Thiroko straddled two generations of the Movement. He was neither a part of the old political hierarchy who wanted the military wing to attack only hard targets where the gesture mattered more than the mayhem, nor was he among the ranks of the young hawks who demanded the right to hit the soft targets of the White supermarkets and railway carriages and resort hotels. To his colleagues he was dedicated, humourless and reliable. To the South African police he was a murderous enemy, one they would dearly love to have trapped when the Recce Commando went into Maputo and Maseru in Lesotho and Gaberone. He had been out of Maseru less than twenty-four hours when the Recce Commando stormed the A.N.C. base houses. He hated the White war machine. He knew of no sacrifice too great if the regime could be brought down.
He saw Jack come into the square. He watched him pass the office girls playing net ball in their morning break. He saw him look around and pass the gardener laying out the first trays of the year's bedding plants. He knew of the boy's hither. The Movement was peopled with men and women who could not keep their mouths tight shut. Carew had never been suspected of leaking information. A dozen years was a long, long time to have survived the resistance war in Johannesburg.
It had been Thiroko, from his office in Lusaka, who had suggested that Carew should drive the getaway.
He owed it to Carew that he should meet his son.
He watched Arkwright settle onto a bench close to the net ball pitch. He disliked the foreign Whites who lionised the Movement from t h e comfort of their European cities.
He watched to satisfy himself that there was no tail on the young man. The young man saw him, and Thiroko recognised the relief on Jack's face. The relief told him of the strain. The strain told him of the genuineness of Carew's boy. He presumed he was to be offered explosives, that he would have to explain gently that the Movement had all the explosives it could h a n d l e. He would do it in a kindly fashion.
•**
'I am sympathetic to you, as I am sympathetic to the families of Happy Zikala and Charlie Schoba and Percy Ngoye and Tom Mweshtu. To all of the families goes the very sincere sympathy of the Movement..
'And what should those families do about it?' A harshness in Jack's voice.
'They will pray, they will attend protest meetings, in South Africa they are going to make video cassettes that will be sent to every head of state represented at the General Assembly of the United Nations… '
'Prayers and protests and petitions, Mr Thiroko, are a great waste of time.'
'Tell me what is not a waste of time.'
'I am going to go to South Africa. To the gaol where my father is held. I am going to blow a hole in the wall, and I am going to take my father out.'
'Should I laugh because you are so stupid, should I cry because you are so sincere?'
'It's not a joke to me.'
Thiroko was hissing back at him. 'You know what the gaol is, boy? The gaol is the peak of a security system. From every other gaol in the country men are escaping, and no man has escaped from that gaol for ten years. They are desperate men, they are going to hang, they are sitting in their cells for more than a year, most of them. They are thinking of escape, and for more than ten years none of them has managed it.'
Jack on the offensive. He had the man arguing, not laughing. That was good.
'Anywhere that's maximum security is vulnerable.
Maximum security breeds complacency.'
'The gaol isn't up against the street. The gaol is in the middle of a complex. You would be shot hundreds of yards short of the walls. If you are shot dead, how does that help your father?'
'How does it help him if I sit on my arse, and pray and shout outside their embassy and ask politicians to watch a video? That's doing fuck all to help him.'
'You would be killed.'
'He's my father,' Jack said flatly. 'So be it.'
Thiroko leaned back against the arm of the bench. He was trying to read Jack.
'You are a good boy. You work here, you have a family.
You have to exist through the next weeks, then you have to resume your life. After it has happened you have to forget your father.'
'I'm going to South Africa.'
'Do you listen to anybody?'
Jack couldn't help himself, a snap grin. 'Hardly ever.'
'It is not my intention to help you to kill yourself.'
''I'm going to bring my father home.'
''Impossible, you understand that word?'
''Give me the chance.'
'Your failure would hurt us, and it is impossible that you could succeed.'
'Not if you helped me.'
Thioko shook his head, as if he did not believe what he learned in the slate grey eyes of Jack Curwen.
'I can't do it.'
Jack's hand covered Thiroko's fist, a hard unyielding grip.
Where were you when the Court bomb went off? Where will you be when five men hang? Sitting on your arse and comfortable?'
'You take a chance with me, young man.' The anger was brilliant on Thiroko's face.
'Lying in your pit and snoring?'
'I care about my men,' Thiroko spat the answer.
'Your Movement took a chance with the lives of five men.
You owe it to them to help me.'
'No one tells me my duty.'
'Your duty is to help them, not to sit on your bloody hands.'
Thiroko softened. He had never been in combat in South Africa. He had never fired a Kalashnikov assault rifle at the Boer police or the Boer troops. He had never carried a bomb to a target and known the fear sweat in the fold of his stomach. He thought of what the physician had told him.
'What do you want?'
Jack felt the glow of success. 'I can't take explosives with me, I can't get them through the airport. I want access to explosives in South Africa – and I want a team.'
'Why should I trust you with a team?'
'When I get to Johannesburg, give me explosives, that's all. Sit on your hands, on your arse, and wait, and listen to the radio. You'll hear what your explosives have done, the radio'll tell you, what I've done on my own, and when you're satisfied then you'll give me a team.'
'What is it you want exactly?'
'When I arrive I want a minimum of twenty pounds of explosive. I want detonators and Cordtex and safety fuse. I will hit the target of my choice. Then you'll know I'm worth the team.'
'All for your father.'
'To bring him back.'
Thiroko took a notepad from his pocket. He wrote out an address. He showed the address to Jack, told him to memorise it, let his eyes linger on it, then folded the paper and tore it into a hundred pieces that he threw to float away and disperse over the grass. He told Jack to meet him at the address the following morning.
'You're going to help me?'
'I am going to think about helping you.'
'Time's very short.'
'I too learned to count. I know how many days are available.'
Thiroko walked away from the bench. He was soon gone from sight. Jack was trembling. God, the assurance and the bombast had fled him. God, and was he frightened.
•* •
He was an age finding a phone box that worked.
He rang Jimmy Sandham at work. He wanted to meet with him, had to talk to someone.
A brisk voice answering, stating that he was through to the Foreign Office. Jack gave the extension number.
