Reinhardt, a Ger national, born in Dresden in 1930. His father had commanded one of Admiral Doenitz's U-boats with distinction. After the partition of Germany, Reinhardt had enrolled as a cadet officer in the fledgling navy of the German Democratic Republic, and two years later had been recruited by the KGB.
Subsequently, his 'escape' over the Berlin Wall to the West had been carefully stage-managed by Joe Cicero personally. Reinhardt and his wife had emigrated to South Africa in igeo, and after he had become a naturalized South African citizen he had joined the South African navy and worked his way up to the rank of kommandant. He was presently chief of signals on headquarters staff at Silver Mine command bunker.
The printout was a copy of the report that he had filed three weeks previously concerning the Siemens radar chain at Silver Mine.
Ramsey laid the Red Rose report of the same installation alongside Protea's and began comparing them item by item, paragraph by paragraph. Within ten minutes he was satisfied that they were in total agreement, in general and in detail.
The integrity of Protea was of the highest order. It had been tested repeatedly over a decade and long ago rated Class I, the highest-category source.
Red Rose had just survived her first security check. She could now be considered as active and given a Class III rating. After almost four years of carefully executed preparation, Ramsey considered the price acceptable.
He smiled at the portrait of Leonid Brezhnev on the opposite wall, and the general secretary stared back at him solemnly from under beetling brows.
Katrina rang through on his private line. 'Comrade Colonel, you are expected on the top floor in six minutes.' 'Thank you, comrade. Please come through to witness destruction of documents.' She stood at his side while he fed the printout of the Protea report into the paper-shredder and then countersigned the entry in his daybook to attest to the destruction.
She watched him button his tunic and adjust the block of medal ribbons on his chest in the small wall-mirror. Then she handed him the sheaf of notes for the meeting.
'Good luck, Comrade Colonel.' She stood close to him with face upturned.
'Thank you.' He turned away without touching her: never in the office.
Ramsey waited alone in the secure conference-room on the top floor. They kept him waiting for ten minutes. The walls of the room were bare plaster, painted white. There was no panelling that might conceal a microphone. Apart from the obligatory portraits of Lenin and Brezhnev, there was no decoration. There were a dozen chairs at the long 239 conference-table, and Ramsey stood for the full ten minutes at the lower end.
At last the door from the director's suite opened.
General Yuri Borodin was head of the fourth directorate. In his new capacity Ramsey reported directly to him. He was a chunky grey-haired septuagenarian, a cautious devious man, in a shiny striped suit. Ramsey admired him and held him in awe.
The man that followed him into the conference- room deserved even greater respect. He was younger than Borodin, not much over fifty, and yet he was already a member of the Praesidiurn of the Supreme Soviet and a deputy minister at the Department of Foreign Affairs.
Rarnen's report had drawn a much heavier reaction than he had anticipated.
He was being invited to defend his thesis in front of one of the hundred most influential men in Russia.
Aleksei Yudenich was short and slight in stature but he had the fierce penetrating gaze of a mystic. He shook Ramsey's hand briefly and stared into his eyes for a moment while Borodin introduced them, and then he took the seat at the head of the table with his aides on each side of him.
'You have novel ideas, young man,' he began abruptly, and his choice of adjectives was not necessarily complimentary. Youth was not a commodity by which the Department of Foreign Affairs set as much store as they did by traditional and well-tried policies. 'You wish to abandon our long~standing support for the liberation movements in southern Africa - the African National Congress and the South African Communist Party - and for the armed struggle in southern Africa in general.' 'With respect, Comrade Director,' Ramsey replied carefully, 'that is not my intention.' Then, I have misread your paper. Have you not stated that the ANC has proved to be the most inept and unproductive guerrilla organization in modern history?' 'I have pointed out the reasons for this, and the manner in which previous mistakes may be rectified.'
Yudenich grunted and turned a sheet of his copy of the report. 'Continue.
