by Mark Minnie
There is more. The crime-scene investigation that followed the discovery of Wiley’s body was ‘non-existent’, and the scene was ‘contaminated’ on the assumption that it was a suicide. In addition, I was told that – despite there supposedly not being a spare key to his safe – some of Wiley’s personal effects had been removed sometime after his death.
In another development, during the writing of this book a source forwarded me a message with this claim:
According to my info, the first person allowed into Wiley’s house was Magnus Malan. He left the house with two boxes. ONLY after he left, the police was allowed to enter the house. Why??!! He swept/cleaned the house personally. Must have been some info for a prominent person to stoop so low (as to) to sweep a house.
This information was passed on to me from a former member of Military Intelligence’s Counter Intelligence and Counter Espionage Division.
I subsequently asked someone else who had been at the house that morning whether Malan had indeed been there, but he could not remember.
MARK
22
South Africa burning
It’s been two months since the docket and accompanying files were ‘stolen’ out of my office. I haven’t heard a word from anyone regarding the case.
My tactics have proven to be of no avail. No further media investigations have followed, and my missing witness remains missing. I need to find that boy.
It’s time to up the tempo. I make a telephone call to the Sunday Times in Johannesburg. I’m playing with my career, but at this stage I no longer give a shit. Without a care in the world, I identify myself and make it known that I want to expose a paedophile ring associated with the late Dave Allen.
The person on the other side of the line is concentrating fully on what I have to say. He acts immediately, arranging for me to meet a journalist the next weekend. He says the time, date and venue will be forwarded to me shortly. I’m going full bore now, guns fucking blazing.
I meet up with William and let him know that together we are going to reveal the identities of people who belong to one of the most significant paedophile rings in the history of South Africa. We will go down as the two musketeers who brought this corrupt fucking government to its knees. He says he is up for it.
Without any delay, the Sunday Times gets back to me. The meeting has been set. When I pick William up at his girlfriend’s house at 10:30 on the Sunday morning, he’s all smiles – probably because the Sunday Times has agreed to pay him a fee for his story. How much exactly? They never mentioned a figure. We stop outside the office of the Herald, my hometown’s local newspaper, where the Sunday Times journalist asked to meet us. William and I take an elevator to the third floor.
Exiting the elevator, we turn right and enter a small office. The journalist, a burly gentleman, is seated in front of a typewriter. There’s no need for introductions. He knows who we are and is aware of the purpose of our visit. I explain to him that I prefer to excuse myself as I want William to relate everything he knows without feeling intimidated by my presence. So I leave him with the journalist.
After his interview, William meets up with me. In the car he hands me a cheque for R750. It’s made out to cash.
‘I need you to cash this for me, Max. I don’t have a bank account,’ he says.
‘Did you tell him everything?’ I ask.
‘Absolutely everything,’ he replies.
‘Good. Now it’s my turn,’ I say. The excitement in my voice is unmistakable.
William waits in the car while I return to the Herald. When I sit down with the journalist, I let him know in no uncertain terms that he cannot quote me on anything. What I’m about to tell him has to remain totally off the record.
I’m still bound by the gag placed on me by the senior public prosecutor. The journalist can tell his editor what I’ve verbally offered in order to convince the guy to publish William’s story, but that’s all. The journalist agrees to these terms.
I proceed to give him everything I know, leaving out no details. I offer him Wingnut on a plate. If his name is mentioned only once with regard to the Wiley and Allen suicides and the Bird Island/Witelsbos trips, the public in turn will make an ‘association’ between him and the deceased. Pressure to explain will thus be brought on this very public figure. That will pave the way for my two original witnesses to have a go at him. This public spat might then encourage the young boy who was shot to come to the fore.
Anyhow, that is the way I hope it will all turn out.
‘Your story should be in next Sunday’s paper,’ I happily tell William upon my return to the car.
But Sunday comes and not a word of the story appears in the paper.
I wait for the following Sunday. Again, nothing is published. Has the Sunday Times gone lame on me as well? I wonder.
A call to the newspaper’s office the following day reveals that ‘the editor’ refuses to publish our story.
In the meantime, South Africa is burning. Township residents have taken to the streets … again. They vent their anger and hatred of the apartheid regime using the only tools at their disposal: stones, matches and petrol. Township schools are gutted, municipal buses torched.
Any black person remotely suspected of passing on information to the authorities is necklaced – meaning a car tyre is placed around the victim’s neck, doused with petrol and then set alight. Mob justice is meted out by kangaroo courts in black communities, with ordinary people acting as judge and executioner. A heavy pall of smoke hangs over the country’s townships.
Whites, however, are minimally affected. We live in suburbs far away from the smouldering discontent.
The government talks of ‘black on black’ violence between the Inkatha Freedom Party, a conservative nationalist Zulu grouping, and the ‘comrades’ who support the African National Congress (ANC). It all plays into the hands of the ruling party.
Who cares about some black schools being burnt down? We will simply rebuild them. Buses can be replaced. South Africa is a rich country. And the South African Police have a specialised unit trained in containing and quelling ‘riots’, as the uprisings are termed. As long as the violence doesn’t spill over into white territory … This is the mindset of the ruling white minority party.
