In the Evil Day

moustache.

Freeze.

Enlargement.

This man is Dr Carl Wepener Lourens, then head of a South African company called TechPharma Global, an importer of chemicals. Lourens moved in white South Africa’s highest military and political circles and travelled the world, frequently visiting Britain, the United States and Israel. His death in a fire at his company’s premises outside Pretoria was reported recently. He was under investigation for currency and other offences committed under the apartheid regime.

Dr Lourens is also linked with an Israeli company called Ashken, said to be an Israeli military front engaged in defence research.

The film moving again. Lourens is speaking to the person next to him, a short man, balding, a mole on his cheek. The man shakes his head, gestures, palms upward.

Freeze. Enlargement.

This man is Donald Trilling, president of Pharmentis Corporation, fourth largest US pharmaceutical company, convenor of Republicans at Work. He is often described as one of the most influential men in America. When this film was taken, Trilling, a Vietnam veteran, was head of Trilling Research Associates of Alexandria, Virginia.Trilling Research was taken over by Pharmentis Corporation in 1988 and Trilling became head of Pharmentis. In 1989, a Congressional hearing was told that Trilling Research received US Defense Department contracts worth more than $60 million between 1976 and 1984. The details remain classified. These contracts are now believed to have been for research into chemical weapons, including one called Eleven Seventy, apparently a ricin-like poison.

It is now clear that millions of dollars found their way from the US Defense Department to Trilling Research and then to bank accounts linked to Dr Carl Lourens.

They are thought to be payment for the manufacture and testing of chemical weapons developed by Trilling.

The film moving again. The soldier is turning towards the camera when the picture goes dark.

Here film analysts think that the cameraman is trying to avoid being seen.

When the film resumes, the tall soldier is standing at the bodies lying around the water trough. He moves a man’s head with his boot.

The man on the ground is alive.

The man moves his arm, his fingers move. The soldier shoots him in the head from a few inches, gestures with his left hand, a summoning gesture.

The soldier takes off his dark glasses, wipes his eyes with the knuckle of his index finger. His face is seen clearly.

Freeze.

Enlargement.

This is the Special Forces Delta Force officer in command of Special Deployment on this mission.

A still photograph of five smiling young soldiers in dress uniform. One head is circled.

This is the same young soldier photographed on graduation day with other members of his West Point class.

A montage, the soldier in the film side by side with the smiling West Point graduate.

This young American soldier is Michael Patrick Denoon, later a four-star General and, until three days ago, US Defense Secretary and aspirant Presidential candidate.

Michael Denoon resigned as Defense Secretary of State shortly after being shown parts of this program. He will not be seeking the Republican nomination.

The Angolan film running again, Denoon and the soldiers going around shooting people where they lie, shooting them in the head- men, women, children, a baby.

The Angolan village is believed to have been targeted by mistake. Fifteen kilometres away was an encampment housing hundreds of military personnel. It is believed that no one in the village survived, dying either from the chemical weapon used or executed by the men of Sudden Death. The bodies are thought to have been loaded onto C-47 transport aircraft by the unit and dropped at sea off the South-West African coast.

There is today no trace of the nameless village. Not a sign that people, families, lived there. The victims have no monument. Documents we have seen place the blame for this terrible experiment, this atrocity, squarely with the military in the United States, South Africa and Israel.

The program went on, putting together the pieces. Kaskis, Diab, Bruynzeel, Kael, Serrano, Shawn, all had their moments.

‘No mention of O’Malley,’ said Baader. ‘Why I am I not surprised?’

In the last minutes of the television special, they watched Caroline Wishart, tall and elegant in chinos and a leather jacket. Ringing a bell in a white wall beside a wooden gate. No one comes but the camera peers over the wall and, for a moment, captures a picture of a tall, grey-haired man with a moustache standing by a swimming pool and shouting something, angry.

Then Caroline:

This millionaire’s villa in Madeira is owned by a company called Claradine.Its directors are two Swiss lawyers. The man in the picture calls himself Jurgen Kleeberg. His real name is Dr Carl Lourens and he has been staying in this luxury home since shortly after his death in a fire was reported in South Africa.

‘I take it that’s the Jurgen Kleeberg once a guest at the Hotel Baur au Lac, Zurich,’ said Inskip.

‘That is the Jurgen,’ said Anselm.

The program finished. The credits described Caroline Wishart as the chief investigative reporter of her newspaper.

‘Well, you’ll probably live,’ said Baader. ‘For a while.’

He left the room.

‘Sound of polite cough,’ said Inskip. ‘What did that mean?’

‘He thinks I may see Christmas,’ said Anselm.

‘I wasn’t told this job was life-threatening.’

‘Only for the living,’ said Carla. ‘You have nothing to fear.’

87

…BIRMINGHAM…

He was dreaming about walking down a mountain path. There was someone ahead of him, talking to him in Greek, a boy, his cousin Dimi. And then Dimi started speaking in Afrikaans. He stopped and turned, and it wasn’t Dimi. It was his father, the lined brown adult face on a boy’s body. The sight frightened Niemand, brought him awake. He opened his eyes, blinked, his vision blurred.

For a moment, he was without memory. Then he saw the tubes in his arms and chest, tubes taped down, realised. Joy at being alive flooded him until he thought of Jess. He had sent her away, hoping that they were not watching the farmhouse, not waiting beside the lane. But even if she had got away from the farm, they would have found her. They could find anyone.

He closed his eyes and tears welled behind the lids, broke through the lashes, ran down his face, down his neck.

‘You’re crying,’ said the voice, the lilting voice. He could not believe he was hearing it. He opened his wet eyes and she was there, leaning over him, inches from him, and then she was kissing his eyes, kissing his tears, he felt her lips and he hoped he was not dreaming. Life could not be that cruel.

‘Crete,’ said Jess. ‘I’m going to take you to Crete. Get you well.’

‘Yes,’ said Niemand. ‘I love you. You can take me to Crete.’