fourteen taking mostly odd jobs whenever and wherever he could find them. Few lasted long or paid a living wage.
Then, as South Africa’s economy continued its long, slow slide toward collapse, Sibena found it increasingly difficult to get work of any sort.
He had few salable skills-the ability to drive a car, to read and write, and to run a cash register, nothing much more. And he was too small and too weak to be seriously considered for any job in the Witwatersrand gold mines outside Johannesburg.
Finally, out of money and down on his luck, he’d drifted into petty thievery. Nothing serious and certainly nothing violent. Just small burglaries of untenanted rooms in white run hotels or the glove compartments of parked cars. Sibena had existed that way for months—operating in the narrow fringe between legality and Soweto’s organized criminal gangs.
And then he’d been caught breaking into a locked car. But the Afrikaner officers who’d arrested him hadn’t taken him before a magistrate.
Instead, he’d been hauled into a police barracks, savagely beaten, and told to choose one of two unpalatable alternatives-either work for the security services as a paid informer, or be sent to the rock-breaking, man killing prison on Robben Island off South Africa’s coast.
To his eternal shame, Matthew Sibena had chosen the role of police spy.
Monitoring Ian and Knowles’s activities while serving as their driver had been his first and only assignment.
Ian rocked back on his heels, considering his next move.
Sibena’s story was an ugly one, but it was pretty much what he’d expected to hear. South Africa’s police forces weren’t famed for either their subtlety or their sensitivity.
“What will you do to me now that you know what I have done?” Sibena’s voice quavered.
Ian felt a sudden surge of anger toward the bastards who’d turned Sibena into the weak and fearful young man cowering before him. He shook his head impatiently, fighting to conceal his anger. The kid would only think it was aimed at him.
He looked Siberia squarely in the eyes.
“Nothing, Matt. We won’t do a thing to you.”
I “Truly?” I
Ian nodded.
“Truly.”
He paused, casting about for the best way to make his offer. Finally, he got up off his knees and pulled another folding chair over so that he could sit on the same level as Sibena.
“But I would like you to make a decision,
Matt, a difficult decision. The young man flinched. He’d heard white men offering him tough choices before.
Ian saw the panic in the other man’s eyes and shook his head.
“No, Matt.
This isn’t like what those goddamned cops put you through. Jesus, I hope that’s true, he thought.
Ian took a deep breath, unable to escape the feeling that he was about to bet his life savings on a single roll of the dice.
“All I want to do,
Matthew Sibena, is ask for your help-as one man to another.
“If you don’t want to do what I’m asking, just say so. Sam and I will drop what we’re planning and carry on as before-and you’re welcome to keep making your reports to the police.” He sat forward, keeping his eyes fixed on Sibena’s face.
“But I’ll tell you this much for now. I think we’re on the edge of a damn big story-a story that could blow the lid off this whole blasted country and tear the guts out of the Vorster government. Sibena stared at him without saying anything.
Ian lowered his voice until it was just above a whisper.
“We need your help, Matt. We need you to keep the security services off our backs while we ferret out the truth. ” He looked down at the floor and then back up.
“I won’t lie to you. I can’t promise you that we’ll succeed. I can’t promise you that even if we do it’ll really help make life better here in South Africa. And I sure as hell can’t promise you that we’ll be able to protect you from the police if things go wrong-or even if they go right.”
Silence. A silence that dragged on for what seemed like hours but couldn’t possibly have been more than seconds.
At last, Sibena sat up straight on his metal chair. His eyes were red rimmed, but they carried a new look of determination and of purpose.
“I
will try, meneer. God help me, for I am a weak man, but I will try.”
Ian held out his hand and waited until Sibena shook it tentatively at first and then with vigor. They were committed.
OCTOBER 22-THE CASCADES HOTEL, SUN CITY, BOPHUTHATSWANA
Sun City was surrounded by a vast expanse of the high veld -a barren plain of brown, withered grasslands, isolated groves of stunted scrub trees, and small, ramshackle villages. Bophuthatswana’s poverty made the sight of the resort town even more startling. It was an oasis of wealth, privilege, and pleasure in the midst of an arid, sun- baked wilderness.
The resort area’s hotel and casino complex rose around the paved shoreline of a sparkling, sky-blue artificial lake. Hundreds of picture windows gleamed in the summer sunlight-opening onto wide terraces full of greenery and purple-blossomed jacaranda trees. Outside the hotel, sprinkler systems swiveled to and fro, spraying a fine mist of fresh water over manicured lawns, towering palm trees, and an eighteen-hole golf course.
On the inside, though, the Cascades Hotel and Casino was abnormally quiet, almost lifeless. Most of the young South African men who normally frequented its slot machines, blackjack tables, and roulette wheels were off fighting in
Namibia, the Natal, or the country’s black townships. And there were few foreign tourists arriving to replace them during these troubled times.
Ian and Emily sat restlessly in a small bar adjacent to the hotel’s main lobby. Two untouched glasses of white wine warmed to room temperature on the table between them. With difficulty, Ian stopped himself from checking his watch for what seemed the thousandth time. Muller was already much later than they’d expected him to be. Had something gone wrong? Had the
South African security chief canceled or postponed his meeting?
Ian felt cold sweat beading on his forehead. They’d only have one opportunity to pull off a stunt like this, and if the Afrikaner intelligence man didn’t show tonight, they’d have to rethink everything from square one. He twisted around again to check the lobby. Nothing. No sign of the damned man.
In a brief puff of warm air, the automatic doors leading outside slid open and then closed behind a single lean, waspwaisted man carrying a tan overnight bag slung over his shoulder. Ian started suddenly. He’d studied the few available file photos long enough to recognize the narrow, arrogant face and pale blue eyes of South Africa’s director of military intelligence. Erik Muller had arrived.
The South African strode confidently across the lobby and stood waiting in front of the Cascades’ teak registration desk. Seconds later, the hotel’s main door slid open again and Sam Knowles ambled in and got in line behind
Muller-acting like any other travel-weary tourist eager for his chance at the swimming pool and gaming tables. The cameraman rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, shifted impatiently, looked at his watch, and then started whistling.
Ian held his breath as Muller turned round to look for the source of the disagreeable, off-key noise. Shut up, Sam, for God’s sake, shut up, Ian thought desperately. But the South African simply ran his cold, hard eyes over the shorter man, taking in Knowles’s open-collared green sports shirt, pleated plaid trousers, and white shoes. Then he scowled and turned back to the desk clerk to finish checking in-having evidently dismissed the American as nothing
