acts.
“I imagine that’s exactly the same excuse used by Russian cops. And by those in Nazi Germany, for that matter.
“
The policeman flushed and turned away, his face almost as unhappy as Ian felt.
Doors slammed shut and the police car pulled away from the curb, accelerating smoothly into traffic. None of its occupants looked back.
Knowles stared after the squad car, anger in his eyes.
“Well, fuck you, too, you bastards.”
Sibena just stood silently, eyes firmly fixed on the sidewalk.
Ian shut the Escort’s trunk and opened the rear door.
“C’mon, guys. No sense in standing around brooding about it.” He tried to tone down the anger in his own voice.
“Hell, it’s not like that’s the first piece of film we ever lost.”
Knowles glanced at him.
“No, it sure isn’t.” He lowered his chin, looking even more stubborn than usual.
“Kinda funny, though, ain’t it? I mean, how the cops always seem to know right where we are and exactly what we’ve been up to. Almost like they’ve got their eyes on us all the time.
“Now just how do you suppose they’re doing that?”
Ian shook his head, unsure of what the cameraman meant. He’d certainly never spotted any police patrols following them. Then he followed
Knowles’s steady, unblinking gaze. He was looking straight at Matthew
Sibena’s slumped shoulders and downcast face.
AUGUST 30-PRESIDENTS OFFICE, THE UNION
BUILDINGS, PRETORIA
Karl Vorster’s spartan tastes were not yet reflected in the furnishings of the office suite reserved for South Africa’s president. Since taking power he’d been too preoccupied by both external and internal crises to worry about redecorating.
And thank God for that, Erik Muller thought, sitting comfortably for once in a cushioned chair facing Vorster’s plain oak desk. The dead Frederick
Haymans may have been a softhearted fool, but at least he’d had some modicum of taste.
Across the desk, Vorster grunted to himself and scrawled a signature on the last memorandum in front of him. The memo’s black binder identified it as an execution order.
“So, another ANC bastard gets it in the neck. Good. ” The suggestion of a smile appeared on Vorster’s face and then vanished.
“Is that everything, Erik?”
“Not quite, Mr. President. There’s one more item.”
“Get on with it, then.” Vorster’s flint-hard eyes roved to his desk clock and back to Muller.
“General de Wet is briefing me on the military situation in a few minutes.”
Muller clenched his teeth. South Africa’s chief executive
was spending more and more of his precious time trying to micromanage the stalled Namibian campaign. And while Vorster moved meaningless pins back and forth on maps, serious political, economic, and security problems languished-unconsidered and unresolved.
Muller cleared his throat.
“It’s a travel-permit request from Mantizima, the Zulu chief. He’s been invited to testify before the American Congress on this new sanctions bill of theirs. “
“So?” Vorster’s impatience showed plainly.
“Why bring this matter to me?
Surely that’s something for the Foreign Ministry to decide.”
Muller shook his head.
“With respect, Mr. President, there are vital questions of state security involved-too many to entrust such a decision to the minister or his bureaucrats.” He pushed the document across the desk.
Vorster picked it up and skimmed through the Zulu chief Is tersely worded request for a travel permit.
“Go on.”
“I believe you should reject his request, Mr. President. Beneath that toothy smile of his, Gideon Mantizima’s as much a troublemaker as any other black leader. I fear that he could make even more trouble for us in
Washington if you allow him out of the country.” He stopped, aware that he’d probably overplayed his hand. The President seemed to be in a deliberately contrary mood.
Vorster waggled a finger at him.
“That is nonsense, Muller. I know this man. This Zulu has cooperated with us in the past when all the other blacks toed the communist line. He’s even opposed sanctions by the Western powers.
Why, I can almost respect him. After all, he descends from a warrior tribe, not from wandering trash like the rest of the kaffirs. “
He sat back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach.
“No, Muller.
Mantizima and his followers hate the ANC almost as much as we do. They’ve been rivals for decades. And we rarely interfere in the way the Zulus handle affairs within their own tribe land The chief has no reason to make trouble for us. “
Vorster rocked forward, pen in hand.
“Let him visit America. His testimony will only confuse our enemies in their Congress and show the world that we have nothing to fear. “
Muller watched in silence as his leader signed the travel permit.
Vorster’s growing tendency to see only what he wished to see disturbed him. In the past, Mantizima. had publicly opposed economic sanctions on
South Africa because he believed they hurt his people more than they hurt whites -not as a favor to Pretoria. And the wily Zulu chief’s struggle with the ANC was a battle for future political power in a black-majority government-not the signpost of a permanent alliance with the forces of apartheid.
He took the signed permit from Vorster’s outstretched hand and left quietly. Further argument would only endanger his own position.
Gideon Mantizima might continue to cooperate with Pretoria, but Muller doubted it. The Zulu chief was shrewd enough to recognize a dead end when he saw one. South Africa’s director of military intelligence suspected that Vorster would regret allowing Mantizima the freedom to choose a new course.
SEPTEMBER I -JOHANNESBURG
The doorbell buzzed, waking Ian Sherfietd from a fitful, dream-ridden sleep. Another buzz, louder and longer this time. He opened his eyes reluctantly, fumbling for the bedside lamp switch. Two in the flipping morning, for God’s sake. Who the hell could that be? Johannesburg, like all of South Africa’s major cities, was under a midnight curfew.
Ian stumbled out of bed and struggled into a pair of jeans while hopping toward the front door. Pain flared briefly as he slammed a knee into a sofa. The tiny furnished flat he’d rented was reasonably priced and convenient, but he still hadn’t lived there long enough to navigate safely in the dark.
Three short, sharp obscenities helped dispel most of the pain, but he was still hobbling when he got to the door. He yanked it open, ready to vent some well-earned anger on the idiot who’d disturbed him.
It was Emily.
Even bundled in a long winter overcoat against the chill
night air, she was beautiful. A single suitcase rested on the floor behind her. She smiled shyly, looked down at herself, and then up at him, her eyes shining.
“Do I look like a ghost, maybe?”