I don’t dwell too much on the unrest. There are specially trained cops doing that. I have my own particular little world wherein I operate. Or so I thought.
As I enter my office one windy autumn morning, I’m summoned to the acting branch commander’s office. He’s standing in for our official commander, who’s on a stint of leave. The deputising commander is a young lieutenant whom we inherited from the now defunct South African Railway Police. He’s an extremely likeable fellow and totally approachable.
‘Got some news for you, Max,’ the lieutenant tells me. ‘I’m not sure that you’re going to like it. Anyhow, papers have come through authorising your transfer to the Riot Squad in Soweto, Johannesburg. It’s a temporary move until the havoc subsides.’
I stare at him blankly. Is he fucking mad?
The lieutenant reads my thoughts.
‘Comes from the top, Max. It’s out of my hands. You report in 48 hours. The train leaves tomorrow at 5 pm. Make sure you’re on it.’
I make my way to the brigadier’s office, fuming. The brig senses my mood.
‘Max, it’s beyond me. I reckon that someone at the top feels that you’re being too hot-headed about the Allen investigation. Maybe they think you need time away from the case. Time to reflect. Go and do their bidding for a while. Let things simmer down over here in the meantime. Our hands are still tied with regard to the investigation. Just take it on the chin, boy.’
I leave his office without uttering a word. There’s no need to hang around the cop shop any longer. I’ve officially been transferred. I head off to the pub.
Bernie and George are surprised to find me waiting for them to open the bar. My news does not go down well with Bernie.
�
��Until the havoc subsides,’ she scoffs. ‘Is that what the pricks are saying? It could take a bloody year, Max.’
I let her fume on her own. I spend the rest of the day getting totally pissed. By the time we leave George’s pub, Bernie’s anger has subsided. She sees me off at the train station the following afternoon.
I bring a bottle of whisky with me on the train so the journey won’t feel so long. By the time we pull into Joburg station seventeen hours later, my hangover is playing havoc with my head. I flattened the whole bottle.
I spot a group of guys gathered at the entrance of the station. I recognise them as fellow cops all sporting the same police-issue travel bags. Greetings are brief as a short sergeant dressed in riot gear calls us to attention. We’re then herded into the back of a police vehicle. The space is totally enclosed, no windows. After a lengthy rugged ride, the vehicle comes to an abrupt halt. I climb out and see a row of tents before me. Police buildings fill the empty spaces in the distance. Welcome to Soweto, I say to myself.
The base camp lieutenant instantly dislikes me. That’s possibly because of my shoulder-length hair and the piercings in my left ear. He personally marches me to the barber. Ten minutes later I’m brandishing a well-shaven head. But I leave the earrings in place. Fuck this lieutenant. He’s a prick.
From there it’s off to the quartermaster to get our riot gear. We get a quick look at which bed we’ll be occupying in one of the tents, and then we’re hustled back to the parade ground. These boys don’t mess around over here. Everything gets done at a hectic pace.
I receive my work schedule. It’s not too bad. I only start tomorrow morning at 6 am, working twelve-hour shifts. That’s twelve hours on, twelve hours off, alternating weekly between day and night shifts.
Nothing much happens during the day. There are, however, sporadic night-time clashes between ANC and Inkatha supporters, which results in us having to collect the corpses the next day.
The action stories come from the guys doing the night shift, since ANC cadres prefer to operate at night. It renders them nearly invisible and the darkness aids their escape. They’re willing to chance their arms against us under the cover of darkness. For their part, the day-shift boys are starting to get bored with the endless patrolling. But eventually our time will come.
A week has passed before we get our chance to taste some night-shift action. It starts off with a briefing. As a section leader (I was promoted to warrant officer shortly before departing to Soweto), I’m automatically briefed on the plan of action for the shift.
Info received from the Security Branch suggests it’s going to be an exciting night. And so it proves to be. My section consists of ten members: me as leader, a driver and eight squad members.
We climb into the Casspir – the armoured vehicle assigned to us – and proceed to patrol our sector of Soweto. It’s not long before the excitement begins. Patrolling along a street that has no lights, we are suddenly entertained by the beautiful staccato of an AK-47 rifle firing on full automatic. We hear the rounds thud into the side of our vehicle. The night sky is lit up for a few brief seconds, betraying the position of the shooter. And then he’s gone.
No worries, man. We’re not concerned. A rifle bullet cannot penetrate a Casspir’s armour. We’re like adrenalin junkies, eager to have a go at the cadres. Our eyes carefully search the darkness – we’re hoping to spot any hint of movement that will give us cause to fire. With itchy fingers on the triggers of R1 rifles, we’re dying to lock and load and ultimately spray a burst of 7.62mm projectiles into the dark night. But there’s no cue to fire, which means disappointment all around. The cadres have used the surroundings to their advantage. We’re in their back yard, which is foreign territory to us.
Then the radio alerts us to a situation where cops are in trouble, possibly being overrun. We radio in that we will respond, but the Casspir is slow and bulky, and difficult to navigate through the narrow township streets. Making a U-turn is an absolute nightmare. Granted, it’s the price we have to pay, sacrificing mobility for safety. But it means we arrive at the scene too late.
