See No Evil

22

Calder decided to walk from his hotel near the Victoria and Alfred Waterfront to the cigar bar on Long Street where he was due to meet George Field. It was early evening, and getting dark. Away from the Waterfront the city itself was a mixture of totally different architectural styles: towering modern office blocks, elegant British colonial, concrete government brutalist, pristine white Cape Dutch, colourful African and shabby urban dilapidated. The people too were of many different shapes and colours, whites now a definite minority. And above it all was the mountain, always in sight, its summit currently covered by a thin cloth of cloud.

The bar was dark: dark wood, dark leather and rows of whisky and brandy bottles glimmering behind the green-waistcoated barman. It did indeed smell of cigars, a group of businessmen were puffing away at huge samples near the door, but there was also the sweeter aroma of pipe smoke. This came from a man in his sixties with a shock of wiry iron-grey hair and thick white eyebrows, wearing a corduroy jacket that looked too shabby for the establishment. He was drawing contentedly on a briar, a glass of whisky in front of him. When he saw Calder, he pulled himself to his feet and held out his hand.

‘Alex? George Field. You found the place all right? I rather like it here, especially at this time of the evening. It’s quiet, you know, a good place for a chat. And there are so few places these days where one can actually smoke.’

‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice,’ Calder said. He had tracked down George Field on the internet before he left England, and when he had telephoned him the former newspaper editor had seemed suspicious.

‘Not at all. I spoke to Todd van Zyl’s wife and to his sister. Both of them urged me to talk to you. I haven’t seen Todd or Caroline since they were kids. I remember Caroline especially. Funny to hear her now, a grown woman with an American accent.’

‘But you didn’t speak to Cornelius?’

‘No,’ George said, knitting those bushy eyebrows together. ‘I haven’t spoken to Cornelius for a long time. Certainly not since he reinvented himself as an American newspaper tycoon. But I liked Martha. I owe it to her children to talk to you.’

‘Thank you,’ Calder said. He interrupted himself to order a whisky from the hovering waiter. No cigar, though. ‘I know you and she were friends. I wonder if you could tell me what happened around the time she died.’

‘We were friends, especially at that time. I was editor of the Cape Daily Mail. That winter Cornelius decided to close us down and sell off his other South African papers. I was furious, as you can imagine, and so was Martha. I know she tried to change Cornelius’s mind, but she failed.’

‘There was a lot of tension between the two of them, wasn’t there?’

‘Yes, at least at that stage. From what I could tell they had had a pretty good marriage until about a year before Martha died. She was ten years younger than him, but she was much more than a blonde trophy wife. In fact, she didn’t really do the trophy-wife thing very well.’ George chuckled to himself. ‘That’s one of the reasons I liked her. Then it all fell apart. Part of it was the row about the Mail, but there were other reasons.’

‘Such as?’

George sucked at his pipe, his eyes assessing Calder. ‘Such as Cornelius’s mistress.’

‘Mistress?’

‘Mistress, lover, call it what you will. A young woman named Beatrice Pienaar. Stunningly beautiful, and intelligent. She was a journalism graduate and the story was she wanted a few months’ work experience at Zyl News.’

‘The story?’

‘She was a spy. I had a strong suspicion of it at the time, but later, in the late 1990s, her name came out during testimony to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. Oh, she wasn’t involved in any violence or torture or anything, but she was working for the security police. She even had a rank: lieutenant. The security police recruited a number of spies among students, put them through liberal universities and encouraged them to work for the newspapers or join radical movements. Some of the names have become public: Joy Harnden, Craig Williamson, Beatrice Pienaar; some we will never hear about.’

‘Did Cornelius know?’

‘I told him of my suspicions, but he said I was being ridiculous. I also told Martha.’

‘Did she know about the affair?’

‘She strongly suspected something.’

‘What about Martha’s death? What do you think happened to her? Do you believe she was killed by ANC guerrillas?’

‘No, I’m sure she wasn’t. That was a classic security-police cover story.’

‘Did you try to find out what really happened? You are a journalist, after all.’

‘I never got the chance. The day after Martha was murdered, I was arrested.’

‘What for?’

‘I never found out.’ He smiled wryly. ‘In those days you often didn’t know why you were arrested. The police were allowed to lock you up for ninety days without charging you. While I was in jail the paper was closed down and Cornelius left the country for America. At the time I assumed that I was locked up to prevent me from finding a rescuer for the Mail. But perhaps it had something to do with stopping me asking awkward questions about Martha’s death.’

