Iron Gate

by Richard Herman

  ‘Who is working for a madman who has the resolve, not to mention the weapons, to fight.’

  ‘That does complicate the situation,’ Carroll allowed. ‘I believe the Director of Central Intelligence is about to receive some very firm marching orders.’

  *

  ‘When are you returning to Cape Town?’ Mazie asked as she opened a safe in her office.

  ‘The first flight I can get on is Saturday. I’m flying out of New York with de Royer. At least it’s a chance to spend time with my son and show him the UN.’

  ‘Have you seen our profile on de Royer?’ Mazie asked. Without waiting for an answer, she handed him a thin dossier. ‘And here is the file on the Iron Guard and Beckmann. I think you’ll find this interesting reading.’

  He thumbed through the Iron Guard’s order of battle. The list of weapons was impressive. ‘This is a surprise I didn’t need. Why haven’t we seen this before?’

  ‘The CIA released it yesterday. The spooks are caught up in a big internal reorganization and it’s been chaos at Langley ... all kinds of turf squabbles ... work slowdowns ... people afraid to take responsibility.’

  ‘What’s the matter with those idiots? They’re playing bureaucratic games while my people are in harm’s way. Look at what the Iron Guard has got. I don’t want to tangle blind with these guys.’ He sat down and started to read. He read the dossier on de Royer next, and as Mazie had promised, it was interesting reading. De Royer was described as intellectual, politically astute, decorated for heroism eleven times, and wounded twice in combat. One paragraph pounded at him. De Royer’s wife and two sons had been killed in a terrorist bomb blast meant for him. On the negative side, de Royer was described as ‘... an extremely aggressive battlefield commander prone to take high risks.’

  ‘This isn’t the de Royer I’ve seen,’ Pontowski muttered to himself.

  Then he turned to the file on Beckmann. When he was finished, he reached for the phone and punched in a number, calling his wing at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri. A familiar voice from Operations answered on the first ring.

  ‘Find Maggot,’ he ordered.

  Chapter 17

  Thursday, March 19

  Bloemfontein, South Africa

  *

  MacKay was tired when he returned to his apartment after a long day at Security Systems, Inc., the cover business the Boys had set up for him. They had done a good job and the business was flourishing. He bent down and checked the telltales that sealed the bottom of his front door. They hadn’t been disturbed and he went inside, not bothering to go through the drill of clearing the door, scanning the apartment, and searching for bugs or cameras.

  ‘Not smart,’ a voice said from the bedroom.

  He gave a mental sigh. It was one of the Boys. A tall, very slender, middle-aged woman came out of the bedroom. Her hair was cut short like a man’s and she wore big glasses. She smiled at MacKay, more like a friendly family counselor or teacher than a CIA agent. ‘I scanned the apartment,’ she told him. ‘It’s clean. How’s your cover working?’

  ‘Too good,’ he answered. ‘I’m actually making money.’

  ‘That’s nice. Spend it.’

  ‘So why are you here?’ he asked.

  ‘The boss wants to meet Doctor Slavin,’ she replied.

  ‘That’s dumb,’ MacKay said. ‘I can’t make that happen. Tell Standard to quit pushing so hard or it will blow the whole operation apart.’

  ‘Set it up for next week,’ she said, smiling as if she hadn’t heard him.

  ‘Now how am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘Use the girl.’

  ‘I won’t see her until next month,’ he lied.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’ She reached into her purse and handed him a set of photos. Each photo was imprinted with the date and time and showed Ziba entering his apartment almost every night since he had been at Bloemfontein. ‘I assume she’ll be here tonight.’

  ‘You took these?’

  The smile never left her face. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll need leverage to get Slavin here.’

  She reached into her purse again, produced another photo, and handed it to him. The smile vanished and his face filled with hurt. He froze. Ziba was in bed with Slavin. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘From our contact in Inkatha,’ the woman replied.

  ‘She told me she had left Inkatha.’

  ‘She had. But she got caught up again when she met you. This isn’t a game you play at on weekends and Inkatha won’t let her go.’ She pointed at the photo. ‘That’s the way women are used in this business.’

