‘What does this “frocked” mean?’ Martine asked.
‘Officially, I’m still a colonel, drawing a colonel’s pay. But I’m allowed to wear my new rank until the Senate approves the generals’ promotion list.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, not understanding what it all meant. She smiled and left.
‘General Pontowski,’ Bouchard said, ‘if you would please follow me?’ He led the way down a side hall and into the basement where he spoke into a speaker installed in a heavy steel door. The door was opened from the inside and Bouchard waited for him to enter first. ‘This is General de Royer’s command center,’ Bouchard explained. ‘He will be here shortly.’ Pontowski looked around, surprised by what he saw. He was standing in the middle of a combined situation room, command post, and communications center. It was functional, efficient, and in total contrast to the opulence of the rest of the headquarters. He had never suspected its existence.
Pontowski studied the big situation maps on the wall as he waited. Five red circles marked the location of the UN safe zones that were now in operation and blue circles proposed zones for future activation. ‘We are very force limited,’ de Royer said from behind him. He turned, surprised that no one had announced the general’s arrival in the command post. Elena was standing beside him.
‘As you are now the second in command here,’ de Royer said, ‘it is time to put you in the picture.’ He removed his hat, the distinctive képi worn by the French, and picking up a pointer, stepped up to the situation map. The room fell silent as he talked, his voice matter-of-fact yet commanding. It was a tour de force and the general’s detailed mastery of the situation in South Africa was obvious. Pontowski was shocked by the amount of killing, rioting, and looting sweeping the country. It was much worse than he had suspected or the papers were reporting.
De Royer concluded with, ‘The correlation between the location of our safe zones and the fighting is obvious. Our presence stabilizes the area and stops the violence. Unfortunately, we only have two thousand men and women for our entire operation, which limits what we can do. But if I am correct, we can control and suppress violence and rioting once it breaks out by a rapid show of force.’
He’s going to use the Quick Reaction Force, Pontowski thought. Well, why not? We proved it worked at Van Wyksvlei.
‘The unknown factor in the general’s plan,’ Elena said, ‘is the intentions of the AWB. Will they allow us the freedom to move quickly?’
De Royer drew an oval on the map that extended from Pretoria to Bloemfontein. ‘The AWB will oppose us here, in the area they claim as the homeland for Afrikaners. I am convinced the AWB is encouraging black violence to make the situation so bad that the blacks, at least those inside the Afrikaner homeland, will beg for protection, more than willing to sacrifice their freedom for security.’
‘Which explains the rioting and looting around all the big cities,’ Pontowski added.
De Royer nodded in agreement. ‘And because of the circumstances, the rest of the world will allow them to do it.’
That’s a new twist, Pontowski thought. ‘What circumstances, General?’
‘Prime, of course,’ answered de Royer.
Pontowski was confused. He had never heard of Prime and wanted to ask for clarification. ‘As far as we know,’ de Royer continued, before Pontowski could ask the question, ‘there are at least three foreign operations circling in on Prime. There is a European consortium of Germany, Austria, and Italy directly supporting the AWB with massive infusions of money. Since the AWB has control of Prime, they have what you Americans call “the inside track”. The Japanese have a small operation trying to penetrate Prime. One of their agents was caught inside Iron Gate, but other than that, we don’t know the extent of their operation. Finally, there is OPEC. The Arabs are supporting the Azanian Liberation Army in the hope the Azanians will gain political control of the country and, therefore, Prime.’
De Royer drilled him with his cold stare. ‘Of course, I am not counting your country’s efforts nor those of my own. So far, these operations have not collided with each other. But they complicate the situation and it is only a matter of time before they do come in conflict. I believe at least one, the Japanese, can be convinced through diplomatic means to withdraw. That is why Madame Martine is here. I believe she can use her contacts to that end. I want you to be my representative and work with her.’ He picked up his képi and marched from the room.
I’ll be damned, Pontowski thought. I pin on a star and instantly become part of the inner circle, one of the movers and groovers. And de Royer actually showed traces of human life.
