preparations, rehearsals, and extreme caution. Let me just say it’s a man we want you to eliminate. An important man.”
“A South African?” asked Victor Mabasha.
Jan Kleyn hesitated for a moment before replying.
“Yes,” he said. “A South African.”
Victor Mabasha tried to work out quickly who it could be. But there was a lot he did not know. And who was this fat, sweaty man sitting silently and hunched up in the shadows on the other side of the table? Victor Mabasha had a vague feeling he recognized him. Had he met him before? If so, in what connection? Had he seen his photograph in a newspaper? He searched his memory frantically, but in vain.
The driver put out some cups and saucers, and placed the coffeepot in the middle of the green cloth. Nobody said a word until he left the room and closed the door behind him.
“In about ten days we want you to leave South Africa,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll go straight back to Ntibane. Tell everybody you know there you’re going to Botswana to work for an uncle who has an ironmonger’s store in Gaborone. You’ll be receiving a letter postmarked in Botswana, offering you a job. Show people this letter as often as you can. On April 15, in a week, you’ll take the bus to Johannesburg. You’ll be picked up at the bus station and spend the night in an apartment, where you’ll meet me in order to receive your final instructions. The next day you’ll fly to Europe, and then on to St. Petersburg. Your passport will say you’re from Zimbabwe, and you’ll have a new name. You can choose one yourself. When you get to St. Petersburg you’ll be met at the airport. You’ll take the train to Finland, and go from there to Sweden by boat. You’ll stay in Sweden for a few weeks. You’ll meet somebody there who’ll give you your most important instructions. On a date as yet unfixed you’ll return to South Africa. Once you’re back here, I’ll take over responsibility for the final phase. It’ll be all over by the end of June at the latest. You can collect your money wherever you like in the world. You’ll be paid an advance of 100,000 rand as soon as you’ve agreed to carry out this little assignment we have lined up for you.”
Jan Kleyn stared intently at him in silence. Victor Mabasha wondered if his ears had deceived him. St. Petersburg? Finland? Sweden? He tried to conjure up a map of Europe in his mind’s eye, but failed.
“I have just one question,” he said after a while. “What’s this all about?”
“It shows we are cautious and meticulous,” said Jan Kleyn. “You ought to appreciate that, because it’s a guarantee for your own safety.”
“I can look after myself,” said Victor Mabasha dismissively. “But let’s start from the beginning. Who’ll be meeting me in St. Petersburg?”
“As you may know, the Soviet Union has undergone big changes these last few years,” said Jan Kleyn. “Changes we’re all very pleased about. But on the other hand, it has meant that a lot of very efficient people are out of a job. Including officers in the secret police, the KGB. We get a constant stream of inquiries from these people, wondering if we’re interested in their skills and experience. In many cases there’s no limit to what they’ll do in order to get a residence permit in our country.”
“I’m not working with the KGB,” said Victor Mabasha. “I don’t work with anybody. I’ll do whatever I have to do, and I’ll do it alone.”
“Quite right, too,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll be working on your own. But you’ll get some very useful tips from our friends who’ll be picking you up in St. Petersburg. They’re very good.”
“Why Sweden?”
Jan Kleyn took a sip of coffee.
“A good question, and a natural one to ask,” he began. “In the first place, it’s a diversionary measure. Even if nobody in this country who’s not involved has any idea what’s going on, it’s a good idea to put out a few smoke screens. Sweden is a neutral, insignificant little country, and has always been very aggressively opposed to our social system. It would never occur to anybody that the lamb would hide away in the wolf’s lair. Second, our friends in St. Petersburg have some good contacts in Sweden. It’s very easy to get into the country because the border controls are pretty casual, if indeed there are any at all. Many of our Russian friends have already established themselves in Sweden, with false names and false papers. Third, we have some reliable friends who can arrange appropriate living quarters for us in Sweden. But most important of all, perhaps, is that you keep well away from South Africa. There are far too many people interested in knowing what a fellow like me is up to. A plan can be exposed.”
Victor Mabasha shook his head.
“I have to know who it is I’m going to kill,” he said.
“When the time is ripe,” said Jan Kleyn. “Not before. Let me conclude by reminding you of a conversation we had nearly eight years ago. You said then that it’s possible to kill anybody at all, provided you plan it properly. The bottom line is that nobody can get away. And now I’m waiting for your answer.”
That was the moment it dawned on Victor Mabasha whom he was going to kill.
The thought sent him reeling. But it all fit. Jan Kleyn’s irrational hatred of blacks, the increasing liberalization of South Africa.
An important man. They wanted him to shoot President de Klerk.
His first reaction was to say no. It would be taking too big a risk. How could he possibly get past all the bodyguards surrounding the president night and day? How could he possibly escape afterward? President de Klerk was a target for an assassin who was prepared to die in a suicide attack.
At the same time he could not deny he still believed what he had said to Jan Kleyn eight years ago. Nobody in the world was immune from a skilled assassin.
And a million rand. Mind-boggling. He couldn’t refuse.
“Three hundred thousand in advance,” he said. “I want it in a London bank by the day after tomorrow at the latest. I want the right to refuse to go along with the final plan if I consider it to be too risky. In that case you would have the right to require me to work out an alternative. In those circumstances I’ll take it on.”
Jan Kleyn smiled.
“Excellent,” he said. “I knew you would.”
“I want my passport made out in the name of Ben Travis.”
“Of course. A good name. Easy to remember.”
There was a plastic file on the floor next to Jan Kleyn’s chair. He took out a letter postmarked in Botswana and handed it over to Victor Mabasha.
“There’s a bus to Johannesburg from Umtata at six in the morning on April 15. That’s the one we want you to take.”
Jan Kleyn and the man who said his name was Franz got to their feet.
“We’ll take you back home by car,” said Jan Kleyn. “As time is short, you’d better go tonight. You can sleep in the back seat.”
Victor Mabasha nodded. He was in a hurry to get home. A week was not long for him to sort out all the things he needed to do. Such as finding out who this Franz really was.
Now his own safety was on the line. It needed all his concentration.
They parted on the veranda. This time Victor Mabasha did not hold out his hand. His weapons were returned, and he got into the back seat of the car.
President de Klerk, he thought. Nobody can escape. Not even you.
Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan remained on the veranda, watching the car lights disappear.
“I think you’re right,” said Franz Malan. “I think he’ll do it.”
“Of course he’ll do it,” Jan Kleyn replied. “Why do you think I chose the best?”
Franz Malan stared thoughtfully up at the stars.
“Do you think he realized who the target was?”
“I think he guessed it was de Klerk,” said Jan Kleyn. “That would be the obvious person.”
Franz Malan turned away from the stars and looked straight at Jan Kleyn.
“That was what you wanted him to do, wasn’t it? Guess?”
“Of course,” Jan Kleyn replied. “I never do anything by chance. And now I think we’d better go our separate ways. I have an important meeting in Bloemfontein tomorrow.”
On April 17 Victor Mabasha flew to London under the name of Ben Travis. By then he knew who Franz Malan was. That had also convinced him the target was President de Klerk. In his suitcase he had a few books about de Klerk. He knew he would have to find out as much about him as possible.