It didn’t end well for one cop. He’s already on his way to hospital suffering from severe acid burns to his face. He was a passenger in a Land Rover patrol vehicle working in what we call a green zone, which is meant to be a friendly area. But apparently someone ran up to the vehicle and threw an acid-laden tennis ball at the passenger window. Wire mesh covers the window as a form of protection for the occupants of the vehicle, but it doesn’t offer much protection when the window is down. The ball hits the mesh and sprays the liquid acid all over the show.
The cadres use other tricks to slow us down, such as placing burning tyres in the road. That effort proves to be futile. We just bash our way over them.
The aim is to get us to slow down to a snail’s pace, affording the cadres an opportunity to lob a grenade through the opening of the roof of the Casspir. We’re always on the alert for this. Provocation is part of the game. By firing indiscriminately at our vehicles, they’re hoping that we will stop, hop out and attempt to face them head on. But this would be tantamount to committing suicide. The cadres are well dug in, securely concealed, and their eyes are accustomed to the dark. As night slowly morphs into day, the cadres fade away.
The next evening some serious brass are hanging around the parade ground. These are genuinely high-ranking dudes – colonels and brigadiers. Castles and stars line the epaulettes of their uniforms. The briefing brings everything to light and I’m not amused.
We’re going to move into a hostel occupied by miners who support the Inkatha Freedom Party. The government uses Inkatha fighters in a clandestine way to attack ANC supporters, all in an attempt to weaken and derail the liberation movement. Money and weapons are channelled to Inkatha to assist them in destabilising their perceived ‘foe’.
Now we’re commanded to conduct a search of the compound. Why? They’re meant to be our allies, these Inkatha guys. It’s all politics, I guess.
We move out in convoy style. Very impressive – until we reach the hostel. Waiting to greet us in full battle dress are more than a thousand impis, Zulu warriors armed with traditional assegais and shields. They heard that we were coming and are now demonstrating that they disapprove of our entering the compound.
It’s a Mexican stand-off. Some Inkatha leaders and our top brass begin exchanging words in no-man’s-land. Zulu warriors assume their traditional battle crouch and raise their spears, shields covering their torsos. Chanting begins. Cops are on edge, fingers on triggers. Rifles at the ready, we’re waiting for the command that will surely unleash untold bloodshed. There can be only one winner.
Eventually, the discussion between leaders comes to an end. The Inkatha guys allow us to enter the hostel. We search for hours and find nothing – no guns, not even a little bit of marijuana. All’s well that ends well. We depart, both sides happy.
What a load of bullshit, I think to myself. The Inkatha fighters knew we were coming. That’s why there was nothing to find. It was all just a show to prove to the ANC that it’s not only their compounds that get searched. A sham display that allows local politicians to score some brownie points in the outside world.
A briefing on the sixth night sketches out a plan of action to be carried out by a select few. Intelligence reports indicate the possible looting and burning down of a liquor store. A plan is devised to place a couple of cops armed to the core inside the store – in other words, an ambush. This is a death sentence for any would-be looter. The shooters are chosen from the Soweto Riot Squad. The rest of us are instructed to proceed with normal ‘anti-riot’ duties.
To me, this plan of action does not seem right. We are cops, not executioners. The cops lying in wait inside the liquor store are going to have the drop on the looters. And I know that no warning shots are going to be fired once the unsuspecting looters are inside. It’s going to be one helluva turkey shoot, nothing more than that.
True to my prediction, the
call comes over the police radio at exactly 4:30 am. My unit labours its way to the scene in our clumsy Casspir. It is difficult to get more than 100 kilometres per hour out of her.
I enter the liquor store, which is well lit by this stage. The shooters are standing around like heroes eyeing their beastly work. The floor is covered in a million shards of glass. Lying on the glass-strewn floor are the bodies of seven victims. They had no idea what was coming their way. One victim appears to have been shot right out of his North Star tekkies, an outcome possibly aided by the fact that the sneakers had no laces.
I’m not impressed by any of this. As cops, we have sworn to uphold the law. In my view, this is a very bad day in the annals of the history of South African policing. This slaughter is simply going to be recorded as justifiable homicide. My fucking ass.
23
Big mistake
I’m into my fourth week at the Riot Squad in Soweto and there is no sign of hostilities subsiding. In fact, things are getting progressively worse.
Needless to say, unnecessary action on the part of many cops has ultimately led to further incitement of an already tense situation. The liquor store ambush is a particularly glaring example.
On one night shift, I’m instructed to perform duty in a Land Rover. This vehicle is not armour-proofed. No problem; my area of work is in a supposed green zone. They assign a young constable as my partner. He introduces himself as Etienne Schmidt – a nice lad from Pretoria, about twenty years old.
Etienne volunteers to do the driving, which is fine by me. Once he fills in the vehicle register relevant to our mode of transport, we’re ready to rock and roll.
As passenger, I make contact with the control room using the vehicle’s police radio. They give me the go-ahead to speak. In accordance with police regulations, I state the name, rank and force number of the designated driver. I follow this up with my particulars as the passenger.
