reward waiting to be collected. On several occasions Borstlap had said he thought there was something fishy about the total disappearance of Victor Mabasha. When Scheepers tried to pin him down, he just said it was a hunch, nothing based on fact. His wife groaned when the bedside telephone started ringing. Scheepers grabbed the receiver, as if he had been waiting for a call all the time. He listened to what the Interpol duty officer read out for him. He picked up a pen from the bedside table, asked to hear it one more time, then wrote two words on the back of his left hand.
Sikosi Tsiki.
He hung up and sat there motionless. Judith was awake by now, and wondered if anything had happened.
“Nothing of danger to us,” he said. “But it could be dangerous for somebody else.”
He dialed Borstlap’s number.
“A new telex from Sweden,” he said. “It’s not Victor Mabasha, but a guy called Sikosi Tsiki. The assassination attempt will probably take place tomorrow.”
“Goddammit!” said Borstlap.
They agreed to meet at Scheepers’ office without delay.
Judith could see her husband was scared.
“What’s happened?” she asked again.
“The worst that could possibly happen,” he replied.
Then he went out into the darkness.
It was nineteen minutes past midnight.
Chapter Thirty-five
Friday, June 12, was a clear but somewhat cool day in Cape Town. In the morning a bank of fog had drifted into Three Anchor Bay from the sea, but it had dispersed by now. The cold season was approaching in the Southern Hemisphere. You could already see lots of Africans on their way to work, dressed in woollen hats and thick jackets.
Nelson Mandela had arrived in Cape Town the previous evening. When he woke up at dawn, he thought about the coming day. It was a custom he had grown used to during the many years he spent as a prisoner on Robben Island. He lapsed into thoughtful silence. So many memories, so many bitter moments, but such a great triumph in the end.
He was an old man now, more than seventy years old. His time was limited: he was no different from anybody else and would not live forever. But he ought to live a few more years at least. Together with President de Klerk, he had to steer his country along the difficult, painful, but also wonderful path that would eventually lead to South Africa ridding itself of the apartheid system forever. The last fortress of colonialism on the black continent would finally fall. Once they had achieved that goal, they could withdraw, even die if need be. But he still had a great lust for life. He wanted to see it all through, and enjoy the sight of the black population liberating itself from the many hundreds of years of subjugation and humiliation. It would be a difficult path, he was aware of that. The roots of oppression ran deep into the African soul.
Nelson Mandela realized he would be elected the first black president of South Africa. That was not something he was striving to achieve. But he would have no grounds for declining.
It is a long way, he thought to himself. A long way to go for a man who has spent almost half his adult life in captivity.
He smiled to himself at the thought. But then he grew serious again. He thought about what de Klerk told him when they last met, a week ago. A group of highly placed boere had formed a conspiracy to kill him in order to create chaos and drive the country to the brink of civil war.
Could that really be possible, he wondered. He knew there were fanatical boere. People who hated all blacks, regarded them as animals without souls. But did they really think they could prevent what was happening in the country by means of some desperate conspiracy? Could they really be so blinded by their hatred-or was it fear, perhaps-that they thought it was possible to return to the old South Africa? Could they not see they were a dwindling minority? Admittedly with widespread influence still. But even so? Were they really prepared to sacrifice the future on the altar of a bloodbath?
Nelson Mandela shook his head. He had difficulty in believing that was true. De Klerk must have been exaggerating or misreading the information he had received. He was not afraid of anything happening to him.
Sikosi Tsiki had also arrived in Cape Town on Thursday evening. But unlike Nelson Mandela, he arrived unnoticed. He came by bus from Johannesburg, and got off unobserved when they reached Cape Town, got his bag, and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the darkness.
He had spent the night in the open. He slept in a hidden corner of Trafalgar Park. At the break of dawn, roughly the same time as Nelson Mandela had woken up and stood at his window, he climbed up the hill as far as he needed to, and installed himself there. Everything was in accordance with the map and instructions he had received from Franz Malan at Hammanskraal. He was pleased that he was being backed by such good organizers. There was nobody around; the barren slope was not suitable for picnics. The path to the summit, 350 meters high, meandered upwards on the other side of the hill. He had never used an escape car. He always felt freer moving around on foot. When it was all over he would walk quickly down the hill and blend in with the furious crowds demanding revenge for the death of Nelson Mandela. Then he would leave Cape Town.
Now he knew it was Mandela he was going to kill. He realized that the day Franz Malan told him when and where the assassination was to take place. He had read in the papers that Nelson Mandela was due to speak at the Green Point Stadium in the afternoon of June 12. He contemplated the oval-shaped arena stretched out in front of him, some 700 meters away. The distance did not worry him. His telescopic sights and the long-range rifle satisfied his requirements of precision and power.
He had not reacted to the news that it was Nelson Mandela who was to be his target. His first thought was that he ought to have been able to work that out himself. If these crazy boere were to have the slightest chance of creating chaos in the country, they would have to get rid of Nelson Mandela first. As long as he continued to stand up and speak, the black masses would be able to keep their self-control. Without him everything was more uncertain. Mandela had no obvious successor.
As far as Sikosi Tsiki was personally concerned, it would be an opportunity to right a personal wrong. It was not actually Nelson Mandela who had kicked him out of the ANC. But as he was the overall leader, he could nevertheless be regarded as responsible.
Sikosi Tsiki looked at his watch.
All he had to do now was wait.
Georg Scheepers and Inspector Borstlap landed at Malan Airport on the outskirts of Cape Town just after ten on Friday morning. They were tired and washed out after being on the go since one in the morning, trying to find out about Sikosi Tsiki. Half-asleep detectives had been hauled out of bed, computer operators controlling various police registers had turned up in overcoats over pajamas, having been collected by patrol cars. But when it was time to go to the airport, the result was depressing. Sikosi Tsiki was not in any of the registers. Nor had anyone ever heard of him. He was totally unknown to everybody. By half past seven they were on their way to Jan Smuts airport, just outside Johannesburg. During the flight they had tried increasingly desperately to formulate a strategy. They could see their chances of stopping this man, Sikosi Tsiki, were extremely limited, practically nonexistent. They had no idea what he looked like, they knew absolutely nothing about him. As soon as they landed in Cape Town, Scheepers went off to call President de Klerk and tell him that if possible, he should try and persuade Nelson Mandela to cancel his appearance that afternoon. Only when he went through the roof and threatened to have every police officer at the airport arrested did he manage to convince them who he was, and they left him alone in a room. It took almost a quarter of an hour to contact President de Klerk. Georg Scheepers told him as briefly as possible what had happened during the night. But de Klerk had responded in ice-cold fashion to his suggestion, saying it would be pointless. Mandela would never agree to cancel his engagements. Besides, they had gotten the time and place wrong before. That could happen again. Mandela had agreed to increase his bodyguard. There was nothing more the president of the Republic could do at the moment. When the conversation was over, Scheepers
