were still too cowed by Pretoria’s paratroops, artillery, and Mirage jet fighters to offer meaningful help. And without their aid, every ANC operation aimed at South Africa faced crippling logistical obstacles.
He heard a throat being cleared behind his back. His guest must be growing impatient.
“You know why I’m here, Comrade Luthuli, don’t you?”
Luthuli turned away from the window to face the squat, balding white man seated on the other side of his desk, Taffy Collins, a fellow Party member and one of the ANC’s chief military strategists, had been his mentor for years. Whoever had picked him as the bearer of bad tidings had made a brilliant tactical move.
Luthuli pulled his chair back and sat down.
“We’ve known each other too long to play guessing games, Taffy. Say what you’ve been ordered to say. “
“All right.” Collins nodded abruptly.
“The Executive Council has decided to accept Haymans’s offers at face value. The negotiations will continue.”
Luthuh gritted his teeth.
“Have our leaders gone mad? These socalled talks are nothing more than a sham, a facade to hide Pretoria’s crimes. “
Collins held up a single plump hand.
“I agree, Sese. And so do many of the
Council members.”
“Then why agree to this… “
“Idiocy?” Collins smiled thinly.
“Because we have no other realistic choice. For once those fat Boer bastards have behaved very cleverly indeed.
If we spurn this renewed overture, many around the world will blame us for the continuing violence.
“Just as important, our ‘steadfast’ hosts here in Lusaka have made it clear that they want these peace talks to go ahead. If we disappoint them, they’ll disappoint us-by blocking arms shipments, food, medicine, and all the other supplies we desperately need.”
“I see,” Luthuli said flatly.
“So we’re being blackmailed into throwing away our years of armed struggle. The Boers can continue to kill us while whispering sweet nothings to our negotiators.”
“Not a bit of it, comrade.” Collins spread his hands wide.
“What do you really think will come of all this jabbering over a fancy round table?”
Collins laughed harshly, answering his own question.
“Nothing! The hard-line Afrikaners will never willingly agree to meet our fundamental demands: open voting, redistribution of South Africa’s wealth, and guarantees that the people will own all the means of production.”
Collins leaned forward and tapped Luthuli’s desk with a finger.
“Mark my words, Sese. In three months’ time these ridiculous talks won’t even be a bad memory. The weak kneed cowards in our own ranks will be discredited, and we can get back to the business of bringing Pretoria to its knees. “
Luthuli sat rigid for a moment, thinking over what Collins had said. The man was right, as always, but “What about Broken Covenant?”
“You’ve set it in motion, am I right?”
Luthuli nodded.
“A week ago. The orders are being passed south through our courier chain right now.”
Collins shook his head.
“Then you’ll have to abort. Pull our people back into cover while you still can.”
“It will be difficult. Some have already left for the rendezvous point. “
“Sese, I don’t care how difficult it is. Broken Covenant must be called off.” The ANC strategist sounded faintly exasperated now.
“At a time when the Afrikaners seem outwardly reasonable, carrying out such an operation would be a diplomatic disaster we can’t afford! Do you understand that?”
Luthuli nodded sharply, angry at being talked to as if he were a wayward child.
“Good.” Collins softened his tone.
“So we’ll sit quietly for now. And in six months, you’ll get another chance to make those slave-owning bastards pay, right?”
“As you say.” Luthuli felt his anger draining away as he reached for the phone. Cosate’s revenge would be postponed, not abandoned.
JUNE I O-GAZANKULU PRIMARY SCHOOL, SOWETO
TOWNSHIP, SOUTH AFRICA
Nearly fifty small children crammed the classroom. A few sat in rickety wooden desks, but most squatted on the cracked linoleum floor or jostled for space against the school’s cement-block walls. Despite the crowding, they listened quietly to their teacher as he ran through the alphabet again. Most of the children knew that they were getting the only education they’d ever be allowed by government policy and economic necessity. And they were determined to learn as much as possible before venturing out into the streets in a futile search for work.
Nthato Mbeki turned from the blackboard and wiped his hands on a rag. He avoided the eager eyes of his students. They wanted far more than he could give them in this tumbledown wreck of a school. He didn’t have the resources to teach them even the most basic skills-reading, writing, and a little arithmetic-let alone anything more complicated. And that was exactly what South Africa’s rulers desired. From Pretoria’s perspective, continued white rule depended largely on keeping the nation’s black majority unskilled, ignorant, and properly servile.
Mbeki’s hands tightened around the chalk-smeared rag, crushing out a fine white powder before he dropped it onto his desk. He swallowed hard, trying not to let the children see his anger. It would only frighten them.
His hatred of apartheid and its creators grew fiercer with every passing day. Only his secret work as an ANC courier let him fight the monstrous injustices he saw all around. Lately even that had begun to seem too passive. After all, what was he really to the ANC? Nothing more than a link in a long, thin chain, a single neuron in a network stretching back to
Lusaka. No one of consequence. He thought again of asking his controller for permission to play a more active part in the struggle.
Mbeki’s Japanese wristwatch beeped, signaling the end of another sc hot-.)l day. He looked at the sea of eager, innocent faces around him and nodded.
“Class dismissed. But don’t forget to review your primers before tomorrow. I shall expect you to have completed pages four through six for our next lesson. “
He sat down at his desk as the children filed out, all quiet broken by their high-pitched, excited voices.
“Dr. Mbeki?”
He glanced up at the school secretary, glad to have his increasingly bleak thoughts interrupted.
“Yes?”
“You have a phone call, Doctor. From your aunt.”
Mbeki felt his depression lifting. He had work to do.
DIRECTORATE OF MILITARY INTELLIGENCE, PRETORIA
Erik Muller stared at the watercolor landscape on his office wall without seeing it, his mind fixed on the surveillance van parked near Soweto’s
Gazankulu Primary School. He gently stroked his chin, frowning as his fingers rasped across whiskers that had grown since his morning shave.
“Repeat the message Mbeki just received.”
Field Agent Paul Reynders had been locked away inside the windowless, almost airless van for nearly eight hours. Eight hours spent in what was essentially an unheated metal box jammed full of sophisticated electronic gear-voice-activated recorders hooked into phone taps and bugs, and video monitors connected to hidden cameras trained on the school and its surroundings. His fatigue could plainly be heard in the leaden, listless voice that poured out of the speakerphone.
“They told him that his aunt in Ciskei was sick, but that it was only a minor cold.”