Elena reached out and touched the back of his hand, sending a shiver down his spine. ‘I asked the General if we could work together,’ she told him. Another shiver, this time more pronounced, shot down his back. She was, without doubt, the most beautiful and enticing woman he had ever met.
*
The phone was answered on the first ring. ‘Techtronics International,’ a woman’s voice said.
Pontowski glanced at the business card Richard Standard had given him at the consulate. ‘Stan Pauley, please,’ he said, reading the name.
‘Pauley,’ a male voice said. It was Standard.
‘I need to see you,’ Pontowski told him.
A long pause. ‘Consulate. One-thirty.’ The line went dead.
*
‘Is this important?’ Standard asked when Pontowski entered his office. ‘Or are you flexing your new rank?’
‘Yes and no,’ Pontowski answered, wondering how Standard knew about his promotion. ‘What’s Prime?’
‘Why?’
‘Well,’ Pontowski replied sarcastically, ‘General de Royer knows about it, Elena Martine knows about it, and I haven’t got a clue.’
Standard groaned. ‘Can’t anybody keep a secret anymore? It’s bad for business.’
‘Is the lack of secrets bad for job security?’ Pontowski asked.
Standard didn’t see any humor in it. ‘Prime is the code name for a South African scientific project.’
‘What’s the project about?’ He was going to have to pry it out, one question at a time. No answer. Pontowski leaned across the table. ‘Should I ask the same reporter who put me on to you? Or do I run around in public asking questions?’
Standard gave in. ‘This is classified Top Secret. We have evidence the Afrikaners have discovered cold nuclear fusion.’
Pontowski slowly shook his head. ‘Sure. Somebody at Langley has been inhaling dope — again.’
‘There’s too much evidence to ignore it,’ Standard said. ‘And someone is serious enough to have killed an agent who got too close.’
‘Ours?’ Pontowski asked.
‘No. Japanese.’
‘Now that’s interesting.’ Pontowski told Standard about the meeting in the command center with de Royer and Elena. ‘De Royer wants me and Elena to use “diplomatic means” to convince the Japanese to cease and desist.’
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ Standard allowed. ‘Tell them their man, Hiroshi Saito, was killed and we’ve got his body. If they want to know who did it, just say the AWB. They’ll figure it out.’
‘The Japanese will appreciate that,’ Pontowski said. He turned to leave but Standard’s voice stopped him at the door.
‘Pontowski, thanks for the heads up.’
*
The phone call came at seven the next morning and woke Pontowski from a sound sleep. ‘Be ready in thirty minutes,’ Elena said. ‘Don’t wear a uniform.’ The line went dead.
‘Was that for real?’ he mumbled, shaking his head. As usual, he had a hard time waking up and wasn’t sure if the phone call was a dream. He staggered to the bathroom for a shower and shave. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was still more asleep than awake. He rubbed the stubble of his beard, hating the thought of shaving in his comatose condition. He would be lucky not to cut his throat. He scraped at his face and for the first time noticed the gray in his hair
. Where did that come from? he thought, and frowned. The gray had probably been there for some time but he hadn’t noticed it. Was he worried that Elena would see it? And how did she get the phone number to his quarters?
Elena was waiting for him in her white BMW when he came out of the officers’ quarters. He slipped into the passenger seat on the left-hand side and was surprised by the comfort of the leather-covered seat that matched the contours of his body. ‘Nice car,’ he said.
‘It’s custom based on the M series,’ she told him. ‘The company did it for me.’ She wore a white cotton shirt with the top three buttons undone and baggy white shorts. Her bare legs flashed as she danced on the pedals and accelerated down the street. He forced himself to think about the road.
She handed him a thermos filled with coffee. He poured himself a cup and took a long drink. It was bitter and strong. ‘Good stuff,’ he said. ‘I need a caffeine jolt to jump start my brain in the morning.’ She allowed herself a slight smile and concentrated on driving. He was amazed at how smoothly she drove as they headed north on Highway N7. He glanced at the speedometer and did a classic double take when he made the conversion from kilometers to miles per hour. She was driving at 200 kilometers an hour — in excess of 120 mph. He gulped. ‘Are we in a hurry?’
