Elena looked sick. ‘That’s terrible, terrible.’
Pontowski put in another tape. ‘Here’s the convoy.’ Again, the screen came to life and the same photographer walked around the six trucks. But they had all been looted and only the bodies remained. ‘We lost eleven people here,’ Pontowski told them. ‘The cause of death is the same, but we couldn’t find a single trace of a mortar round.’
‘So where did the nerve gas come from?’ Elena asked.
The men did not answer although they all knew the answer.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘An aircraft,’ Pontowski said.
‘Whose?’ Elena demanded.
‘I think we know,’ Pontowski said as he turned off the TV.
*
Tuesday, April 14
Iron Gate, Near Bloemfontein
*
The note was lying on the floor of MacKay’s quarters when he got up in the morning. Someone had passed it under the door during the night. He unfolded it. ‘Meet me’. It was unsigned but he knew it was from Ziba.
‘Damn, woman,’ he muttered, knowing he would do it.
He delayed until after lunch before driving to the housing area. He took a leisurely stroll and sat on the bench by the playground where he had last met her. Much to his surprise, it wasn’t Ziba who brought the children to the playground, but Slavin. He sat down beside MacKay. ‘Ziba saw you and told me to come talk to you. She said you are a righteous man and can be trusted.’
‘Did she tell you anything about me?’ he asked.
‘She said you are interested in Prime,’ Slavin replied.
‘Are you willing to help us?’ MacKay asked. Slavin nodded. ‘Why?’
‘Last Saturday, I went to work early. My laboratory is in an old weapons storage bunker and men were moving canisters out of the next bunker. They were dressed in protective suits with gas masks. I asked one man what they were doing. He laughed and said they were “exterminating kaffirs and other vermin”. I recognized the markings on the canisters. It was Sarin.’
‘Nerve gas,’ MacKay said.
‘I will not give my work to a man who uses nerve gas. I tried to leave the base with my family but the guards stopped us at the gate. We’re prisoners here.’ Slavin looked at his two children playing on the swing set. ‘When do we lose our innocence?’ he asked, not expecting an answer.
MacKay gave him one. ‘When we become responsible for others.’
*
Kreiner was waiting for MacKay in his office, an angry look on his face. ‘Why were you talking to Slavin?’ he demanded.
‘The Jewish guy?’ MacKay asked. ‘I want to get it off with his maid.’
Kreiner shook his head. Kaffirs, he thought. Always thinking with their gonads. ‘You have business in Bloemfontein. We have more informants for you to contact.’ He spun around and left, satisfied that he had the key to MacKay and could settle the score.
*
Wednesday, April 15
Bloemfontein, South Africa
*
MacKay used the rear entrance to the hotel and took the service elevator to the roof. He walked along the southern side and turned into the heat and air-conditioning machinery room. Standard was waiting for him. ‘You’re late,’ he said.
MacKay didn’t reply and sat down. The man is agitated, he thought. Someone is biting at his ass. Hard.
‘Washington wants to know who used nerve gas on the UN,’ Standard told him. ‘I’ve never seen message traffic like this before. The heavies are crying for blood and want answers two days ago. I told them UN thinks it was the Iron Guard but they want independent confirmation.’
‘It was definitely the Iron Guard,’ MacKay replied. ‘It was Sarin, a nerve gas. They used mortars and Czech-built Aeros for delivery. Slavin saw them moving it Saturday morning. You know why Beckmann did it?’ A head shake from Standard. ‘Vengeance. For killing his brother. He wanted to hurt the UN and send them a message at the same time — “Stay away from the Boerstaat and Prime.” I told you he was crazy.’
‘But why did he attack those voortrekkers, his own people?’
‘He considers them traitors for leaving the Boerstaat. But he won’t use nerve gas on other whites. He was hoping to sucker the South African police into an ambush. He got the UN instead, which surprised the hell out of him.’
‘Beckmann stirred up a hornet’s nest on this one,’ Standard said. He thought for a moment. ‘When do they expect you back?’
