Ian realized he was standing slack jawed, mouth open Re a drooling village idiot. He hastily closed it and pulled her into his arms.
Emily responded eagerly to his kiss.
When they came up for air, she stepped back slightly, a mock-serious look on her face.
“Well, Mr. Reporter, may I come in? Or shall I sleep here in your hallway?”
” Hmmm. ” Ian stroked his chin, as if pondering the question.
“I guess I could loan you some blankets and a pillow. Might get kinda cold out here, though. My neighbors might complain, too. I guess you’ll have to come inside. “
Laughing, he dodged her kick and led her into the flat.
Emily wrinkled her nose at the decor, a failed mix of cheap framed posters, plastic flowers, dark-colored carpeting, and imitation Scandinavian-design furniture. Knowles had best characterized the place as a study in Twentieth
Century Bad Taste. Ian wished he’d thought to wash the dishes stacked in his small sink. His bachelor habits were often embarrassing.
She wagged a finger in his face.
“Clearly you are not fit to live alone,
Ian Sheffield. You need a good woman to look after you.”
That was too perfect an opening to pass up. He smiled.
“I’ve tried finding one, but I guess I’m stuck with you.”
She smiled back.
“Yes, perhaps that is so.”
Which raised an interesting question.
“What about your father? Does he know you’re here?”
Sorrow briefly touched her eyes as she shook her head.
“But Emily, he’ll…”
“Sshh.” She laid a soft, sweet-smelling finger across his lips.
“My father has not been home for these two weeks and more. He spends A his days in
Pretoria, organizing this … this butchery. ” Her words were clipped, angry, and he remembered that she’d been a student at the University of
Witwatersrand. Some of her friends or teachers might have been among those he’d seen lying motionless on the pavement-gunned down by the police her father commanded.
She paused for a moment and then went on, calmer now.
“Besides, I told that witch Vi1joen I was returning to Cape Town to stay with some friends there. They’ll cover for me if he should call.”
Ian nodded, deeply moved by the risks she was running to be near him.
She shrugged out of her heavy coat and sat down on the sofa. He sat next to her.
“Anyway, Ian, I have news that would not wait any longer. Unbelievable news!” Her words tumbled out over one another, anger turned to excitement.
As she recounted the story of her father’s party and the muttered conversation she’d overheard, Ian felt his own pulse speeding up. If he could prove that Vorster had advance warning of the ANC’s Blue Train ambush… My God! He’d make headlines around the U.S. Hell, around the whole world!
But how could he get that kind of proof? South Africa’s new rulers weren’t going to come clean just because he asked a few pointed questions. He frowned. This guy Muller Emily had mentioned was the key.
Muller. The name was somehow familiar.
Memories fell into place as long hours of study paid off. Erik Muller was some kind of cloak-and-dagger honcho. Ran South Africa’s Directorate of
Military Intelligence. Rumor said he handled most of the government’s dirtiest jobs surveillance blackmail, even assassinations. Just the kind of man you’d expect to be one of Karl Vorster’s favorites, Ian thought.
And just the kind of man who’d know the truth about the Blue Train massacre.
So somehow he had to get a hook into this Muller character. Find some way to either force or persuade the man to come clean. That wasn’t going to be easy…. Reality reared its ugly head.
“Damn it!” He slammed a clenched fist into his thigh.
“What’s wrong?” Emily looked concerned.
“I forgot that Sam and I probably have our own spy tagging along with us wherever we go.9’
He filled her in on their suspicions of Matthew Sibena.
“Personally, I think the kid’s being forced to inform on us. Sam isn’t so charitable.”
“Then get rid of him. Fire him, and hire another driver.”
“Who will come from the same place as Matthew.” Ian shook his head.
“No,
I think we should hang on to him. He seems like a good kid, and I really believe he hates Vorster as much as we do.”
He shrugged helplessly.
“Anyway, Matt’s reasons don’t matter much. The fact is, if I start sniffing around Muller’s tail, the bastard’s going to get wind of it before I’ve even properly started. And then, whoosh,
Sam and I are out of the country on the next jet leaving Jan Smuts
International. “
He lapsed into a depressed silence, only looking up when Emily lightly tapped his knee.
“You’re forgetting something else, Ian Sheffield. Her eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Me!” She leaned closer to him, completely serious now.
“I have a journalism degree, too. I know how to do research. How to interview sources. How to track down the truth. And I am a Transvaaler, just like this Erik Muller.”
She took his hand.
“Let me hunt this man for you while you and Sam lead these spies on a wild-goose chase. Please?”
Ian looked down at their intertwined fingers. Everything she said made perfect sense, but… “It could get dangerous. Muller’s supposed to be a killer by trade.”
Emily nodded.
“True. ” She smiled wryly.
“But remember that I am just ‘a weak woman’ to most of my countrymen. No self-respecting Afrikaner man could ever see me as a serious threat.
“
She had a point there. Ian felt his excitement returning. They might just be able to pull this off after all! He leaned forward, scrabbling on the glass-topped coffee table in front of the sofa for a piece of notepaper.
“Okay, here’s how we’ll work this…. We’ll need some background info first. The Star’s probably the best place to start… “
Emily reached over and gently took the piece of paper out of his hand.
Her fingers slid between his again, rubbing slowly up and down in a familiar erotic rhythm. She looked up at him with warm, almost glowing eyes. ” I think such planning would be best left until morning, don’t you?”
Oh.
She rose and pulled him willingly toward the bedroom,
SEPTEMBER 2-PRESIDENTS OFFICE, THE UNION
BUILDINGS, PRETORIA
Karl Vorster watched the flickering image on his television closely, working himself into a towering rage. Gideon Mantizima’s “Nightline” interview had been videotaped the day before by South Africa’s Washington embassy and flown posthaste to Pretoria via London. From there the tape had bounced upward through the Foreign Ministry like a red-hot potato until at last it landed on Vorster’s desk.
“Kaffir bastard!”
Mantizima’s prerecorded image took no notice. The Zulu leader was a short, broad-shouldered man who wore
