“No, it isn’t. This is oh five three one, one nine three six eight. You must have the wrong number.”
The telephone line clicked and then buzzed as the caller hung up.
Oost followed suit and turned to face his wife. She stared worriedly up at him from her needlework.
“Who was it, Riaan? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed, feeling the first surge of excitement pounding through his veins. It had been a long wait.
“It was them, Marta.
They’ve put things in gear.”
She nodded slowly, knowing that the moment she’d both prayed for and dreaded had come at last.
“You’ll be needing help, then?”
He shook his head.
“No. I’ll do all the moving myself. Less chance of trouble that way. You stay here and tell anyone who calls that I’ve gone to bed… that I’m feeling a bit under the weather. Can you do that for me?” He was already pulling on his jacket.
“Of course, darling.” She clasped her hands together.
“But you will be very, very careful, won’t you?”
Riaan Oost paused by the door, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Don’t worry, Marta. If anybody stops me, I’m just the simple colored boy running errands for his master. They’ll never think to look closely at what I’m carrying.” He blew her a kiss and went outside toward the too] shed attached to his cottage.
The ANC had recruited Riaan Oost more than ten years before. At the time, he’d been a student studying agronomy at the University of Cape Town.
He’d been unusual even then-one of the few hundred mixed-race youths permitted an education beside their white superiors. He’d also displayed a quiet, unwavering determination to learn, a determination that masked his fierce resentment of apartheid and the whole
Afrikaner-dominated system.
The ANC cell leader who’d spotted Oost had insisted that he spurn any contact with the student-run anti apartheid movement. And he’d obeyed, heeding the cell leader’s promise of a larger, more important role in later years.
Untainted by a public connection with dissidents and unsuspected by the security forces, Oost graduated with distinction. He’d married and moved to the western Cape, trapped in the only job open to a colored man of his talents and education~-tenant farmer for a loudmouthed, boorish
Afrikaner.
Oost smiled grimly to himself as he unlocked the shed door. Yes, it had been a long, painful wait. But now the waiting was almost over.
He pulled a rack of tools away from the shed’s back wall and knelt to examine the crates and boxes he’d uncovered. All of them seemed intact.
Just as they had on delivery six months before.
With a muffled groan, he heaved the first crate into his arms and staggered outside toward his battered old pickup. Grenade launchers, automatic rifles, and explosives weighed more than wooden vine stakes and baskets of fresh-picked grapes.
Half an hour later, Riaan Oost backed his overloaded truck carefully out onto the dirt track winding down his valley. He saw his wife standing sadly at the window, waved, and drove off into the surrounding darkness.
Broken Covenant’s first phase was under way.
CHAPTER
-2
Staging
JUNE I -THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, CAPE TOWN,
SOUTH AFRICA
When the last camera light winked out, the temperature in the packed briefing room began falling-dropping slowly from an almost unbearable level of heat and humidity normally found only in Turkish steam baths. Around the room, reporters from across the globe swapped rumors, gossip, and friendly insults, fighting to be heard above a hive like buzz of frenzied conversation. It was the usual end to a very unusual South African government press conference.
Ian Sheffield smiled in satisfaction as he closed his notebook and watched
Knowles pack away their gear. He’d finally been given a story bound to play on the air back in the States. Haymans’s willingness to accept the possibility of majority rule and an in-depth, independent investigation of the security services was news all right, big news-no matter how genuine the offer was, or whether anything of substance ever came of it.
Knowing the Afrikaner mentality, Ian doubted that anything really would.
Even the most moderate National Party member could never contemplate surrendering all vestiges of white domination over South Africa. And even the most reasonable ANC leader would never settle for anything less. It was a ready-made formula for failure. A failure that would generate more violence and more corpses strewn across the country’s streets.
The thought erased his smile.
South Africa’s story had all the elements of a grand tragedy-missed opportunities, misunderstandings, hatred, arrogance, greed, and fear. The worst part was that it seemed a never-ending tragedy, a problem completely beyond human solution.
Ian sighed, reminding himself that whatever happened would make news for him to report. He’d learned early on not to get too involved in the events he covered. It was the first lesson drummed into every would-be journalist’s skull. Staying detached was the only way to stay objective and sane. Once your personal opinions and attitudes started governing the way you reported a story, you were well on the way to becoming just an unpaid propagandist for one side or the other.
Knowles tapped his shoulder.
“Hadn’t you better get going? I thought you had lunch plans today.”
Yikes. Ian glanced at his watch. Somewhere in the middle of Haymans’s press conference he’d completely lost track of the time.
“I did… I mean, I do.”
But now he and Knowles had too much work to finish before their daily transmission window opened on the network communications satellite. He’d have to call Emily and cancel. And she wouldn’t be very happy about that.
They’d been planning this afternoon’s excursion for more than a week.
Well, she’d understand, wouldn’t she? After all, this was the biggest story to come his way since he’d gotten to Cape Town. Knowles wouldn’t really need his help until later, but it still seemed wrong to simply vanish on one of South Africa’s rare “hot” news days. Damn. Talk about getting caught in a cross fire between your profession and your personal life. Emily
van der Heijden was the one good thing that had happened to him in South
Africa.
Knowles saw the look on his face and laughed.
“Look, boyo. You cut along to lunch. And by the time you’ve finished stuffing your face, I’ll have the whole tape edited, prepped, and ready to go. “
“Thanks, Sam-I owe you one.” Ian paused, calculating how much time he’d need.
“Listen, the window opens at six, right’? Well, I probably won’t be back until four or so to do the voice-over, wrap-up, and sign-off. Is that still okay by you?”
Knowles’s fight eyebrow rose.
“Oh… it’s one of those kind of lunch dates.”
Ian was surprised to find himself embarrassed. If any other woman but Emily were involved, he’d simply have grinned and let Knowles’s lurid imagination run wild. Hell, if he were still back in the States, Knowles wouldn’t have