MacKay shrugged. ‘I’m free to come and go pretty much as I choose. But they’d get suspicious if I stayed away too long.’
‘Good. You’re coming with me to Cape Town.’
‘Why?’
‘You need to talk to the Boys.’
*
Wednesday, April 15
Iron Gate, near Bloemfontein
*
Beckmann was waiting on the steps of the main entrance when the helicopter landed. The smile came easy when Liz Gordon and her photographer climbed out of the Gazelle he used for his personal transportation. ‘Hans,’ Gordon said, ‘this is my photographer, Samantha Darnell.’ The officers surrounding them winced at her use of his first name.
‘Welcome to Iron Gate, Miss Darnell,’ he said. He shook Sam’s hand and escorted them into lunch. ‘Whatever we can do, please ask.’
‘We do have some ideas,’ Liz Gordon said. ‘We can talk about them over lunch.’
As she had promised Sam, the lunch was simple but superb and Beckmann a charming host. ‘I thought your coverage of the riots in Kimberley was brilliant,’ he told them. ‘I hope you win an award ... not the Pulitzer but ... ah ...’
Gordon smiled at him. ‘An Emmy.’
‘Yes, that’s it. Magnificent reporting.’
‘I was telling Sam,’ Gordon said, ‘that the Iron Guard is not a racist organization and that you have many Africans in your ranks.’
‘More and more are joining us all the time,’ Beckmann said.
‘I want to do a feature on the black angle,’ Gordon told him, ‘and focus on the Africans in the Boerstaat. They are so much better off here than anywhere else.’
Beckmann leaned on his elbows and clasped his hands in front of his mouth, holding his chin with his thumbs; the pose of a thinker. ‘What you see here is misleading. Up north, around Johannesburg, there is chaos. We haven’t made a difference there.’
Sam wanted to dislike the man, but his honesty was disarming. ‘Do you have blacks in positions of authority?’ she asked.
‘Only one. He is an American we hired to manage our security systems and computers.’
‘But no Africans.’
Beckmann gave Sam his best smile. ‘Before you rush to a judgment, I wish you would visit our schools.’
‘Can I shoot what I want?’ Sam asked.
‘Within reason,’ Beckmann told her. ‘After all, this is a military base. I’ll introduce you to your escort. By the way, she is Xhosa.’
‘I’ll get my camera,’ Sam said.
Gordon leaned across the table while they waited for Sam to return. ‘Will I see you tonight?’ she asked.
*
‘Go ahead, Sam,’ Gordon challenged, ‘tell me you’re not impressed.’ They were standing on a playground in the housing area.
‘It’s too good to be true,’ Sam replied.
‘Hans made it this way. He wants to show the world his vision of the future.’
A showplace, Sam thought, like a movie set. She looked around her with new eyes. The base was a complete community, with neat houses arranged in tidy rows with playgrounds, schools, and a shopping center. The military side of the base was clustered around the runway like an industrial park and it was all bounded by high ridges to the east and west, the big gate to the north with its massive stone and iron work, and the tall rock outcropping to the south. ‘Showplaces aren’t for real,’ she said.
‘Let me show you the home of a black sergeant,’ Gordon said. She spoke to the young woman w
ho was escorting them and they drove to the home of Sergeant Michael Shivuto. ‘I had lunch here with Hans,’ Gordon explained. She walked up to the door and knocked. Shivuto’s wife answered but she was a changed woman. Instead of looking smiling and happy, she was drawn and tired, burdened with worry. ‘We came at a bad time,’ said Liz, sensing that something was wrong. ‘Please forgive me.’
The woman forced a smile. ‘You’re most welcome, Miss Gordon. Please come in.’ She stepped aside and welcomed the three women into her home. A prominent photograph of her husband, draped in black, was hanging on the wall.
‘You’re in mourning,’ Sam said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘My husband was killed in a training accident,’ she told them. ‘It happened five weeks ago.’
‘The Boerstaat will take care of her and the family,’ their guide announced. ‘But she will have to move into town in a few weeks.’
‘We need to get this,’ said Liz. ‘It’s good human interest and makes my point.’
