by Mark Minnie
The shower does wonders for me. I feel almost like a new man. A little self-reflection has given me an agenda again, and that’s making me feel better about myself. Reality has finally come to the fore.
I have a mission to complete and my personal circumstances are favourable with regard to what I need to do. No more wallowing in self-pity; let me make a fresh start in a new life. My goal remains the same, however – namely, the pursuit and ultimate incarceration of Wingnut.
I call the handler and he’s overjoyed to hear my voice. We agree to meet at a prearranged safe house in Kragga Kamma, a residential area quite a distance from my home. But that’s no problem for me. The second-hand Suzuki 1100 motorcycle I’ve recently purchased gets me there in no time at all.
I pass on information relating to corrupt Uniform Branch cops who are shaking down a known drug dealer. The dealer approached me some time ago stating that the cops were going overboard in their demand for payment. Since he was operating in their area of jurisdiction, they deemed it convenient to collect money from him on a weekly basis. Call it protection money, if you like: the dealer pays the cops and they protect him from arrest and prosecution.
It was fine in the beginning, until the cops’ financial demands became exorbitant. They were wanting to collect more than the dealer was able to rake in. Eventually the dealer felt that he had no option other than to approach me with his problem. I felt somewhat obliged to listen to his complaint purely because he was instrumental in helping us put away a ‘big boy’ in the drug world approximately three years ago.
The kingpin I’m referring to is pushing a twelve-year stretch at present. This is how the crazy world of drugs works. You remove one major player from the game, only to have him replaced by another. It’s a war the cops cannot win. ‘Control’ is the key word in the war against drugs. In any case, this info should keep the cops busy for a while. And there’s enough clout in it to justify my R3 300 for the first month.
I decide to pick up on the Allen/Wiley/Wingnut investigation again.
From memory, I start compiling a new dossier. I do it in bullet-point form. Names and addresses of witnesses who need to be re-interviewed are neatly laid out. Important facts pertaining to specific events are highlighted. I’ll get this case rolling again, easy as pie. A few calls to my narcotics agent mates in Cape Town reinforce the discrepancies I’ve identified related to the Wiley ‘suicide’.
The narcotics agents drink with their Murder and Robbery Squad counterparts in the police canteen. A lot gets said during these gatherings. Wiley’s body was apparently discovered in a locked bedroom. However, no door key was ever found. Tests for gunpowder residue on both hands also proved to be negative. In addition, the firearm responsible for the demise of the deceased was found resting in the wrong hand. Finally, there was no suicide note. This guy was apparently well known for meticulous note-taking.
My mind is cast back to the Allen suicide. There are also plenty of discrepancies there. Were both dudes given a helping hand in meeting their Maker?
The good Samaritan still employed in the heart of the Allen business empire continues to give me leads. The man likes to speak in riddles, though. For instance, his tip to ‘follow the money, Sergeant’. What fucking money?
Did Uncle Dave discover gold bullion aboard the two wrecks he salvaged? Did his cohorts deep inside our current government assist him in smuggling the contraband out of the country? Who the hell knows? But I’m going to try to find out, that’s for sure. One thing Uncle Dave can’t riddle his way out of is the identities of fellow perpetrators linked to his paedophile ring.
He confirmed the two powerhouse names I have at my disposal. These men are alive and kicking, solidly entrenched within the party ruling our country. Wingnut is one such dude. Then there’s the minister William identified, and whom Allen also named. My reconstructed dossier is compiled in such a manner that even the dumbest of cops would be able to proceed with the investigation.
My journalist friend at Die Burger informs me that the government blocked editors who attempted to publish articles about this case. Reporters at The Star were prevented from publishing anything regarding Minister Wiley’s personal life. Martin Welz, a journalist at Rapport, ignored these government threats until the whole cabinet came crashing down on the editor, automatically ending the story.