‘Were you able to find out anything when you were let out?’

‘I didn’t bother,’ George said, looking uncomfortable. ‘I had become disillusioned with being a journalist in South Africa. I decided I could do more good reporting on the country from abroad. So I moved to London and became the South Africa correspondent for a newspaper there. I never did dig into Martha’s death. And neither did her husband.’

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Yes, frankly,’ George said. ‘When the TRC was set up I expected Cornelius to ask for Martha’s death to be investigated, but he didn’t. It would have been a high-profile case. They might well have got to the bottom of it.’

‘Cornelius says it’s because the case would have been so prominent that he didn’t want to stir things up again.’

George shrugged.

‘Did Martha mention the Laagerbond to you before she died?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact she did. It was the first time I’d heard the name.’

Calder felt his heartbeat quicken. He was getting somewhere.

‘It was the week before she died. She was quite agitated by then, about the Mail and about Cornelius. But we had lunch in Greenmarket Square, I can still remember it. She started off by asking me about Muldergate.’

‘Muldergate?’

‘It was a big scandal here in 1978. You’ve never heard of it?’

Calder shook his head.

‘Too young,’ George said. ‘It was a big deal. It destroyed the career of Connie Mulder, who had been a shoo-in to succeed Vorster as prime minister, and left the door open for P. W. Botha to take over.’

‘What happened?’

‘A man called Eschel Rhoodie at the Department of Information diverted lots of government funds to set up newspapers in this country and to acquire media abroad. The idea was to influence the way South Africa was perceived at home and abroad, to put across the government’s point of view. They bought a couple of magazines in Europe and tried to buy the Washington Star. The money was diverted illegally and the press found out. The Mail helped break the story. Connie Mulder, who was then Minister of the Interior, Nico Diederichs the Finance Minister and General van den Bergh, the head of the secret service, were behind the whole thing. Vorster was forced to resign, and P. W. Botha beat Connie Mulder in a leadership election to succeed him. The irony is that during the 1980s Botha diverted much larger sums into a secret nuclear and chemical weapons buying programme. But at the time of the scandal, he seemed like a relative liberal. Even I was fooled for a couple of years.

‘Martha knew in general terms what had happened, but she had all kinds of detailed questions about the affair. She was clearly excited about something, and what I was telling her was just making her more excited. Then she asked me if I had heard of the Laagerbond. I told her I hadn’t. I asked her what she was up to, and she said she would tell me, possibly very soon. She said it was something big, something I would want to write about. She said she could trust me to get the story out, however difficult it was.’

‘You mentioned that that was the first you heard of the Laagerbond. You heard more later?’

‘Yes. Not much, just rumours. You know about the Broederbond?’

‘Only a little. Tell me.’

‘The Broederbond is a secret society set up after the First World War to further the cause of Afrikaner culture in South Africa. Of course, when it was founded the main threat was from the white English-speaking South Africans. But it was the Broederbond that developed the concept of apartheid; all the important members of government were in it and by the 1980s there were at least 10,000 members. It was the Afrikaner establishment. It became a kind of government think-tank; most of the policies of the National Party were dreamed up by Broederbond committees.

‘Now, the rumour is that the Laagerbond is some kind of ultra-secret cell within the Broederbond itself. It has a limited membership and it has power. Power over what, no one knows. Conspiracy theorists love it, but no one has been able to turn up any hard evidence. No one is even sure who any of the members are, although there seems to be some agreement on the founder.’

‘Who was that?’

‘Dr Nico Diederichs. He was Minister of Finance in the seventies and then state president. He was an important Broederbonder who studied in Nazi Germany in the thirties. He died in 1977 but apparently the Laagerbond still exists. A friend of mine tried to write an article on it a couple of years ago, but ran into a brick wall at every turn.’

‘Any idea what the purpose of the organization is?’

‘None.’

‘I read a reference to it from the Truth and Reconciliation Commission records, in which it mentioned that a Colonel Retief was a member.’

‘Colonel Retief? That wouldn’t surprise me. He was one of South Africa’s spymasters during the seventies and eighties. He was probably involved in recruiting Beatrice Pienaar. A useful man to have as a member.’

‘What about the Broederbond? Does that still exist?’

‘After a fashion.’ George smiled. ‘It’s changed its name to the Afrikanerbond. It’s not secret any more, it even has its own website, and it seems pretty harmless. Its aims are to promote Christianity and the Afrikaner way of life.’