Sam used the black-draped photograph as the lead-in to the sound bite with Shivuto’s widow. When they were finished, Sam went outside and recorded the children at play.
It was late-afternoon when they finished touring the base. Their guide dropped them off at the guest residence opposite the headquarters building and said she would pick them up at nine o’clock the next morning. Inside, a large bouquet of flowers was waiting for them with an invitation to dinner. The card was signed by Beckmann. ‘Liz, why don’t you go?’ Sam asked. ‘I’m tired and want to edit what we got today.’ She agreed and disappeared into her bedroom to get ready.
It was past midnight and Sam was still at work. She glanced at her watch. ‘Looks like Liz is doing an all-nighter,’ she muttered. She turned off the lights and crawled into bed, determined to get a good night’s sleep. But it didn’t happen. She kept twisting and turning. ‘Okay, what’s wrong?’ she grumbled to herself. She switched on the light and went back to work.
Reluctantly, she admitted they had a good story. But if it’s so good, she thought, what’s wrong? She fast-forwarded to the sequence with Sergeant Shivuto’s widow. She concentrated on the house: a TV set, refrigerator, spacious and well-furnished. By African standards, the family was rich. Sam hit the pause button and framed the photograph on the wall. Her eyes opened wide and she was fully awake. ‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered.
Sam was still awake and pacing the floor when Liz returned to the guest residence just after sunrise. ‘I thought you were going to get a good night’s rest,’ she said.
‘Look at this,’ Sam said, sitting her down in front of the camera she was using as an editor. She hit the play button.
‘Sergeant Shivuto. So?’
‘Think back to the Blue Train. Do you remember the shot I got of the dead terrorist?’
‘It was too grisly for the network. They didn’t use it.’
‘Think, Liz. Doesn’t he look familiar?’
Liz Gordon studied the image of the photograph. ‘It’s not ...’ she finally said.
‘It most certainly is,’ Sam told her. ‘The tapes from the Blue Train are still at Cape Town. I’ll prove it once we’re back there.’
‘Sam, you’re obsessing.’
She shook her head. ‘Shivuto’s widow said he was killed five weeks ago. The Blue Train, Liz. Five weeks ago. What was the Iron Guard doing five weeks ago? They weren’t on a training exercise. They were rescuing us.’
Elizabeth Gordon was many things, but at heart she was a reporter. ‘It’s worth following up,’ she allowed. ‘Get packed. We’re getting out of here — now.’
*
The security technician in the building behind the guest residence noted the time and turned up the volume on the tape recorder. The bugs monitoring the bedrooms were not as well-placed as those in the living room and he didn’t want to miss any conversation between the women. He picked up the phone and made a call. ‘They are talking about Sergeant Shivuto and the Blue Train.’
*
As promised, their escort knocked on their door at exactly nine o’clock. She was surprised to see their bags packed and the two women ready to go. ‘But this was not arranged,’ she protested.
‘Sorry,’ Gordon said. ‘Something came up. We’ve got to go.’
‘But it’s not possible,’ the young woman told them.
‘Honey,’ Gordon said, ‘anything is possible. Let’s go.’ She helped Sam carry their equipment to the car. Like all well-equipped foreign correspondents, they had a portable satellite communications transceiver, an extra camera, blank video tapes, and spare batteries. Their escort stood at the door to the guest residence, reluctant to move.
‘I know the way,’ Sam said. ‘I’ll drive.’ She got behind the wheel and started the engine. They drove slowly down the road leading to the main gate, neither saying a word. The drive was longer than they remembered and it seemed to take forever to cover the three miles. There were few cars on the road and they drove through the gate.
But the barrier was down. The guard, a white corporal, stepped out and asked to see their papers. ‘We’re General Beckmann’s guests,’ Sam protested.
The guard shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but without an exit permit, I cannot allow you to leave.’
‘Call the general’s office,’ Gordon ordered.
‘It’s not possible,’ the guard told them. It was the second time they had heard those words that morning. ‘Please return to your quarters.’ He waved the snout of his assault rifle toward the base. The hard look on his face warned Sam to do as he ordered. She reversed the car and drove back.
