Union.
The Vice President flipped to the first page of his agenda and watched as the others followed suit.
Forrester was not a tall man, something that was rarely noticed because he always seemed to be in motion. Trotting down airplane ramps in foreign countries. Striding into flag draped banquet halls. Or racing through a rapid-fire round of golf at the Congressional country club. He often joked that he was actually six foot eight, but had put the extra inches in escrow to avoid appearing taller than the President. It was a joke that reflected the all too bitter truth that the vice presidency was an office with too much ceremony and too little responsibility, but right now he had real work to do.
He tapped the table gently, calling the meeting to order.
“All right.
Let’s get down to it.”
He tossed the printed agenda back onto the table.
“Un-3
fortunately, the first item before us didn’t come up in time to make it onto the documents sent to you for review last night. South Africa popped up at my breakfast with the President this morning. He’s asked us to discuss a response to Pretoria’s latest actions-including this new troop call-up the wire services are reporting.”
Some of the men sitting around the table looked momentarily blank. South
Africa was a long way outside the boundaries of their ordinary day-to-day concerns. For most of their professional lives, the continuing
U.S.-Soviet military and political tug-of-war had been the central reality. Some of them still found it difficult to adjust to a world where conflicts didn’t necessarily slide neatly into the usual East versus West pigeonhole.
Besides, data on Africa’s internal affairs rarely made it through the screening process managed by each cabinet department’s and intelligence agency’s junior staffers. All too often it wound up occupying waste space on rarely punched up computer disks or gathering dust in rusting file drawers.
Forrester hid a wry grin. For once, he had an advantage over most of the experts around this table. As a senator, he’d served on the Foreign
Relations Committee and had spent a lot of time fencing with anti apartheid zealots on the Senate floor.
He looked toward the end of the table, toward a dapper, bookish-looking little man whose narrow face bore a somewhat incongruous full beard and neatly trimmed mustache.
“Look, Ed, why don’t you give us a quick rundown on our recent ‘relations’ with South Africa’s new government.” He didn’t bother to hide the irony in his voice.
“Certainly, Mr. Vice President.” Edward Hurley, the assistant secretary of state for African affairs, nodded politely. His presence at the meeting was the result of a hurried, early morning call by Forrester to the State Department.
Hurley studied the faces around the table.
“Essentially, our relations with the new government headed by President Vorster can best be summed up as ‘cold and barely correct. “
He paused, took off his tortoiseshell glasses, and started cleaning the lenses with a rumpled handkerchief.
“We had
another indication of just what that means last week when our ambassador,
Bill Kirk, visited Vorster for the first time since the Blue Train massacre.
Bill had instructions from the secretary to find out just how far Pretoria plans to go in reintroducing strict apartheid.”
Hurley smiled thinly and put his glasses back on.
“Unfortunately,
Ambassador Kirk never had the chance to ask. Instead, he was forced to sit through a half-hour-long lecture by Vorster on our foreign policy failures in the region. Shortly after that, Pretoria notified us that they were unilaterally reducing the number of our embassy staff personnel. And
Vorster’s flatly refused all further attempts to meet with him. We’ve been shunted down to below the ministerial level. “
Muttered disbelief rolled around the table. What the hell was South
Africa’s new leader playing at? Political disagreements between Washington and Pretoria were common enough, but why the flagrant and apparently calculated discourtesy?
The Vice President watched his colleagues closely, wondering how they’d react to the full version of Vorster’s snub. Just reading Kirk’s telexed summary of the meeting had raised his own blood pressure.
Apparently Kirk hadn’t even been given the opportunity to say hello.
Instead, Vorster had launched straight into a scathing diatribe full of contempt for what the South African called “America’s shameful and treacherous conduct.”
“The man had gone on to accuse the U.S. of meddling in
Pretoria’s internal affairs-of inciting “innocent blacks” to violence and disorder. Forrester assumed that was a reference to several recent State
Department statements deploring the white regime’s police crackdown on the black townships. Hardly justification for what amounted to a full-fledged kick in the teeth.
He eyed the ponderous, whitehaired man sitting to his immediate right.
Forrester had long suspected that Christopher Nicholson, former federal judge and current director of the CIA, spent almost as much time developing sources inside the White House as he did administering the Agency’s far flung overseas intelligence-gathering. His presence at what had been expected to be a routine NSC meeting confirmed that suspicion.
The Vice President decided to see just how thoroughly Nicholson had prepared.
“Got any bio on this clown Vorster, Chris?”
Forrester was a firm believer in knowing as much as possible about the world leaders he might have to deal with. Despite the reams of bloodless statistical analysis by legions of social scientists, economists, and other “experts,” world politics still all too often seemed to boil down to a question of personalities.
To his credit, the CIA chief avoided looking smug.
“Fortunately I do, Mr.
Vice President. We’ve also run through the archives and come up with some photos of the gentleman in question.”
Nicholson’s aide flipped through a thick sheaf of papers and handed several heavily underlined sheets to his boss. The CIA director took them and nodded politely toward a junior staffer standing near the door.
“Anytime,
Charlie.”
The lights dimmed slowly and a slide projector whirred throwing a grainy, black-and-white photo onto the wall screen. The photo showed a much thinner, much younger Karl Vorster.
“Karl Adriaan Vorster. Born 1928 in the northern Transvaal. Law degree from
Witwatersrand University in 1950. Sociology degree from Stellenbosch
University in 1956. Became a member of the Broederbond sometime in the early fifties, probably in 1953…”
Forrester nodded to himself as Nicholson droned on, running through
Vorster’s steady, if unspectacular, rise to power within the ruling
National Party. As a young lawyer, the South African must have been in on the very beginnings of Pretoria’s efforts to codify racial segregation and white domination its policies of strict apartheid. His membership in the
Broederbond, South Africa’s secretive ruling elite, made that a certainty.
The slide projector clicked to another photo, this one showing Vorster climbing out of the back of an official car.
“Right
after he got his doctorate, he joined the government. Since then, he’s held a succession of increasingly senior posts in both the Bureau of State