‘Just before she died, Martha wrote a letter to her mother saying that she had written some notes in a page in her diary marked “Laagerbond”. Caroline saw her copying something down from a briefcase belonging to one of two men who visited Cornelius at their house. One of these men was called Andries Visser. He had a limp. Do you know him?’

George sucked on his pipe for a moment. ‘There was an Andries Visser who was a senior bureaucrat in the Ministry of Finance. He had a limp.’ The eyebrows waggled. ‘Actually, he was a protégé of Nico Diederichs, if I’m not mistaken. He was always influential, but kept himself in the background. He’s almost certainly retired now, I haven’t heard anything about him for years.’

‘So he could be a member of the Laagerbond?’

‘He could well be,’ said George. ‘And the other man?’

‘Caroline couldn’t remember his name. She said he had a white beard and sticking-out ears. That’s not much of a description to go on, I know.’

‘It’s enough,’ said George. ‘That will be Professor Daniel Havenga. He was a friend of Cornelius, and Martha for that matter. A professor of journalism at Stellenbosch University. And the man who recommended Beatrice Pienaar to Cornelius.’

‘Another member of the Laagerbond?’

‘Who knows?’ said George. ‘You say they were visiting Cornelius at Hondehoek?’

‘Yes. Caroline says that her mother was agitated by what she had read, and scared. Martha’s letter mentioned a page in her diary marked “Operation Drommedaris”. Any idea what that might be?’

George shook his head.

They sat in silence, both of them assessing the new information, making connections. Calder glanced at the older man. ‘Were they planning another Muldergate, do you think?’

George drew on his pipe, mulling the idea over. ‘It’s certainly possible,’ he said eventually. ‘Visser could have organized the finance. Havenga was an expert on the media. The Laagerbond was set up by Diederichs who was intimately involved in the first scandal. He was long dead by 1988, but his protégé could have carried on his work.’

‘Remember Cornelius was in the middle of trying to take over the Herald in London.’

‘And he was making all those US acquisitions.’

‘But if Muldergate was such a disaster, why would the Laagerbond risk another scandal ten years on?’ Calder asked.

‘South Africa had changed by 1988,’ George said. ‘Things were more repressive: after three years of a state of emergency the government had much more of a grip of things. During the original scandal Eschel Rhoodie behaved like an international playboy: he charged apartments and boondoggles to the Seychelles to his expenses, and it was that as much as anything else that brought him down. Visser and Havenga could have learned from his mistakes. If the Laagerbond was set up as a secret cell within the establishment but not actually within government, it might be very difficult to find any trace of its actions. When Rhoodie eventually talked, he hinted that there was much more going on that he couldn’t disclose. Perhaps there was.’

‘But wouldn’t the ANC have found out about this when they came to power in 1994?’ Calder asked.

‘Not necessarily,’ George said. ‘The security establishment were diligent in destroying evidence. Some of it came out during the TRC a few years later; a whole new government department that no one had heard about called the Directorate of Covert Collection was discovered then, for example. But that was just a glimpse; a lot more is still hidden. There were rumours that Diederichs stashed significant sums from the sale of gold bullion in Switzerland. By the 1980s the defence budget had ballooned to many billions of dollars. Under the Defence Special Account Act this was protected from public scrutiny, so it was the source of funds for the purchase of weapons secrets from the likes of Israel and Pakistan. Why not for buying up foreign media?’

‘And the Laagerbond lives on?’

‘That’s the beauty of it,’ George said. ‘By then many Afrikaner nationalists realized that apartheid’s days were numbered. But because it’s not part of the government the Laagerbond can carry on supporting the Afrikaner cause after the fall of the regime.’ George puffed hard at his pipe. He frowned. ‘I can see why in many ways Cornelius would be the perfect person for these people to back. He’s really South Africa’s only international media entrepreneur. But I can’t see why they would think he would listen to them. He was always a major thorn in the side of apartheid, not a supporter.’

‘I get the impression he was re-evaluating his views on South Africa,’ Calder said. ‘And if the Beatrice Pienaar woman was planted by the Laagerbond, perhaps she might have persuaded him to go along with them.’

George shook his head. ‘You’re right, he was changing. But although I didn’t like the man he was becoming, I still can’t believe he would take their money. Presumably they wanted him to toe the apartheid line once he had bought all these newspapers. I haven’t seen much evidence of that.’

‘How do his papers cover South Africa?’ Calder said.

‘Objectively, from what I can tell. I haven’t noticed any bias. I don’t think he takes much of a personal interest in South African coverage. If he was funded by the Laagerbond, you would expect his papers to be full of anti-ANC propaganda.’

