including the police and the army, will be obliged to resign their membership immediately. That won't alter their sympathies, Shasa pointed out.
Of course not, Blaine agreed. We will still have something like forty or fifty percent of the country against us and for Nazi Germany. It can't go on like this, sir. You and the Ou Baas will have to force a showdown. Yes, we know that. As soon as our investigations are complete, as soon as we have a pretty comprehensive fist of the ringleaders, we will swoop. Arrest them? Shasa was startled.
Yes. They will be interned for the duration of the war as enemies of the state. Shasa whistled softly. Pretty drastic, sir. That could lead to real trouble., That is why we have to scoop them all up in the net at one time, we cannot afford to miss any of them. Blaine stood up. I can see you are exhausted, Shasa, and I am sure there are a few things that Mademoiselle Tara has to say to
you. I'll expect you at my office at eight-thirty sharp tomorrow
morning. They moved to the study door and Blaine added as an afterthought, By the way, your grandfather, Sir Garry, arrived at Weltevreden this morning., He has come down for his birthday, Shasa smiled. I look forward to seeing him. I hope you and Field Marshal Smuts will be coming to the birthday picnic as usual., Wouldn't miss it for the world! Blaine opened the study door and across the lobby Tara was hovering innocently, pretending to be selecting a book from the shelves in the library.
Blaine grinned, Tara, you let Shasa get some sleep tonight, do you hear me? I refuse to work with a zombie tomorrow. The meeting in Blaine's office the following morning lasted longer than either of them expected, and later moved down the passageway to the prime minister's office where Field Marshal Smuts personally questioned Shasa. His questions were so searching that Shasa felt drained by the effort of keeping pace with the Ou Baas mercurial mind. He escaped with relief, Smuts's admonition following him.
We want this fellow 'White Sword' whoever he is, and we want him before he can do any more damage. Get that message across to everybody involved. Yes, sir. And I want those lists on my desk before the weekend.
We must have these fellows locked up and out of harm's way.
It was mid-morning before Shasa arrived at CID headquarters and parked the Jaguar in the reserved bay that had been set aside for him in.
The special operations room had been set up in one of the extensive basement areas. There was a constable on duty at the door and Shasa signed the register. Entry was restricted to persons on the list. Many of the police force were known OB members, or sympathizers.
Inspector Louis Nel had chosen his team with extreme care.
He was a balding, taciturn man whose age and job classification had prevented him from volunteering for overseas military service, a fact that he bitterly resented. However, Shasa had soon discovered that he was an easy man to like and respect, though a difficult one to please. They had quickly established a working rapport.
Nel was in his shirt-sleeves, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he talked into the telephone, but he covered the mouthpiece and summoned Shasa with an imperious wave.
Where the hell have you been? I was going to send out a search party, he reprimanded him. Sit down. I want to talk to you. Shasa perched on the corner of his desk while the inspector continued his telephone call, and he stared through the window into the busy operations room. Inspector Nel had been allocated eight detectives and a bevy of female stenographers. The room was full of cigarette smoke and the clatter of typewriters as they worked. One of the other telephones on the inspector's desk rang, and he glanced up at Shasa. 'Take that, damned switchboard keeps putting everything through to me. Shasa picked up the receiver. Good morning, this is CID headquarters. May I help you? he said, and when there was silence, he repeated it in Afrikaans.
Hello, I want to talk to somebody, the caller was a woman, a young woman and very agitated, she was speaking Afrikaans, and her voice was breathless and uncertain. In the paper they said you wanted to know about the Ossewa Brandwag. I want to talk to somebody. My name is Courtney, Shasa said in Afrikaans. Squadron-Leader Courtney. I am grateful that you want to assist the police. You can tell me everything. He tried to make his voice warm and reassuring. He could sense that the woman was afraid, perhaps on the point of changing her mind and ringing off. Take your time. I'm here to listen to you.$ ',Are you the police? Yes, madam. Would you like to give me your name? No! I won't tell you- He realized his mistake. That's perfectly all right. you don't have to give your name, he told her quickly, and there was a long silence. He could hear her breathing.
Take your time, he repeated gently. You just tell me what you want to. They are stealing the guns. The woman's voice sank to a whisper.
Can you tell me what guns? Shasa asked carefully.
From the gun factory in Pretoria, the railway workshop. Shasa sat up straighter and held the telephone receiver with both hands. Almost all the military arms and munitions manufacture was being undertaken in the railway workshops in Pretoria. It was the only establishment with the heavy equipment, highspeed lathes and steam presses, capable of turning out barrels and blocks for rifles and machineguns. The cartridge cases for the munitions were being stamped out at the Pretoria Mint, but they were despatched to the railway workshops for final processing.
What you are saying is important, he told her carefully.
Can you tell me how they are stealing the guns? They are putting scrap iron in the cases, and stealing the guns, the woman whispered.
Can you tell me who is doing this, please? Do you know who is responsible? I don't know the people in the workshop, but the one who is in charge. I know who he is., We must know his name, Shasa told her persuasively, but she was silent. He could sense that she was struggling with herself, and that if he pushed her now he would lose her.
Do you want to tell me who he is? he asked. Just take your time. His name, the woman hesitated, was silent a moment longer, and then she blurted out, they call him wit Swaard White Sword. Shasa felt his skin crawl as though it were infested with vermin, and his heart seemed to check, miss a beat, then race away wildly.
What did you say? White Sword, his name is White Sword, the woman repeated and there was a crackle and click as the connection was broken.
Hello! Hello! Shasa shouted into the receiver. Are you there? Don't hang up! But the hiss of static on the empty line mocked him.
Shasa stood beside Blaine Malcomess desk while he made the call to the commissioner of police at Marshall Square in Johannesburg.
