Klerk.
De Klerk had a recurrent dream about termites.
He was in a house where every floor, every wall, every piece of furniture had been attacked by the hungry insects. Why he had come to the house, he had no idea. Grass was growing up between the floorboards, the windowpanes were shattered, and the furious chewing of the termites was like an itch in his own body. In his dream he had a very short time in which to write an important speech. His usual shorthand typist had disappeared, and he had to do the work himself. But when he started writing, termites came pouring out of his pen.
At that point he usually woke up. He would lie in the dark, thinking how the dream might anticipate coming reality. Maybe everything was too late already? What he wanted to achieve, to rescue South Africa from disintegration while still preserving the influence and special status of the whites as far as possible, could well be already too far out of step with black impatience. Only Nelson Mandela could convince him there was no other course to take. De Klerk knew they both shared the same fear. Uncontrolled violence, a chaotic collapse that no one could control, a breeding ground for a brutal military coup intent on revenge, or various ethnic groupings that would fight each other until nothing was left.
It was ten at night on Thursday, May 21. De Klerk knew the young lawyer Scheepers was already waiting in his anteroom. But de Klerk did not feel ready to receive him just yet. He was tired, his head bursting with all the problems he was constantly being forced to try and solve. He got up from his desk and went over to one of the high windows. He sometimes felt petrified by all the responsibility resting on his shoulders. He thought it was too much for one man to bear. He sometimes felt an instinctive urge to run away, to make himself invisible, to go straight out into the bush and simply disappear, to fade away into a mirage. But he knew he would not do that. The God he found increasingly difficult to talk to and believe in was maybe still shielding him after all. He wondered how much time he still had. His mood was constantly changing. From being convinced he was already living on borrowed time, he could start believing he had another five years after all. And time was what he needed. His grand design-to delay the transition to a new kind of society for as long as possible, and meanwhile to entice a large number of black voters into his own party-needed time. But he could also see that Nelson Mandela would refuse to allow him time that was not used to pave the way for the transition.
It seemed to him there was an element of artificiality in everything he did. I too am really an upholder of the impossible dream, that my country will never change. The difference between me and a fanatic madman who wants to defend the impossible dream with open violence is very small.
Time is running out for South Africa, it seemed to him. What is happening now ought to have happened many years ago. But history does not follow invisible guidelines.
He returned to his desk and rang the bell. Shortly afterwards Scheepers came in. De Klerk had come to appreciate his energy and thoroughness. He overlooked the streak of naive innocence he also detected in the young lawyer. Even this young Afrikaner had to learn there were sharp rocks under the soft sand.
He listened to Scheepers’s report with half-closed eyes. The words that got through to him piled up in his consciousness. When Scheepers had finished, de Klerk looked searchingly at him.
“I take it for granted everything I’ve just heard is true,” said de Klerk.
“Yes,” replied Scheepers. “No doubt about it.”
“None at all?”
“No.”
De Klerk thought for a moment before proceeding.
“So they’re going to kill Nelson Mandela,” he said. “Some miserable contract killer selected and paid by the executive branch of this secret committee. The murder will take place in the near future when Mandela is making one of his many public appearances. The consequence will be chaos, a bloodbath, total collapse. A group of influential boere are waiting in the wings to take over the government of this country. The constitution and the social order will be overturned. A corporate regime will be imposed, consisting of equal parts from the military, the police and civilian groups. The future will be one long, drawn-out state of emergency. Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Scheepers. “If I may be allowed to venture a guess, I would say the assassination attempt will be on June 12.”
“Why?”
“Nelson Mandela is due to speak in Cape Town. I have received information to the effect that the army information office has being displaying an unusual amount of interest in the plans made for dealing with the occasion by the local police. There are also other indications which suggest this is the case. I am well aware it is only a guess. But I’m convinced it’s an informed guess.”
“Three weeks,” said de Klerk. “Three weeks in which to stop these lunatics.”
“If that is in fact right,” said Scheepers. “We can’t ignore the possibility that June 12 and Cape Town are a red herring. The people involved in this are very cunning. The assassination attempt could easily take place tomorrow.”
“In other words, at any time,” said de Klerk. “Any place. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
He fell silent. Scheepers waited.
“I must speak with Nelson Mandela,” said de Klerk. “He has to know what’s afoot.”
Then he turned to Scheepers.
“These people must be stopped without delay,” he said.
“We don’t know who they are,” Scheepers pointed out. “How can we stop something we don’t know about?”
“What about the man they’ve hired?”
“We don’t know who he is either.”
De Klerk looked thoughtfully at him.
“You have a plan,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”
Scheepers could feel himself blushing.
“Mr. President,” he said. “I think the key to all this is Jan Kleyn. The man in the intelligence service. He has to be arrested immediately. Of course, the risk is he won’t talk. Or he might prefer to commit suicide. But I can see no alternative to interrogating him.”
De Klerk nodded.
“Let’s do that,” he said. “In fact we have quite a few skillful interrogators who can usually force the truth out of people.”
Out of blacks, thought Scheepers. Who then die in mysterious circumstances.
“I think it would be best if I could conduct the interrogation,” he said. “I know most about it, after all.”
“Do you think you can handle him?”
“Yes.”
The president rose. The audience was over.
“Jan Kleyn will be arrested tomorrow,” said de Klerk. “And I want running reports from now on. Once every day.”
The shook hands.
Scheepers left, nodding to the old security guard waiting in the antechamber. Then he drove home through the night, with his pistol on the seat beside him.
De Klerk stood at his window for a long time, deep in thought.
Then he worked at his desk for a few more hours.
Outside in the antechamber, the old guard ambled round straightening out folds in the carpets and smoothing cushions on chairs. All the time he was thinking over what he had overheard with his ear to the door of the president’s private office. He realized the situation was extremely serious. He went into the room that served as his own modest office. He removed the telephone from the plug routed through the switchboard. Behind a loose wooden panel was another socket only he knew about. He lifted the receiver and got a direct line out. Then he dialed a number.
The answer came almost immediately. Jan Kleyn was not yet asleep.
After his conversation with the guard at the president’s private office, he could see this was going to be a sleepless night.