The Cape Times published a very weak version of events. Although their reporters, including Chris Steyn, did a sterling job in their attempts to make this filthy state of affairs known to the public, they were barred from publishing information relating to orgies with pre-teen boys.
Two months later I learn from my handler via the telephone that the cops executed a successful sting operation with regard to the corrupt policemen who were dusting down the drug dealer. The operation depended on info I had supplied to him at our very first meeting.
Good! I think to myself. That dealer owes me one and I know exactly how I’m going to collect. I dial his number and he answers almost immediately.
‘I heard that your problems regarding those corrupt cops have been sorted,’ I tell him.
‘Yeah, Sergeant Max. I was a bit surprised to see that you were absent throughout the investigation. Then I heard that you had left the force. Anyhow, I know that you had a hand in setting things up. I just want to say thanks.’
‘No problem, mate. But now it’s my turn to knock on your door. I need your help with regard to a certain matter.’
‘Just say the word, Sergeant. I owe you big time on this one.’
I proceed to inform him that I’m on the lookout for a young boy who used to be a street sex worker and is rumoured to have been shot in the anus by one of his clients. I also fill him in on all the info I have on the boy. The dealer says he’ll see what he can find out and come back to me.
The South Africa of this time is a strictly segregated society. Whites live together in their demarcated areas, and the same applies to other races. It’s only the Chinese who are struggling to ascertain their racial identification in South Africa. The bloody government is confused as hell about where they should place the Chinese.
The young boy and the drug dealer are of the same race classification. This is why I’m pressing on the dealer for assistance. It’s a long shot, but it’s all that I have at my disposal for now. I hope that it works, but I’m not banking on anything.
Two weeks later, while I’m watching a football match on the television, my phone rings. I reluctantly answer, only to find that it’s the ‘grateful’ drug dealer on the line. He has news that excites the socks off me. He has managed to trace someone whom he strongly believes is the youngster I’m looking for. The kid is apparently in a juvenile detention centre, serving time for stabbing another youngster who brazenly referred to him as Ore se wyfie (Wingnut’s bitch). Youngsters can be cruel.
I hang up after jotting down in detail what the dealer has to say. I’m finding it difficult to contain my excitement. I immediately start planning how I’m going to approach the kid and offer him police protection until Wingnut is dragged into court. I fantasise being the person who locks the cell door behind Wingnut as he starts his period of incarceration.
But when Bernie arrives at my place after work, I’m suddenly brought back to reality. She immediately picks up that I’m in a happy mood. Hardly taking a breath, I rattle off to her the reason for my current elated condition. I spell out to her what I plan to do. When I’m finished, she gatecrashes my party.
‘Max, I’m happy for you, baby,’ she says. ‘But you’re missing an important point here. All of these wonderful things that you want to do for the youngster, along with your intended arrest of Wingnut, none of this is going to materialise.’
‘What do you mean? Are you fucking crazy? I have the bastard by the balls now!’ I throw back at her.
‘Fuck, Max! Your brigadier was right all along. You have blinded yourself to reality in your incessant drive to bring down Wingnut. It’s not going to fucking happen. Not by
your hand in any event,’ Bernie replies angrily.
‘And why not? Why not? You tell me!’
‘Because you’re no longer a cop. You can’t question the young boy. You can’t make him any promises, and you sure as hell can’t arrest Wingnut, you moron. I wish you would just let go of all this shit so that our lives can return to normal.’ She storms off to the bedroom.
I respond by smashing my fist through the television cabinet. Fuck! Wrong thing to do. But the energetic release of anger seems to calm me at least somewhat. I sit down and think through what Bernie has said to me. As hard as it is for me to admit, I realise that she’s right.
I’m no longer a cop. I have to accept this. All I can do is hand over what I know to the brigadier. What the cops do with the info from there is out of my control. I pacify Bernie with a nice cup of hot tea and the reassuring words that I’m withdrawing myself completely from further investigation into this nightmare case. She’s happy once again and rewards me with something I’m absolutely crazy about.