  ‘I know,’ he muttered, still staring at the photo. Why couldn’t he look away? Why couldn’t he let it go? He felt the woman touch his arm.

  ‘We need to talk to Slavin soon, before ...’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Before what?’ he demanded.

  ‘The Company’s shrinks think Beckmann has gone over the edge. We’re not sure what he’ll do. And he’s got nerve gas.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ MacKay whispered. ‘You think the crazy mutha will use it?’ She nodded. ‘I’ll set it up,’ he said.

  *

  MacKay answered the door at the first knock. As expected, Ziba was standing there and without a word, he held the door for her to enter. Once inside, he sat down and watched her as she moved around the room, making herself at home. The hurt was back and with it a rage that kept building, taking him with it. ‘What is wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘This,’ he said, tossing the photo at her. It spun across the room and landed at her feet. She glanced down at it and raised her head. Her face was calm and her eyes fixed on him. ‘Well?’ he demanded. Her answer was silence. ‘I thought Zulu girls took their virginity seriously,’ he growled.

  No emotion crossed her face. ‘We do. You were the first.’

  The truth of it destroyed what little self-control he had left and he came out of his chair. She didn’t move as he grabbed her arms. ‘You fuckin’ bitch ...’ He slapped her, hard, still holding on to her arm with his left hand.

  She broke free of his grasp, surprising him with her strength, and slapped him back. It was a controlled reaction, fast and decisive, performed without hesitation. The force of the blow stunned him and he stepped back, ready to come at her again, but her look stopped him. She was no match for him but she was still the image of a queen, proud and defiant, regal until the end. ‘There are things here you do not understand,’ she said.

  ‘I understand you’re fuckin’ Slavin.’

  She stared him into silence. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To meet him, here, Saturday.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t do that.’ Her face softened and she shook her head. ‘I’m sorry that it came to this, John Author.’ She turned and left, leaving the door open behind her.

  MacKay picked the photo up and sat down. For a few moments he stared at the open door, hoping she would come back. He fumbled for a match on the end table beside him and burned the photo. He held it until the flames seared his fingertips.

  *

  Saturday, March 21

  Cape Town, South Africa

  *

  Richard Davis Standard was angry, intensely and furiously enraged. He stalked his office like a caged tiger, unleashed violence rippling under his skin. Fortunately, the focus of his fury was 8000 miles away and, thanks to the time difference, not yet at work. Otherwise, it would have been the first recorded murder by long-distance electronic evisceration, a telephonic disemboweling.

  He paused long enough to smooth out the latest dispatch from his boss, the Division Chief for Sub-Saharan Africa at Langley. ‘Gengha Dung is an idiot,’ he muttered under his breath. But Standard was a professional and knew there was little he could do but give his superiors the blood sacrifice they were demanding. He had developed every contact, every line of investigation possible trying to crack Prime. But since only MacKay had been successful, send him inside. He reread the lat
est epistle written in Gengha’s stained-glass prose, those models of grammatical composition that earned her promotion.

  The message was unequivocal and clear: Get results fast or you’re history. Standard had never received such strongly worded marching orders. Damn! he raged to himself. Do they think Prime is the only case I’m working on? I’ve got the Azanians wired for sound and found Erik Beckmann, thanks to the fiasco at Van Wyksvlei when the UN tried to set up its first safe zone and relief center. Doesn’t that count?

  He reread the last paragraph detailing an additional problem: An informant in Cape Town was passing on operational information about UN operations to the Iron Guard. He picked up the phone and called the Boys. This was an easy problem to fix.

  He checked his watch. MacKay was an hour overdue for the meeting.

  *

  ‘The plane was late,’ MacKay said when he finally arrived, two hours late for the meeting. The delay had not helped Standard’s blood pressure. ‘Am I finished at Bloemfontein?’

  Standard shook his head. ‘Hardly. The Company still wants action on Prime. You’re all I got in position and we’ve got to turn up the rheostat a few hundred degrees.’

  ‘How? You saw the report. I lost Chembo.’ Now MacKay was pacing the floor, another caged carnivore. ‘I screwed up and totally blew it.’