‘Did you know that Cornelius is bidding for The Times now?’ Calder said. ‘I wonder if the Laagerbond is still funding him?’

‘That would be a real prize for them.’

‘And an expensive one,’ Calder said. ‘I remember reading the price tag was over eight hundred million pounds.’

‘Do you know where he gets his funding from?’ George asked.

‘Historically he’s borrowed most of it,’ Calder said. ‘But I can check. Could you find out where Visser and Havenga are now?’

‘No problem, that will be easy.’

‘And a woman called Libby Wiseman?’

‘Libby Wiseman? What does she have to do with this?’

‘Apparently she was on a charity board with Martha. They were friends.’

‘I know Libby Wiseman vaguely,’ George said. ‘She was in government for a brief time, probably less than a year. I think she lives in Johannesburg now, it should be easy to track her down. I’ll give you a call at your hotel when I’ve got the information.’

Calder finished his whisky, preparing to leave. ‘Are you still working?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I still write the odd piece now and then. And I’m helping out on the Rainbow. It’s a black-owned paper, very well respected, but quite critical of the government. The ANC have achieved a lot over the last ten years, but they now have a monopoly on power. Someone needs to point out the dangers of a one-party state, and that’s what the Rainbow does. But it’s always short of funds. Plus ça change.’

Calder liked George Field: he was an intelligent man with a good understanding of South Africa. Calder decided to take a step into the minefield that was racial politics. ‘It can’t have been easy being a white South African.’

‘A lot easier than being a black one,’ George said.

‘You know what I mean. The apartheid regime was obviously evil, but what could you do about it? Voting for the opposition didn’t do much good since the National Party always had a majority. You and Cornelius tried to protest peacefully, but that didn’t work, you were both forced out of the country. Cornelius’s daughter, Zan, got involved in the armed struggle, but a violent revolution doesn’t seem the right answer either.’

‘Most white South Africans looked the other way,’ George said. ‘They say now that they had no idea what was going on in their country, but that’s crap. We told them in our newspaper, as did others. OK, sometimes we weren’t allowed to report the whole truth, but if you read the Cape Daily Mail it was easy to work out what was going on. People refused to see it: it was like a mass denial.’

‘Many of the people who perpetrated these crimes have got away with it, haven’t they?’

‘That’s true,’ George said. ‘A lot of them are still in positions of power, even now. Or they’ve retired on good pensions. This country has all sorts of problems: unemployment, violence, AIDS, a horrific past. But when South Africans argue about whether things are going well or badly, whether the glass is half full or half empty, they forget the most important thing. The glass wasn’t smashed. It took an extraordinary effort by our leaders, not just Nelson Mandela and Archbishop Tutu, but also F. W. de Klerk and his government, to forgive and forget and to try and build a new free country, however flawed it might be.’

‘Is Martha’s death part of that past? To be forgiven and forgotten?’

‘Perhaps not,’ George said. ‘But digging into the past in South Africa is dangerous. That you have already seen.’

‘Are you suggesting I leave it?’ Calder asked.

George smiled. ‘No. Just be careful.’

As soon as Calder arrived back at his hotel, he called Tarek al-Seesi in London. He was fortunate to catch him in his office, working late. He asked him to check with the Bloomfield Weiss analyst who covered the media industry to see if there were any unexplained holes in where Cornelius got his funds from. Tarek was happy to help.

Then he called Kim on her mobile. To his surprise, she was having supper with his father in Anne’s house. Todd was making very good progress, already he seemed much less confused than he had when he had first woken up. After Todd had been transferred down to the private hospital in London, Kim had decided to stay with Dr Calder and the children in Highgate rather than with her father-in-law. Calder told Kim about his discussions with Zan and George Field, and the theory that the Laagerbond might have financed Cornelius in his attempts to buy foreign newspapers. Kim was shocked at first, but she liked the theory. It was clear that her mistrust of Cornelius was growing by the day.

‘Will you be able to discuss this with Todd, do you think?’ Calder asked. ‘If Zyl News was financed by mysterious South Africans, Todd might know something. He worked for the company for several years, didn’t he?’

‘He did, although from what he has told me Zyl News was funded entirely by bank loans and junk bonds,’ said Kim. ‘Todd’s still pretty groggy. We’ve talked about the plane crash, but not about who might have caused it. I’ll see how he is tomorrow.’

‘I’ll leave it up to you to decide.’