‘Are you afraid,’ she murmured, ‘of my driving?’
‘Damn’ right,’ he answered.
She laughed and slowed until the speedometer settled on 150, 92 mph. ‘Is that better?’ They drove in silence while he let the coffee do its work.
‘Where are we going?’ he finally asked when he was fully awake.
‘I arranged a meeting with the head of the Japanese mission,’ she said, not taking her eyes off the road. ‘He agreed to meet this morning and exchange views.’ She gave him a long look.
‘The road,’ he begged.
Again, she laughed and concentrated on driving. ‘You don’t trust me.’
‘Damn right,’ he mumbled, pulling his seat belt tighter. He wished she was wearing hers.
‘You didn’t tell me you knew Hiro Toragawa,’ she said. ‘Mr Toragawa sends his regards. I am told,’ she added, ‘that he honors the memory of your wife.’
‘I know him,’ he said. The memories came flooding back. He had worked with the Japanese while he was in China. His wife, Shoshana, had been gunned down by assassins while she was with Toragawa’s granddaughter, Miho. Although the killers were after Shoshana, she had died protecting Miho.
Pontowski stared out the window, willing the memories to go away. But they had a power he could not deny. He concentrated on the scenery playing out before them. Slowly, the pain of remembering eased. ‘When did you talk to Toragawa?’ he asked.
‘On the telephone this morning,’ she replied. ‘I have many contacts through the UN and it was arranged. I explained our problems here.’
‘You were talking to the right man,’ Pontowski said. ‘When it comes to the Japanese, he can make things happen.’
‘Yes, I know. He is very powerful. He was willing to listen because you are here.’
‘So I’m your entrance ticket,’ he said.
‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘But you also represent the military strength behind the UN. The Japanese understand and respond to symbols.’ She hit the brakes and pulled off to the side of the road. ‘I need to change since we must observe the conventions with the Japanese.’ She pulled a wrap-around skirt out of the backseat and got out. She buttoned it around her waist before shrugging off her shorts and walking around to Pontowski’s side of the car. ‘You drive,’ she said, holding his door open. She was already settled into the passenger seat when he climbed into the driver’s seat. Her skirt had fallen open, revealing her legs. He could see her panties — a filmy nude-colored lace.
‘These are the “conventions”?’ he muttered.
She closed the skirt and buttoned up her shirt. ‘I keep promising myself to go naked more often,’ she said. ‘I hate clothes.’ She looked at him for a moment. ‘Drive.’ He pulled on to the highway and accelerated. The power of the V-12 engine surprised him and they were passing 100 kilometers per hour in less than five seconds. ‘Wow,’ he breathed. It was the most exciting car he had ever driven. They drove in silence and he found that he was pushing the BMW, wanting to go faster.
‘Take the road to Lamberts Bay,’ she told him. ‘Then follow the coast road north.’ He followed her directions and once past the sleepy town of Lamberts Bay, the road paralleled the Atlantic Ocean. At one point, he stopped to take in a magnificent seascape. Elena only looked at him, saying nothing. She directed him to take a side road that twisted and turned for over a mile until they came on to a small lake with a rambling white house set on the other side. Vineyards stretched out on both sides of the road. ‘A safe house,’ Elena said. ‘I will make the introductions, but you must do the talking.’
He was shocked. ‘It might have been nice if you had warned me. What the hell am I supposed to say?’
‘The usual thing,’ she said.
A polite young Japanese dressed in dark slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt met them as they got out of the car. ‘Ah, General Pontowski, Madame Martine, we have been expecting you.’ His English was perfect and only the callouses on his hands gave him away. Two exact clones joined them as they entered the house. ‘This way, please,’ he said, leading them out on to the patio next to the pool. Trees waved gently in the breeze and the sound of a small waterfall drifted over them.
