sanctions imposed by every country in the world apart from Portugal, Taiwan, Israel, and South Africa, Southern Rhodesia had never run short of the goods they needed to import. Nor had their exports suffered any serious downturn. This was due not least to American and Soviet politicians who flew discreetly to Salisbury and offered their services. The American politicians were mainly senators from the South, who considered it important to support the white minority in the country. Through their contacts, Greek and Italian businessmen, hastily established airlines and an ingenious network of intermediaries, they had taken it upon themselves to lift the sanctions by back-door methods. In their turn Russian politicians had used similar means to guarantee access to the Rhodesian metals they needed for their own industries. Soon there was nothing left but a mirage of isolation. Nevertheless, politicians throughout the world continued to preach condemnation of the white racist regime and praise the success of sanctions.
Jan Kleyn realized later that white South Africa also had many friends throughout the world. The support they received was less noticeable than what the blacks were getting. But Jan Kleyn had no doubt that what was happening in silence was at least as valuable as the support being proclaimed in the streets and public squares. This was a fight to the death, and in such circumstances everything goes.
“Who’ll replace him?” wondered Franz Malan.
“Sikosi Tsiki,” said Jan Kleyn. “He was number two on the list I made earlier. He’s twenty-eight, born near East London. He’s managed to get himself banned by both the ANC and Inkatha. In both cases for disloyalty and theft. He’s now full of such hatred for both organizations, I’d call it fanatical.”
“Fanatics,” said Franz Malan. “There’s generally something about fanatics that can’t be completely controlled. They have absolutely no fear of death. But they don’t always stick to the plans that have been laid.”
Jan Kleyn was irritated by Franz Malan’s magisterial tone. But he managed to conceal that when he responded.
“I’m the one calling him fanatical,” he said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll live up to the description in practice. He’s a man whose cold-bloodedness is scarcely any less intense than yours or mine.”
Franz Malan was happy with the response. As usual, he had no reason to doubt what Jan Kleyn said.
“I’ve talked to the rest of our friends on the committee,” Jan Kleyn went on. “I called a vote, since we were talking about picking a replacement after all. Nobody disagreed.”
Franz Malan could picture the committee members in his mind’s eye. Sitting round the oval-shaped walnut table, slowly raising their hands one after another. There were never any secret votes. Open decisions were necessary in order to make sure members’ loyalty never wavered. Apart from a determination to use drastic methods to secure the rights of Afrikaners and by extension all whites in South Africa, the committee members had little or nothing to do with each other. The fascist leader Terrace Blanche was regarded with ill-concealed contempt by many of the other committee members. But his presence was a necessity. The representative of the diamond family de Beers, an elderly man whom no one had ever seen laugh, was treated with the double-edged respect often aroused by extreme wealth. Judge Pelser, the Broederbond representative, was a man whose contempt for humankind was notorious. But he had great influence and was seldom contradicted. And finally there was General Stroesser, one of the air force high command, a man who disliked the company of civil servants or mine owners.
But they had voted to give Sikosi Tsiki the assignment. That meant he and Jan Kleyn could go through with their plans.
“Sikosi Tsiki will be leaving in three days,” said Jan Kleyn. “Konovalenko is ready to receive him. He’ll fly to Copenhagen via Amsterdam on a Zambian passport. Then he’ll be ferried over to Sweden by boat.”
Franz Malan nodded. Now it was his turn. He took some blackand-white enlarged photographs from his brief case. He had taken the pictures himself and developed them in the laboratory he had installed at home. He had copied the map at work when no one was looking.
“Friday, June 12,” he began. “The local police think there’ll be at least forty thousand in the crowd. There are lots of reasons why this could be a suitable occasion for us to pounce. To start with, there’s a hill, Signal Hill, just to the south of the stadium. The distance from there to where the podium will be is about 700 meters. There are no buildings on the summit. But there is a serviceable access road from the south side. Sikosi Tsiki shouldn’t have any problems getting there, or making his retreat. If necessary, he can even lie low up there before making his way down the hillside later and mixing with the blacks who’ll be milling around in the chaos that’s bound to follow.”
Jan Kleyn studied the photos carefully. He waited for Franz Malan to continue.
“My other argument,” said Franz Malan, “is that the assassination should take place in the heart of what we can call the English part of our country. Africans tend to react primitively. Their first reaction will be that somebody from Cape Town is responsible for the killing. Their rage will be directed at the locals who live in the town. All those liberal-minded Englishmen who wish the blacks so well will be forced to face up to what is in store for them if ever the blacks come to power in our country. That will make it much easier for us to stir up a backlash.”
Jan Kleyn nodded. He had been thinking along the same lines. He reflected briefly on what Franz Malan had said. In his experience every plan had some kind of weakness.
“What is there against it?” he asked.
“I have difficulty in finding anything at all,” replied Franz Malan.
“There’s always a weak point,” said Jan Kleyn. “We can’t make a final decision until we’ve put our finger on what it is.”
“I can only think of one thing that could go wrong,” said Franz Malan after a few moments’ silence. “Sikosi Tsiki could miss.”
Jan Kleyn looked surprised.
“He won’t miss,” he said. “I only pick people who hit their targets.”
“All the same, 700 meters is a long way,” said Franz Malan. “A sudden puff of wind. A flash of reflected sun nobody could have foreseen. The bullet misses by a couple of centimeters. Hits somebody else.”
“That just cannot happen,” said Jan Kleyn.
It occurred to Franz Malan that while they might not be able to find the weak point in the plan they were developing, he had found a weakness in Jan Kleyn. When rational arguments ran out, he reverted to fate. Something simply could not happen.
But he said nothing.
A servant brought them tea. They ran through the plan once more. Spelled out details, noted questions that needed answering. Not until nearly four in the afternoon did they think they had gotten as far as they could.
“Tomorrow it’s exactly a month to June 12,” said Jan Kleyn. “That means we don’t have much time to make up our minds. We’ll have to decide by next Friday if it’s going to be Cape Town or not. By then we must have weighed everything, and answered all the outstanding questions. Let’s meet here again on May 15, in the morning. Then I’ll get the whole committee together at twelve o’clock. During the coming week we’ll both have to go through the plans, independently, looking for cracks or weaknesses. We already know the strengths, the positive arguments. Now we’ll have to find the bad ones.”
Franz Malan nodded. He had no objections.
They shook hands and left the house at Hammanskraal ten minutes apart.
Jan Kleyn drove straight to the house in Bezuidenhout Park.
Miranda Nkoyi contemplated her daughter. She was sitting on the floor, staring into space. Miranda could see her eyes were not vacant, but alert. Whenever she looked at her daughter, she sometimes felt, as if in a brief fit of giddiness, that she was seeing her mother. Her mother was as young as that, barely seventeen years old, when she gave birth to Miranda. Now her own daughter was that same age.
What is she looking at, Miranda wondered. She sometimes felt a cold shudder running down her spine when she recognized features characteristic of Matilda’s father. Especially that look of intense concentration, even though she was staring into empty space. That inner vision that no one else could understand.
“Matilda,” she said tenderly, as if hoping to bring her back down to earth by treating her gently.
The girl came out of her reverie with a start, and looked her straight in the eye.
“I know my father will soon be here,” she said. “As you won’t let me hate him while he’s here, I do it while I’m waiting. You can dictate when. But you can never take the hatred away from me.”
Miranda wanted to cry out that she understood her feelings. She often thought that way herself. But she could not. She was like her mother, Matilda senior, who was saddened by the continual humiliation of not being permitted to lead a satisfactory life in her own country. Miranda knew she had grown soft just like her mother, and