  ‘The clock’s ticking,’ Standard said.

  ‘Tell me. Any suggestions?’

  The emotion behind MacKay’s words surprised Standard. He’s totally involved in this, Standard thought. Why? Standard was silent, evaluating the man. What was motivating MacKay? Was it race? But that didn’t track. MacKay was too complex and intelligent to be motivated by that narrow issue alone. No doubt the racial issue was there, but it was not enough. What was in MacKay’s background to drive him to the edge? Again, he didn’t know. Standard was angry at himself for not understanding blacks better. So lacking understanding, he fell back on the only reference he had — himself.

  It has to be the woman, Ziba Chembo, Standard decided. He’s fallen for her. That’s the key to the poor bastard. ‘I want to send you inside,’ Standard said, breaking the long silence.

  ‘When?’ MacKay asked.

  Standard worked the problem. MacKay was what the CIA called an NOC, an agent posing as a businessman with nonofficial cover. His chances of successfully penetrating Iron Gate as a spy were too low even to calculate. Unless ... The pieces all came together. ‘First,’ Standard said, ‘we’ve got to give you the background and motivation to become a mercenary for the Iron Guard. Second, you need an entrée.’

  He buzzed for the Boys. ‘The gunman you terminated in Jo’burg ... you’re going to use his ID.’

  ‘That’s dumber than a can of rocks,’ MacKay muttered.

  Standard allowed a tight smile. ‘But not in the way you think.’ The door opened and the Boys entered. ‘Good morning, ladies,’ he said. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’ Two sat down on a couch while the tall one sank to the floor yoga-style. Their leader leaned against a wall and folded her arms across her chest, waiting to be surprised.

  He paced his office, wearing a path in the rug. ‘I want the Iron Guard to recruit MacKay as a security expert. He needs credentials that will make them wet their pants and overcome any objections they might have about hiring a black American.’

  The woman sitting on the floor perked up. ‘Sicherheits Dienste, A.G. is still in business in Germany. They did the security systems for the Bruderbund. The Bruderbund is the Iron Guard’s biggest supporter in Europe.’ She looked at Standard expectantly. ‘Perhaps Mr MacKay worked for Sicherheits Dienste at one time.’

  Sicherheits Dienste, A.G., Security Service Inc., was a front company started by former Nazis working for the CIA in the 1960s. They had deliberately named the company after Hitler’s security service to attract a certain clientele. Because of its connections to the past and supposed political orientation, the company had installed an elaborate security system for the Bruderbund, a new fascist political party in Germany.

  ‘Of course MacKay worked for them,’ Standard said. ‘Set the connection up. When the Iron Guard asks for a reference through the Bruderbund, our good friend here will look like a money-hungry, unprincipled computer genius freelancing security systems. While you’re doing that, teach Mr MacKay how to make those ID cards.’ He paused, thinking. ‘Ruin his business at Bloemfontein ... something about government corruption and bribes. We’ve got to move fast on this one.’

  The woman leaning against the wall was not surprised. ‘We can do that,’ she said.

  *

  Saturday, March 21

  JFK International Airport, New York

  *

  The large number of people waiting to board the South African Airways flight to Cape Town swirled around Pontowski. Little Matt held on to his hand tightly, afraid of the crowd. Martha Marshall held back to give them space to be alone before the flight was called.

  Little Matt was still bursting with questions about their tour of the United Nations. ‘Was there a real person talking to us on the earphones?’ he asked. ‘Or was it a recording?’ Pontowski explained that they had been listening to a real person translate the speech being given to the General Assembly. ‘I’m sure glad they translated,’ his son told him. ‘I didn’t understand a single word. Do you really work for the man who was talking? He speaks a funny language. How tall is he?’

  Pontowski smiled ‘Yep. That’s the general I work for. His name is General Charles de Royer and he sounds funny because he was speaking French. But he can also speak English. I’m not real sure how tall he is, but I’d guess about six feet ten inches. You know, good buddy, it might be a good idea if you learned to speak a foreign language.’

  ‘What language did my mom speak?’