A very short, stocky, older man was waiting for them. He gave a bow, little more than a nod of the head. Elena introduced Pontowski and stepped back, a half-amused look on her face. The man bowed them to chairs before he sat down. ‘How may I be of service?’ he asked. His voice was hard and unrelenting. It wasn’t the question, or the attitude, Pontowski expected. Elena’s amused look vanished.
I’m in over my head on this one, Pontowski warned himself. He decided to plunge straight in. ‘As you know, my country is committed to supporting the UN in South Africa. Unfortunately, it is a new undertaking for us and we are worried that our friends and allies might not understand our actions.’
‘What are these actions you speak of?’ the man asked.
Pontowski glanced at Elena. Still no help there. He took the mental equivalent of a deep breath. ‘By supporting the UN, we may unintentionally harm the activities of our other friends and allies. That is not our intention and we are deeply sorry. Of course, I am speaking of activities that we know nothing about.’ Only silence answered him. He wasn’t getting anywhere.
He tried again. ‘I must also bring you bad news. Your countryman, Hiroshi Saito, has been killed. Our Consulate in Cape Town has his body and asks your permission to return it to Japan.’
‘The manner of his death?’ the man asked.
Pontowski shook his head. ‘I was only told the AWB is responsible.’
‘I am most grateful and in your debt,’ the man said. The tension had been broken. He called out in Japanese and a tea cart was pushed on to the patio with a large selection of pastries and jugs of coffee and tea. A petite woman in a kimono served, and like her male counterparts, only the callouses on her hands betrayed her real function. There was no doubt in Pontowski’s mind that every one of his hosts was an accomplished killer. They made small talk and thirty minutes later Pontowski and Elena were back in the BMW, headed for Cape Town.
‘What the hell was that all about?’ he asked, deliberately letting his anger show.
‘Stop the car,’ she replied. ‘Over there.’ He pulled off on to a lay-by. She got out of the car, crossed the road, and walked down a path to the beach. He locked the car and followed her down a steep path to a secluded cove. They were alone and she sat down on the sand and looked out to sea. ‘I thought you understood,’ she said. ‘The decision for the Japanese to withdraw was made by Toragawa. We were only fulfilling the conventions, saving them face, making it appear that the UN’s military presence was the motivating factor. Telling them about
Saito was brilliant and soothed many ruffled feelings.’ She gave him a quizzical look. ‘I thought you had dealt with the Japanese before?’
‘It wasn’t like this,’ he answered.
‘Wasn’t it? The Japanese are amazingly consistent. By the way, do brigadiers make US policy?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘By apologizing in advance, you told the Japanese there would be no linkage between what they do in South Africa and overall US policy toward Japan. You gave them carte blanche to stay and do what they want.’
‘Oh, no,’ Pontowski groaned. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you did. But if they withdraw, we will know they did not interpret your remarks as policy.’
‘It might have been nice,’ Pontowski muttered, ‘if we had talked about what I should have said on the way here. We had plenty of time.’
She touched his arm. ‘Oh, Matt,’ she said, her voice low-pitched and sensual. ‘I really thought you knew.’ Shivers were racing down his spine. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ she announced. She unbuttoned her skirt and it fell away. Four more buttons and her shirt was off, abandoned on the sand. She was not wearing a bra. With an easy motion, she discarded her sandals and pulled off her panties. ‘Come,’ she said, walking slowly down to the water.
Pontowski didn’t move. She’s beautiful, he thought. And smarter than hell ... and well connected ... and worldly. He had never met a woman like her. At one time, he told himself, I would have been on her like a bear on honey. Red warning flags flashed as he watched her step into the water. The words of his grandfather came rushing back, all too clear and full of meaning. ‘Women, beautiful women, come with the job. But sex has nothing to do with true power and responsibility. Never confuse them. It can be very dangerous.’
He had seen that danger in China when his superior, General Von Drexler, driven by megalomania, had given in to the lure of sex. Pontowski had watched the two combine and destroy the brilliant general. Not me, he told himself. He closed his eyes, remembering other beaches; the beach outside Haifa in Israel when he and Shoshana had finally made their peace, the beach in Crete where they had spent their honeymoon, locked in love.
Iron Gate Page 20
