He glanced off to the side at a marker post as they came round a sharp bend in the road. Only two more kilometers to the highway and comparative safety! He felt himself begin to relax.
” Riaan!
Startled by his wife’s cry, Oost looked up and slammed on his brakes.
The pickup slid to a stop just yards from two camouflaged armored cars and a row of armed troops blocking the road. My God, he thought wildly, the
Afrikaners are already here.
Beside him, Marta moaned in fear.
One of the soldiers, an officer, motioned them forward. Oost swallowed convulsively and pulled the pickup closer to the roadblock. It must be routine. Please let it be nothing more than a routine checkpoint, he prayed.
The officer signaled him to stop when they were within twenty feet of the armored cars. Two machine guns swung to cover them, aimed straight at the truck’s windshield. Oost glanced quickly to either side. The soldiers surrounding them had their rifles unslung and ready for action. He felt sick. The government knows, he thought. They have to know. But how? Could one of Kotane’s men already have broken under interrogation? It seemed possible.
The sound of a car door slamming shut roused him. For the first time he noticed the long, black limousine parked just beyond the armored cars. It was the kind of car favored by high-ranking security officers. Its occupant, a tall, fair-haired white man in a dark suit and plain tie, strode arrogantly past the soldiers and stopped, his hands on his hips, a few feet away from the pickup truck.
Oost looked at the man’s eyes and shivered. They were a dead man’s eyes, lifeless and uncaring.
“Going somewhere, Meneer Oost?” The security agent’s dry, emotionless voice matched his eyes.
“A curious time to take a trip, isn’t it?”
Oost could hear Marta sobbing softly beside him, but he lacked the strength to comfort her. Prison, interrogation, torture, trial, and execution. The road ahead held nothing good.
“Get out of the car, please. Both of you.” Still that same dry, sterile voice.
“Now.”
Oost exchanged a single, hopeless glance with his wife and obeyed. Still crying, she followed suit. The hard- faced man motioned them toward the waiting limousine.
The soldiers parted to let them pass, watching wordlessly as Oost and
Marta stumbled along in shock with the security officer close behind.
The man didn’t speak again until they were near the long, black car.
“It’s a pity you’re both trying to escape from my custody, meneer. But your actions give me no choice.”
Oost heard cloth rustling and the sound of something rubbing against leather. For an instant he stopped, completely confused. What did the man mean? Then, in the split second he had left to understand, he felt oddly grateful.
The men waiting at the roadblock started as two pistol shots cracked in the still air, echoing off the rocky hills to either side of the road.
Birds, frightened by the sudden noise, fled their perches and took to the air, a lazy, swirling, circling cloud- black specks against a deep blue sky.
His job done, Muller’s agent slid behind the wheel of his car, started it, and drove off in satisfied silence.
EMILY VAN DER HELIDEN”S FLAT, CAPE TOWN
South Africa’s state-owned television cameras showed only what the government wanted them to show. And right now they showed a grim-faced
Karl Vorster standing rigidly at a
podium-backed by an enormous blue-, white-, and orange striped national flag.
“My fellow countrymen, I stand before you on a day of sorrow for all South
Africans.” Vorster’s harsh voice emphasized the guttural accents of
Afrikaans as he spoke, pausing with evident reluctance for the simultaneous translation into English.
“I come with dreadful news-news of a bloody act of terrorism so horrible that it is without parallel in our history. I must tell you that the reports you’ve undoubtedly been hearing all this evening have been verified. At approximately one o’clock this afternoon, a band of black ANC communists murderously attacked the Blue Train as it passed through the Hex
River Mountains.”
Vorster’s rough-edged, gravelly voice dropped another notch.
“I have now been informed that the train was completely destroyed. There were no survivors. The President of our beloved Republic is dead.”
Ian Sheffield felt Emily’s grip on his hand tighten. He glanced at her. She wasn’t making any effort to hide the tears welling in her eyes. No surprise there. She’d hoped that Haymans would be the leader who could orchestrate a peaceful reconciliation of South Africa’s contending races. He looked back at the stern visage dominating the television screen. There wasn’t much chance that Vorster would continue Haymans’s negotiating efforts. Much chance? Hell, he thought, no chance. Even Gandhi would have been reluctant to trust the good will or good faith of the ANC after this attack on the
Blue Train.
Ian wondered about that. What could the ANC have thought it would gain? How could they have been so stupid?
“As the government’s senior surviving minister, I have assumed the office and duties of the presidency. I have done so in accordance with the
Constitution-compelled by my love of God and this country, and not by any misplaced sense of personal ambition. I shall govern as president only until such time as the present emergency has passed.”
Right. Ian shook his head, not believing a word. Methinks thou dost protest too much, Vorster old son.
“Accordingly, my first action as president has been to declare an unlimited state of emergency extending to all provinces of the Republic.”
Vorster’s hands curled around the edge of his podium.
“I intend to root out this terrorist conspiracy in our country once and for all. Those responsible for the deaths of so many innocents will not escape our just vengeance.”
As South Africa’s new and unelected president continued speaking, Ian felt Emily shiver and understood. Vorster’s grim words spelled the end of every step toward moderation her nation had taken over the past decade. The newly declared state of emergency imposed dusk-to-dawn curfews on all black townships; allowed the security forces to shoot anyone violating those curfews; restored the hated pass laws restricting nonwhite movement and travel, and reimposed strict government controls on the press and other media.
Ian knew that, under normal circumstances, that last bit of news would have really pissed him off. But circumstances were far from normal. There didn’t seem to be much that Vorster’s new government could do to him as a reporter that his own network hadn’t already done.
When reports of the Blue Train attack first started to spread, he and
Knowles had filmed a quick segment and shipped it off to New York on a rush satellite feed. Flushed with triumph, they’d notified the network of their plans to fly immediately to Pretoria so they could cover the government’s reaction to the ANC attack.
But they hadn’t even had time to crack open a bottle of champagne in celebration before New York’s top brass quashed their plans. He and his cameraman weren’t needed in Pretoria, Ian had been told. The network’s top anchor and his personal news team were already en route to cover the developing story firsthand. Instead, he and Knowles were supposed to “stand by” in Cape Town, ready to provide “local color” stories, should any be needed. The fact that on-site anchoring had become network-news standard procedure since the Berlin Wall came tumbling down did nothing to cushion the blow. Just because New York’s story-hogging
had a historical precedent did nothing to make it any more palatable.
Ian gritted his teeth. Here they were in the middle of the biggest South
African news event in recent memory, and he’d been shunted off to the sidelines without so much as a thank you Christ, talk about a career on the skids! He’d slipped off into a black hole without even realizing it.
“Oh, my God…” Emily’s horrified whisper brought him back to the present.
Vorster was still on-screen, rattling off a list of those he’d named to a “temporary” Government of National
