneless and flat. ‘But I trusted that what you saw would be reported fairly and accurately. Obviously, I was mistaken. It’s true I use profanity to communicate. That’s the way I work. But I am neither a “cowboy” nor a “moral Neanderthal” as Gordon prefers to call me. I will take my hits when they are justified, but the report was not fair to my people or our mission.’

  ‘It was unfair,’ she admitted.

  ‘At least we agree on that.’

  ‘But it was taken out of my hands,’ she pleaded. ‘What more can I do?’

  ‘Run a more balanced follow-up story?’ He stared at her, unblinking. So attractive, so appealing, he thought. And so dangerous.

  ‘The network won’t do that,’ she replied. ‘Once they commit to a story, that’s it.’

  He stood up. ‘I doubt that it would do any good for me to approach Miss Gordon directly.’ Sam shook her head. ‘Then we have nothing more to talk about.’ He turned to face the window. The interview was over. He heard the door close as van der Roos ushered her out. I just did a de Royer on her, he thought, still looking out the window.