He stepped on the gas and thought the problems in Sweden would soon be solved. For some days he had been wondering if Konovalenko really was as skillful and cold-blooded as he had assumed. Had he made a mistake in employing him? He decided that was not the case. Konovalenko would do whatever was necessary. Victor Mabasha would soon be liquidated. Indeed, it might have happened already. A man called Sikosi Tsiki, number two on his original list, would take his place and Konovalenko would give him the same training Victor Mabasha had received.
The only thing that still struck Jan Kleyn as strange was the incident that brought on Victor Mabasha’s breakdown. How could a man like him react so violently to the death of an insignificant Swedish woman? Had there been a weak point of sentimentality in him after all? In that case it was a good job they found out in time. If they hadn’t, what might have happened when Victor Mabasha had his victim in sight?
He brushed all thoughts of Victor Mabasha to one side and returned instead to the surveillance he had been subjected to without his knowledge. There were no details in his computer files, no names, no places, nothing. But he was aware that a skillful intelligence officer could draw certain conclusions even so, not the least of which would be that an unusual and crucial political assassination was being planned.
It seemed to Jan Kleyn that in reality he had been lucky. He had discovered the penetration of his computer in time, and would be able to do something about it.
Colonel Franz Malan climbed aboard the helicopter waiting for him at the special army airfield near Johannesburg. It was a quarter past seven; he figured he’d be in Durban by about eight. He nodded to the pilots, fastened his seat belt, and contemplated the ground below as they took off. He was tired. The thought of what could be worrying Jan Kleyn had kept him awake until dawn.
He gazed thoughtfully at the African township they were flying over. He could see the decay, the slums, the smoke from the fires.
How could they defeat us? he wondered. All we need is to be stubborn and show them we mean business. It will cost a lot of blood, even white blood, as in Pinetown last night. But continued white rule in South Africa doesn’t come for free. It requires sacrifices.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.
Soon he would find out what had been bugging Jan Kleyn.
They got to the cordoned-off restaurant in Pinetown within ten minutes of each other. They spent a little over an hour in the bloodstained rooms together with the local investigators, led by Inspector Samuel de Beer. It was clear to both Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan that the attackers had done a good job. They had expected the death toll to be higher than nine, but that was of minor importance. The massacre of the innocent wine-tasters had the expected effect. Blind fury and demands for revenge from the whites had already been forthcoming. Jan Kleyn heard both Nelson Mandela and President de Klerk independently condemning the incident on his car radio. De Klerk even threatened the perpetrators with violent revenge.
“Is there any trace of whoever carried out this crazy outrage?” wondered Jan Kleyn.
“Not yet,” said Samuel de Beer. “We haven’t even found anyone who saw the escape car.”
“The best thing would be for the government to offer a reward right away,” said Franz Malan. “I shall personally ask the Minister of Defense to propose that at the next cabinet meeting.”
As he spoke there came the sound of a disturbance on the barricaded street outside, where a crowd of whites had gathered. Many of them were brandishing guns, and blacks who saw the crowd turned off and went another way. The restaurant door burst open and a white woman in her thirties barged in. She was highly excited, verging on the hysterical. When she saw Inspector Sibande, the only black man on the premises, she drew a pistol and fired a shot in his direction. Harry Sibande managed to fling himself to the ground and took refuge behind an upturned table. But the woman kept on going straight for the table, still shooting the pistol which she was holding stiffly in both hands. All the time she was screeching in Afrikaans that she would avenge her brother who had been killed the previous evening. She would not rest until every single kaffir had been wiped out.
Samuel de Beer grappled with her and disarmed her. Then he led her out to a waiting police car. Harry Sibande stood up behind the table. He was shaken. One of the bullets had gone through the table top and ripped the sleeve of his uniform.
Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan had observed the incident. It all happened very quickly, but both of them were thinking the same thing. The white woman’s reaction was exactly what the previous night’s massacre was intended to provoke. Only on a larger scale. Hatred should engulf the whole country in one giant wave.
De Beer returned, wiping sweat and blood from his face.
“You can’t help but sympathize with her,” he said.
Harry Sibande said nothing.
Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan promised to send all the assistance de Beer thought he needed. They concluded the conversation by assuring one another this terrorist outrage must and would be solved quickly. The they left the restaurant together in Jan Kleyn’s car, and drove out of Pinetown. They went north along the N2 and turned off toward the sea at a sign for Umhlanga Rocks. Jan Kleyn pulled up at a little seafood restaurant right on the seafront. They could be undisturbed here. They ordered langouste and drank mineral water. Franz Malan took off his jacket and hung it up.
“According to my information, Inspector de Beer is an outstandingly incompetent detective,” he said. “His kaffir colleague is supposed to be much brighter. Persistent as well.”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve heard,” said Jan Kleyn. “The investigation will go around and around in meaningless circles until all the relatives have forgotten what happened.”
He put his knife down and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Death is never pleasant,” he went on. “Nobody causes a bloodbath unless it’s really necessary. On the other hand, there are no winners, only losers. Nor are there any victors without sacrifices. I suppose I’m basically a very primitive Darwinist. Survival of the fittest. When a house is on fire, no one asks where the fire started before putting it out.”
“What’ll happen to the three men?” asked Franz Malan. “I don’t remember seeing what was decided.”
“Let’s take a little walk when we’ve finished eating,” said Jan Kleyn with a grin.
Franz Malan knew that was the nearest he would get to an answer for the time being. He knew Kleyn well enough to be aware it was a waste of time asking any more questions. He’d find out soon enough.
Over coffee Jan Kleyn started to explain why it had been so necessary for him to meet with Franz Malan.
“As you know, those of us who work undercover for various intelligence organizations live in accordance with several unwritten rules and assumptions,” he began. “One of them is that we all keep an eye on everybody else. The trust we place in our colleagues is always limited. We all take our own measures to keep tabs on our personal security. Not least in order to make sure nobody trespasses too far into our own territory. We lay a minefield all around us, and we do so because everybody else does the same. In this way we strike a balance, and everybody can get on with his job. Unfortunately, I have discovered that somebody has been taking too great an interest in my computer files. Somebody has been given the job of checking me out. That assignment must have come from very high up.”
Franz Malan turned pale.
“Have our plans been exposed?” he asked.
Jan Kleyn looked at him with eyes as cold as ice.
“Needless to say, I am not as careless as that,” he said. “Nothing in my computer files can reveal the undertaking we have set ourselves, and that we are in the process of carrying out. There are no names, nothing. On the other hand, one can’t get away from the fact that a sufficiently intelligent person could draw conclusions which might point him in the right direction. That makes it serious.”
“It’ll be difficult to find out who it is,” said Franz Malan.
“Not at all,” said Jan Kleyn. “I already know who it is.”
Franz Malan stared at him in astonishment.
“I started to find my way forward by going backward,” said Jan Kleyn. “That’s often an excellent way of getting results. I asked myself where the assignment could have come from. It didn’t take long to see that there are only two persons who can really be interested in finding out what I’m up to. The president and the foreign secretary.”
Franz Malan opened his mouth in order to interject.