Their escort was gone when they arrived at the guest residence. Sam dropped their bags inside the door and flopped into a chair while Gordon telephoned Beckmann’s office. She was put on hold. ‘Damn, Sam,’ she moaned, hanging up. ‘What’s going on?’
Sam held a finger to her lips and shook her head. She scribbled a note and handed it to Gordon. Bugs. They know. They won’t let us go.
*
Thursday, April 16
The White House, Washington, D.C.
*
Carroll stared at his right hand. His fingers were curled into a hook and he knew what it was — main en griffe. His mind scrolled like a computer and he called up the details: a fasciculation of muscles, spasticity. Call it what it is, he raged to himself. It’s the claw.
Slowly, he made it pull the computer keyboard toward him. Then he pecked at a key and the computer screen in his desk came alive. He tapped in his code, one number at a time. The claw was doing his bidding. He consoled himself with the temporary victory and held up his hand to examine it.
The disease was spreading with its own terrible momentum through his body, picking up speed. How much longer do I have? My speech is starting to slur, especially when I’m tired. How soon before it picks up momentum, like my hand? NOT YET! he shouted to himself. There are things I can do. I can still make a difference.
It’s the march of the disease, he thought, picking up speed, building to a climax. Like life, he reasoned. Events often took on a momentum and a will of their own, building to a fiery climax. How many times had he seen it before? The first time had been in the Persian Gulf with Muddy Waters. It had happened again during the rescue of Mary, his wife, and the POWs out of captivity in Iran. Then Matt Pontowski had led twelve F-15 Strike Eagles into Iraq. But that was nothing compared to China where events had run wildly out of control. Now it was happening again, only this time in South Africa. And to him.
His secretary’s voice brought him back to the moment. ‘Time for the meeting,’ she said.
‘Thanks, Midge.’ Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet and hobbled down the hall on his two canes, taking the few short steps to the small office next to the Oval Office where the President preferred to work. Wayne and Chuck were ready to catch him if he stumbled. They waited outside when he entered and would be there when he came out.
The President waved Carroll to a seat bet
ween Secretary of Defense Elkins, and the DCI, the Director of Central Intelligence. The President jammed a cigar in his mouth and chewed, not bothering to light it. ‘Are our scientists making any progress on cold fusion?’
‘None to speak of,’ the DCI answered.
The President frowned. ‘And the Iron Guard is?’
‘Apparently so,’ the DCI replied.
‘This Hans Beckmann who leads the Iron Guard, is he considered a rational actor?’
Elkins answered the President’s question. ‘Not after using nerve gas on the UN. We know the Iron Guard used mortars and aircraft, Czech-made Aeros. We also have a high degree of confidence they were the same aircraft that jumped the C-130 and shot down the A-10.’
‘How strong is the Iron Guard?’ the President asked.
Carroll knew the answer. ‘It is a very credible militia-type organization that is still growing in strength. In total size and resources, it is four or five times larger than the UN peacekeeping force.’
The President lit the cigar. ‘The South Africans have their own military ... a damn’ good one as I recall ... why don’t they use it to stomp the Iron Guard?’
‘Internal instability,’ Carroll answered. ‘The Minister of Defense, Joe Pendulo, is black. The generals and the command structure are predominantly white.’
‘I thought they had some black generals and colonels,’ the President said, interrupting him.
‘They do,’ Carroll answered. ‘But they’re political appointees and worthless. Pendulo is afraid that if he orders the whites to fight the Iron Guard, they will mutiny. If he orders the black generals and colonels to do it, they will conspire to overthrow him and the government rather than take on the Iron Guard.’
The President chomped hard on his cigar. ‘So we are facing a well-armed militia led by a madman who is running amok and may control the discovery of the millennium — cold fusion.’
The DCI nodded. ‘That’s a fair summation of the problem.’
‘Then,’ the President said, ‘we either deal with the Iron Guard now or it will deal us a worse hand later.’ He liked poker analogies. ‘We’re calling them. No more raises.’
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