Washington, D.C. The gray government building behind her provided a neutral background for her carefully coiffed hair and green summer dress.
More importantly, the sign saying STATE DEPARTMENT told her viewers where she was and that great events were afoot. Bright white TV lights lit the sky.
“If congressional Democrats can agree on anything these days, it’s that the administration’s response to recent developments in South Africa has been halting, confused, and wholly inadequate. And as Pretoria’s violent crackdown on dissent continues, congressional demands for further economic sanctions seem likely to intensify. All this at a time when administration officials are already working late into the night-trying desperately to restructure a South Africa policy thrown badly out of whack.”
The camera pulled back slightly, showing a lit row of windows at the top of the State Department.
“And something else seems certain. South African state
president Karl Vorster’s latest public harangue will do absolutely nothing to douse the sanctions furor building up on Capitol Hill. If anything, his rhetoric appears calculated to send apartheid opponents around the world into fits.”
She disappeared from the screen, replaced by footage showing Vorster standing on a flag-draped dais. The bloodred, three-armed-swastika banners of the Afrikaner Weerstandbeweging mingled with South African blue-, white-, and orange-striped national flags.
Vorster’s clipped accent made his words seem even harsher.
“We have given the blacks of our country every chance to participate in a peaceful exchange of ideas. Every chance to work toward a sharing of power and increased prosperity, for them and for all South Africans.”
He paused dramatically.
“But they have shown themselves to be unworthy!
Their answer to reform is murder! They reply to reason with violence!
They are incapable of peaceful conduct, much less of participating in the government. They have had their chance, and they will not have another.
Never again! That I promise you, never again.”
A roar of approval surged through the hall and the camera panned around, showing a sea of arm-waving, cheering white faces.
As the thunderous applause faded, the camera cut back to the reporter standing on the State Department steps.
“Vorster’s speech, one of his first since taking over as president, came at the close of a day-long visit to the rural Transvaal, his home territory and a stronghold of ultraconservative white opinion. And nobody who heard him speak can have any doubt that he’s giving South Africa’s diehards just what they’ve always wanted. Tough words and tougher action.
“This is Madeline Sinclair, for “Nightline.”
“
The camera cut away to show the program’s New Yorkbased anchorman.
“Thank you, Madeline. Following this break, we’ll be back with Mr. Adrian Roos, of the South African Ministry of Law and Order, Mr. Ephriarn Nkwe, of the now-banned African National Congress, and Senator Steven Travers of the
Senate Foreign Relations ComiTtittee. “
The anchorman’s sober, serious image vanished, replaced by a thirty-second spot singing the praises of a Caribbean cruise line.
AUGUST 5—THE RUSSELL SENATE OFFICE BUILDING, WASHINGTON, D.C.
Sen. Steven Travers’s innermost congressional office was decorated with a mixture of autographed photos, the Nevada state flag, and a stuffed lynx nicknamed Hubert by his aides.
“Hubert” disappeared whenever any of the most prominent animal-rights lobbyists paid a visit. But the lynx always reappeared to reassure home-state visitors that Travers-no matter how liberal he might be in foreign affairs-was still the plain, gun-toting cowboy his campaign commercials always showed.
The photos crowding the office’s rich, wood-paneled walls included shots of the senator with his wife and family, with two presidents (both
Democrats), and with several Hollywood stars-all famous for the various liberal causes they supported. A recent addition was a picture of himself in the Capitol rotunda, shaking hands with ANC leader Nelson Mandela.
The pictures all showed a tall, slim man with sandy hair slowly going gray and a handsome, angular face. He looked good in a suit-a fact that hadn’t endeared him to other, less telegenic senators back when cameras first started recording every minute of the Senate’s floor debates for posterity. Right now the suit hung on a hanger in his office closet, and
Travers lounged comfortably behind his desk wearing jeans, a Lacoste shirt, and loafers.
His small, normally neat office seemed crowded with two legislative aides, two staff lawyers, and a close friend. Coffee cups and boxes of doughnuts littering the floor and desk made it clear that they had either started very early or worked very late.
“Hey, guys, time’s awasting. I’ve got a committee meeting
in three hours,” said Travers, looking at his watch, “with a CBS interview thirty minutes before that.”
He started to yawn and then closed his mouth on it.
“Not that the “Nightline’ spot didn’t come out pretty good, but I can’t keep spouting the same stuff over and over. Things are going wrong too fast over there.”
Travers reached forward and pulled a red-tagged manila folder out of the pile on his desk.
“I mean, look at this!” He flipped the folder open and tapped the first sheet.
“The CIA says that bastard Vorster’s even mobilizing more troops to go after the black townships. People are gonna look to me to provide the Senate’s response, and I can’t just go on repeating the same old tired calls for more sanctions. I need something new-something that’ll grab some headlines and grab Pretoria by the throat.”
Travers had championed the anti apartheid cause in the Senate ever since his election two terms ago. It had been a happy marriage of personal belief with a popular cause. And now he was one of the senators first on the media’s list for official reaction whenever South Africa hit the news.
“Steve’s right. This is his chance to take the lead on this issue in the public mind. The rest of these fuds up here on the Hill will just thunder and blast without really saying anything. The media wants an American answer to this South African problem. And whoever gives ‘em one is gonna be their fair-haired boy for quite a while. ” George Perlman was Travers’s political advisor and reality check. He’d spent most of the night watching the brainstorming, the arguments only speaking when the discussion wandered or when he felt a fresh viewpoint was needed.
Perlman was a short, balding man dressed in slacks and a pullover sweater.
As a seasoned old campaigner, he was ensconced in the most comfortable chair in the office. He was fifteen years older, but despite their age difference, he and the senator had become friends years ago. It was a friendship cemented by the fact that Perlman had masterminded Travers’s successful reelection campaign.
Perlman continued, “Plus, with the White House moving so slowly on this thing, we can slam the President effectively and pick up some points from the party faithful. And now’s a real good time to do that. We could sure use some firstrate recruiting PR to bring in the volunteers and the big-buck contributors . “
The men crowded into Travers’s office nodded. As always, Perlman’s political instincts were right on target. The next presidential election might be more than three years away, but three years was the blink of an eye when you were contemplating setting up a national campaign organization. And even though the senator hadn’t yet made up his mind to push for the nomination, he always believed in keeping his options open.
“True. ” Travers’s eyes flickered toward a calendar. Twenty-nine months to the first primaries.
“But I’m still hanging out there without anything new to say.”
He looked back toward one of his legislative aides.
“Got any more ideas,
Ken?”
Ken Blackman was the senior of Travers’s two Foreign Relations Committee staffers. A liberal firebrand since