27
The end of the beginning
I’ve made up my mind. It feels as if a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I sense a feeling of exhilaration as I weave my way through the traffic along Cape Road. I simply love this motorbike. For the first time in ages I’m experiencing a feeling of freedom. And all of this due to one decision I made only a short while ago.
The brigadier seems surprised to see me. I also detect a fleeting moment of annoyance on his part.
‘Wasn’t expecting you, Max,’ he says. ‘And it also goes against all protocol. You’re not meant to be seen around a police station. Could blow your cover as an informer.’
Yeah, that’s all that I am to this establishment at the moment, a bloody informant. I remove the new Allen/Minister/Wingnut dossier from my rucksack and drop it on his desk.
‘It’s all there, Brigadier: lock, stock and barrel. Let’s hope that someone at head office has the balls to do something about it. I’m giving them Wingnut on a plate,’ I state disdainfully.
‘Careful now, Max, my son,’ he replies. ‘That tone of voice and choice of words will do your chances of coming back to the fold no good at all.’
Does he think I’m an idiot? There was never meant to be a comeback for me. The bastards at the top are only too happy that my voice has been silenced. They get to continue with their merry lives while the rest of us lead a hand-to-mouth existence. Privileges are afforded only to the rich and powerful. Lesser beings are meant to be trampled upon. But not me, not any more.
‘That’s just it, sir. There’ll be no coming back to the fold on my part,’ I throw back at him. ‘And you can remove my name from your list of paid informants.’
‘Just what exactly do you mean by all that, son?’ the brig asks.
‘I’ve crossed the line, sir. I’m done.’
I make my final exit from his office, glad to leave the smell of cherry tobacco behind me.
CHRIS
28
Untouchables
In 1995 Mark Minnie spoke to Playboy magazine for an article published in May of that year. ‘Unspeakable Acts’ was written by Gavin Evans – a journalist and End Conscription Campaign (ECC) member whose own name once featured on the hit list of a South African military death squad, the Civil Cooperation Bureau (CCB).
Evans recounted how newspapers had ‘burrowed’ at the John Wiley story for three months. He detailed some of the attempts at stopping the press:
Reporters at The Star received a message on their computers advising them to steer clear of controversies surrounding Wiley’s personal life. At Rapport, Martin Welz was given a freeish hand until he began to uncover details relating to Wiley’s business and personal life which were embarrassing to the government.
The entire cabinet came down on the editor, and the story was killed.
Evans added that ‘the Cape Times went furthest, but not far enough for the reporters who worked on the story’. He quoted a senior Cape Times staff member as saying: ‘We later heard a certain cabinet minister “had words” with a certain editor.’
Wiley, the country’s sole English-speaking cabinet minister at the time, was also portrayed as a racist in the Playboy article:
… the most cursory glance at his record shows that even by white political standards of the day, he was a right-wing racist. Even as a minister after the ill-fated tricameral parliament came into existence, he ranted against the notion of blacks in Parliament. He also opposed the presence of blacks on white beaches, resigned from the Anglican Church when it elected Desmond Tutu as its first black archbishop, and resigned from the United Party in protest against the influence of ‘left-wingers’.
Evens recounted how, in an interview the previous month, Wiley’s former cabinet colleague and ‘close friend’, defence minister General Magnus Malan, had put the blame for Wiley’s suicide on drugs and depression. In Malan’s words, Wiley ‘was on pills and that sort of thing’. According to Malan, talk of sexual relations with underage boys was ‘baloney’. In a further stringent defence of Wiley, Malan had stated: ‘I knew John very well. He was not that type of man.’
The article also quoted my former colleague Geoff, Dave Allen’s brother, on Dave’s close friendship not only with Wiley, but also with Malan as well as another former minister:
He and Magnus Malan seemed close. It was always ‘my friend Magnus’, or ‘I’ll get Magnus to do that’, and he and [the other former minister] got on like a house on fire. He knew them all, but Wiley was the closest.