‘Cornelius and Edwin have been to the hospital. Cornelius has spent quite a lot of time with Todd, but I keep out of the way whenever he’s around. And as for Edwin...’

‘Yes?’

Kim whispered, presumably so that Calder’s father wouldn’t hear. ‘He tried to threaten me. He’s found out about Donna Snyder and he said he’d tell the police. He seems to think they would view me as a suspect. He wants me to get you to come home. I told him to piss off.’

‘Good for you. Call his bluff, the police won’t care. They’d never take you seriously as a suspect. Speaking of which, how are they getting on?’

‘Pathetically. I’ve spoken to Inspector Banks and she says they are not pursuing Cornelius as a line of inquiry. It sounded to me as if she wasn’t very happy with that, but I couldn’t get her to admit it. Oh, and the South African police told her that the records relating to Martha’s murder have been mislaid.’

‘Destroyed, they mean,’ Calder said. ‘I can’t believe that the police are leaving Cornelius alone. At least I’m making some progress here.’

‘Thanks. Keep trying. Do you want to have a word with your father? He’s right here.’

‘Yes, please.’

He waited a moment and then he heard his father’s Borders’ brogue. ‘Alex? So you’re getting somewhere then?’

‘I think so. Kim will tell you.’

‘Good. I’m relying on you.’

Calder smiled. ‘How’s Anne?’

‘Stable. She’ll keep the other leg.’

‘Is she conscious?’

‘Yes. I spoke to her this afternoon on the telephone.’

‘Did she say anything about me?’

‘I think William has been getting her agitated. I’ve told him he really shouldn’t, but it’s difficult to be firm with him from up here.’

‘So she did say something about me.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Alex. Just concentrate on finding the bastard who did this.’

‘I will. How are Phoebe and Robbie?’

‘They went to school today. I think it’s best to get them into some kind of familiar routine. Robbie is very quiet indeed, but he did have a chance to speak to his mother on the phone.’

‘Will they get over it?’ Calder asked.

‘Aye, they will,’ said Dr Calder. ‘Especially once we get Annie down here.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Alex, before you go...’ Calder could hear footsteps as his father walked somewhere more private. Trouble.

‘Yes?’

‘When I was staying with you in the cottage in Norfolk, I couldn’t help noticing some statements from an outfit called Spreadfinex.’

‘Couldn’t help noticing? You were snooping!’

‘You’d know about that.’ His father was referring to the year before when Calder had discovered bookmakers’ statements amongst the doctor’s papers.

‘Yes, well. It’s a kind of stockbroker. It’s to do with my investments.’

‘It’s a spread-betting firm.’

‘That’s just an easy way of buying and selling currencies or shares,’ Calder said.

‘It’s gambling.’

‘I said, it’s just a way of investing,’ Calder protested. ‘Just drop it, will you? And don’t go through my stuff.’

‘Alex,’ his father said. ‘I’m glad you persuaded me to go to Gamblers Anonymous last year. One of the first things they teach you is to recognize you’ve got a problem.’

Sitting alone in his hotel room in Cape Town, the anger welled up inside Calder. He opened his mouth to swear at his father, but put down the hotel phone instead. The idea that he had a gambling problem was absurd. Typical of his father to somehow ascribe his own flaws to his son.

Now in a foul mood, Calder stalked down to the hotel bar in search of more whisky.

The light from two candles flickered feebly in the vast Hall of Heroes, illuminating the gaunt face of Andries Visser and barely picking out the silhouette of Paul Strydom, the latest candidate for induction to the Laagerbond. They were in the heart of the Voortrekker Monument, a massive granite structure squatting on the brow of a wooded hill overlooking Pretoria. The monument had been built in 1938 in Nazi-Gothic style to commemorate the Great Trek of the Boers a hundred years before. Outside was the Laager wall, a stone circle of sixty-four ox carts, and reliefs of black wildebeest symbolizing the Zulu enemy. A frieze of twenty-seven scenes from the Great Trek itself stretched around the inside wall of the building, and right in the centre was a cenotaph, arranged so that at noon on 16 December, the day of the Battle of Blood River, the sun would shine down from a window in the ceiling high above directly on to the inscription ‘Ons vir jou Suid Afrika’, the last line of the old national anthem ‘Die Stem van Suid-Afrika’.