Explain to me why the armed struggle should not succeed in South Africa as it did in, for instance, Algeria.' 'There are basic differences, Minister. The settlers in Algeria, the pieds-noirs, were Frenchmen ' and France was a short boat-ride away across the Mediterranean. The white Afrikaner has no such escape-route. He stands with his back to the Atlantic Ocean. He must fight. Africa is his motherland.' 'Yes,' Yudenich nodded. 'Continue.' 'The FLN guerrillas in Algeria were united by the Muslim religion and a common language. They were waging a holy war, a jihad. On the other hand, the black Africans are not so inspired. They are splintered by language and tribal enmities. The ANC, as an example, is an almost exclusively Xhosa tribal organization which excludes the most numerous and powerful tribe, the Zulu nation, from its ranks.' Yudenich listened for fifteen minutes without interruption. His gaze never left Ramsey's face. When at last Ramsey finished speaking he asked softly: 'So what is the alternative that you propose?' 'Not an alternative.'Ramsey shook his head. 'The armed struggle must, of course, continue. There are younger, brighter and more committed men coming forward in its ranks, men like Raleigh Tabaka. From them we may see greater successes in future. What I propose is an adjunct to the struggle, an economic onslaught, a series of boycotts and mandatory sanctions...' 'We do not have economic contacts with South Africa,' Yudenich pointed out brusquely.
'I propose that we let our arch-enemy do the job for us. I propose that we orchestrate in America and Western Europe a campaign to destroy the South African economy. Let our enemies prepare the ground for us, and plant the seeds of revolution. We will harvest the fruits.' 'How do you suggest we go about this?'
'You know that we have excellent penetration of the American Democratic Party. We have access at the highest-possible levels to the American media.
Our influence in such organizations as the NAACP and the Trans Africa Foundation is pervasive. I propose that we make South Africa and apartheid a rallying cry for the American left. They are looking for a cause to unite them. We will give them that cause. We will make South Africa a domestic political issue in the United States of America. The black Americans will flock to the standard and, to secure their votes, the Democratic Party will follow them. We will orchestrate a campaign in the ghettos and on the campuses of America for comprehensive mandatory sanctions that will destroy the South African economy and bring its government crashing down in ruins, unable any longer to protect itself or to keep its security forces in the field. When that happens we will step in and place our own surrogate government in power.' They were silent awhile, contemplating this startling vision. Aleksei Yudenich coughed and asked quietly: 'How much will this cost - in financial terms?' 'Billions of dollars,' Ramsey admitted and, when Yudenich's expression tightened, he went on: 'Billions of American dollars, Comrade Minister. We will let the Democratic Party call the tune for us and the American people pay the piper.' Minister Yudenich smiled for the first time that afternoon. The discussions lasted another two hours before Yuri Borodin rang the bell to summon his aide.
'Vodka,' he said.
It came on a silver tray, the bottle thickly crusted with frost from the freezer.
Aleksei Yudenich gave them the first of many toasts.
'The Democratic Party of America!' And they laughed and drained their glasses and shook hands and clapped each other's back.
Director Borodin moved slightly, until he and Ramsey Machado were standing shoulder to shoulder. It was a gesture that was not lost on any of them. He was aligning himself with his brilliant young subordinate.
Katrina's flat was in one of the more pleasant sections of the city. From her bedroom window there was a view of Gorky Park and the amusement-ground.
On the skyline the big Ferris wheel, lit with myriad fairy-lights, revolved slowly against the cold grey clouds as Ramsey stepped out of the Chaika and went in through the front entrance of the apartment-building.
It was a relic from pre-revolutionary Tsarist Russia, a wedding-cake of a building in rococo style. There was no lift, and Ramsey climbed the stairs to the sixth floor. The exercise helped clear the vodka fumes from his brain.
Katrina's mother had lovingly prepared the thick pork sausage with a side-dish of cabbage - always cabbage. The entire apartment-block smelt of boiled cabbage.
Katrina's parents treated Ramsey with servile and fawning respect. Her mother served Ramsey with the greater portion of the sausage, while Katrina poured pepper vodka into his tumbler. When they had eaten, Katrina's parents took the child with them and went to watch television in a neighbour's apartment, discreetly leaving Ramsey and Katrina to say their farewells.
'I shall miss you,' Katrina whispered, as she led him to the single bed in her tiny room and let the skirt of her tunic fall around her ankles.
'Please return soon.' They had an hour before Ramsey had to