  ‘She spoke Hebrew,’ Pontowski told him, recalling how Shoshana could make that harsh guttural language sound soft and tender.

  ‘I’ll learn Hebrew,’ Little Matt announced.

  Pontowski tousled his hair and smiled. ‘She would like that.’ They talked until the speaker blared the last call for boarding. They went through the departing ritual that had become an ingrained part of their lives. ‘I’ll do good in school,’ Little Matt promised. Pontowski headed for the jetway leading to the Boeing 747-400. He turned and waved. Little Matt waved back, holding on to Martha’s hand. He could see the tears in her eyes but Little Matt was smiling. I’ve got one great kid, Pontowski decided. I’ve got to stop running out on him.

  The flight attendant directed him to the top lounge of the first-class section directly behind the flight deck. He climbed the circular stairs and was surprised to find the small lounge empty of passengers and only a flight attendant waiting for him. ‘Please make yourself comfortable,’ he told Pontowski. ‘It’s eighteen hours to Cape Town with a brief stop in the Cape Verde islands for fuel. We’ll depart as soon as our last passenger arrives.’ He turned at the sound of a commotion on the stairs. ‘Here she is now. We’ll push back and be on our way in a few minutes.’

  Elena Martine stepped on to the lounge deck and sat down next to him. She was wearing a dark conservative business suit and her hair was carefully arranged in an old-fashioned bun. Her image was totally different than in Cape Town. Her UN persona, Pontowski decided. ‘I didn’t know you were here,’ he said.

  ‘I was recalled after the attack at Douglas,’ she told him. ‘Some of my colleagues are losing their nerve and my mission to South Africa is under review. I am being criticized for not maintaining the proper neutrality and objectivity as required by UN charter.’

  ‘Where is de Royer?’ he asked.

  ‘He may be relieved of command and was called to Paris at the last moment.’

  ‘Who in the hell is running the show in Cape Town?’

  She gave him a studied look and looked around the empty lounge. ‘This should be very nice, don’t you think? Excuse me while I change into something more comfortable for traveling.’ She disappeared into the lavatory.<
br />
  She rejoined him wearing a floor-length, very simple, loose-cut, black gown. Her dark hair was combed out and hung in a heavy mass down her back. He watched her move, seriously doubting if she was wearing anything underneath the gown. She curled up in the seat opposite him, smiled, pulled a thick report out of her briefcase, and started to read, a pair of reading glasses perched becomingly on her nose.

  Pontowski fell into his own thoughts, mulling over the situation in Cape Town. With de Royer gone, who was in command? It certainly wouldn’t be him, not since losing his star. There was no doubt in his mind that Nevers had used congressional privilege to lobby the Senate into disapproving his promotion to brigadier. Normally, that was the kiss of death to any officer’s career and regardless of what Secretary of Defense Elkins had promised, he seriously doubted if the Senate would ever approve his promotion. But was he going to let Nevers drive his future? True, he wanted to make a life for Little Matt and he could do that outside the Air Force. But what kind of father would he be if he ran from the hardest challenge of his life?

  Nevers had not directly attacked him but had knifed him in the back. How many times had his grandfather complained, always in private, about the total lack of integrity among so many of his colleagues? Political integrity, Pontowski thought, is the ultimate contradiction in terms.

  Then he considered the smear job Gordon had done on de Royer and himself. Why did she do that? Was she seeking retribution because of that press briefing when he had called her on the mistakes she had made? Or was she pushing a hidden agenda? Perhaps journalistic integrity rated right up there with the political variety. Are you done feeling sorry for yourself? he asked himself. Get on with the job.

  They were silent until the 747 leveled off at altitude over the Atlantic. Elena dropped the report and studied his face until she had his attention. ‘Matt, why did they do that?’

  ‘Disapproved my promotion to B.G.? Who knows.’ He gave her his best grin. ‘It happens.’

  The flight attendant served dinner and after clearing the remnants of the meal away, discreetly withdrew and turned the cabin lights down, leaving them alone in an island of soft light. ‘Matt,’ said Elena, ‘please forgive me for asking, but was that your wife and son with you at the airport?’