As for the three of them – Wiley, Malan and the other former minister – visiting Bird Island in 1986 for what was later described as business and recreation, the Playboy article included Malan’s response to a question in parliament about a particular two-day trip. Malan had confirmed that the three men had been flown there by SADF helicopter. He said it had been an official visit but confirmed that he had taken his rod along to do some fishing. He avoided questions about the purpose of the visit, the date, and the length of time spent there.
The article continued:
Asked last month to elaborate on these questions, Malan again insisted that he was on ‘official SADF business’, and that they were there for ‘a day or two’.
Asked about his friendship with Allen, Malan said: ‘I met him once’, and then confirmed he had been aware at the time that the diver was a paedophile.
‘Yes, I heard of these allegations concerning Allen. I heard a lot of things in my position. The next thing you’ll ask is whether I was involved in paedophile activities.’
Following the publication of the Playboy piece, the Wiley family complained to the Press Council of South Africa about suggestions in the article, and on the front cover, to the effect that Wiley had been a homosexual and a paedophile. Playboy was ordered to publish an apology, which read in part: ‘Playboy accepts that the article may have given the impression that it was founded on fact, whereas it was founded on hearsay, allegation and rumour.’
Playboy apologised to the family of the late Wiley and said it regretted ‘any hurt that may have been caused’. Huisgenoot and You magazine also had to apologise to the Wiley family for a similar article it had published in its 18 May 1995 issue.
Years later, in August 2006, I devoted an entire chapter to the Wiley story in my book Publish and Be Damned. The chapter was titled ‘Sex and Death in the Cabinet’. The Wiley family did not take any action after publication.
Writing for this book, I contacted Mark to inquire about the apologies in Huisgenoot, You and Playboy. He replied that he had not seen either, but added: ‘Playboy, Huisgenoot and You would have apologised simply because they only had my word to go on, [but] many sources in Cape Town stated that Wiley Snr was gay … I have powerful evidence proving that Allen was a paedophile.’
In a follow-up e-mail, Mark stated: ‘I can’t retract what I said regarding Dave Allen’s admission to me about John Wiley.’
I had asked him for Allen�
��s exact words to him as the investigating officer at the time of Allen’s arrest. Mark wrote:
Allen’s exact words were: ‘I’m not going to take the fall for this on my own. There are other people involved as well. It’s not only me. Cabinet minister John Wiley, amongst others, is just as guilty as me when it comes to this. If they are not prepared to help me, I’m going to open the whole can of worms.’
I then contacted a retired member of the intelligence services. I asked the man – who had read Publish and be Damned – whether, in retrospect, he thought there was any chance that Allen had lied when he implicated certain cabinet ministers in paedophilia. My contact said he didn’t think so. He said he thought that what Allen had said happened, did in fact happen.
Another former intelligence arena figure who had read that chapter in my book with great interest was General Witkop Badenhorst, the retired chief of staff intelligence for the old SADF. We met for breakfast one morning to talk about a book he was thinking of writing. He told me that a certain well-known SADF general only got his promotion after going on a weekend ‘hiking’ trip in the mountains with Malan.
Luckily, in July 2006, about a month before Publish and Be Damned appeared, I got the unexpected opportunity to ask Malan about his Bird Island days when I met him for the first time. I had gone to the Pretoria home of the retired general to interview him for my research into SADF-trained Inkatha hit squads for a possible book. After a lengthy discussion on that topic, and just prior to my departure, I decided that I could not possibly leave without bringing up Wiley and Allen.
By then Malan was already gravely ill, and I felt it would probably be my only chance to broach this subject with him. Despite me phrasing my questions as diplomatically as possible, he responded with a classic ‘death stare’. He had obviously not expected me to bring up this topic, and he was visibly straining to control his rage at my temerity.