Visser sang the first line of that hymn now, his voice weak and hoarse. The refrain was quickly taken up by the twenty-one men standing in the deep shadows behind the candidate. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the men had gathered in the utmost secrecy, the usual combination of blackmail, bribery and threats ensuring that they would not be disturbed. The Laagerbond’s ceremony followed closely the pattern of the Broederbond induction of the old days. When the last verse had been sung, Visser coughed and began in little more than a whisper. ‘Paul Gerrit Strydom, your fellow Afrikaners, who are members of the Laagerbond, have after careful consideration, decided to invite you to become a member of this organization.’

He continued, following the prescribed order of ceremony, which revealed steadily more of the nature and aims of the Laagerbond to the candidate, requiring him at each step to accept what he had heard. Strydom stood straight and tall, answering a clear ‘Yes’ to each question as it was put to him. Most candidates had little knowledge of the identities of the other members of the Laagerbond until the end of the ceremony, but Visser assumed that Strydom, who was number three in the National Intelligence Agency, would have a better idea than most.

His voice nearly failing, Visser eventually came to the climax of the ceremony.

‘In the presence of your brothers gathered here as witnesses I accept your promise of faith and declare you a member of the Laagerbond. Be strong in faith if the struggle becomes onerous. Be strong in the love of your nation. Be strong in the service of your nation. Hearty congratulations and welcome.’

With that he shook Strydom’s hand, and the other members of the Laagerbond stepped forward out of the darkness to do likewise, one at a time.

More candles were lit. An old general of at least eighty-five approached Visser. ‘I hope you know what you are doing with Operation Drommedaris, Andries,’ he said gruffly.

‘It will be a wise investment, you’ll see,’ said Visser.

‘Humph. I was told The Times will cost ten billion rand.’

‘At least that,’ said Visser.

‘Ten billion rand will buy a lot of firepower,’ the general said.

‘It’s political power we want, not guns,’ said Visser. ‘And I can assure you the money will buy us power.’

The general shuffled off. There were a number of members of the Laagerbond who just didn’t understand, Visser reflected. Fortunately they were getting older and dying off. The Laagerbond was powerful. It hadn’t needed guns to achieve that power. It had money and knowledge. It used manipulation to get its way rather than brute force. Operation Drommedaris influenced public opinion at home and abroad. Dirk du Toit and his father had multiplied the original billions supplied by Nico Diederichs through inspired investments. Some of this money could be used to bribe. If that didn’t work, Freddie Steenkamp and now Paul Strydom could use their extensive intelligence files on all of South Africa’s important politicians and bureaucrats, both black and white, to persuade and extort. Everyone of any importance in South Africa had a past, and in that past they had done things they were ashamed of. The Laagerbond knew those things. And if all else failed there was Anton van Vuuren, the grey-haired, bespectacled professor of physics who was at that moment talking earnestly to Daniel Havenga, and the sizeable stash of weapons-grade uranium buried deep in a disused diamond mine near Kimberley.

Visser smiled to himself. Under his stewardship as chairman of the Laagerbond, the Afrikaner nation had been safe.

Then he saw Kobus Moolman, and frowned. He moved over to the former policeman. ‘I heard that Alex Calder is in South Africa?’

Moolman raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m surprised. He obviously doesn’t scare easily.’

Visser’s frown deepened. ‘You seem to have lost your touch.’

Moolman smiled confidently. He wasn’t about to be intimidated by a former civil servant, even if he was chairman of the Laagerbond. ‘Don’t worry, Andries. Now he’s on my home territory I won’t let him cause trouble.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Visser. ‘Because if this van Zyl business gets out of hand it could destroy everything.’

‘We’ll have him on a plane back out of the country in a couple of days,’ said Moolman. He grinned. ‘In a coffin if necessary.’ Then he moved off to talk to the new initiate.

Visser coughed, the pain wracking his chest and shoulder. He would be lucky if he lived long enough to attend another one of these ceremonies. He surveyed the frieze around the walls of the monument. That tiny group of brave men and women clinging to life and freedom on the edge of such a vast continent. He remembered how when he had studied history at the University of the Orange Free State he had read extracts from The Times castigating the ignorant Boer farmers. He smiled again. Soon that mighty mouthpiece of British colonial rule would be under the control of those ignorant Boers. That was a day he was looking forward to.

The next morning George Field called Calder at his hotel with the addresses of Daniel Havenga, Andries Visser and Libby Wiseman. Since Professor Havenga lived in Stellenbosch, less than an hour’s drive from Cape Town, Calder decided to start there. But first he wanted to see Hondehoek, Martha’s house.

He drove out of the city past Mitchell’s Plain and the teeming township of Guguletu towards the Hottentots Holland mountains. His head throbbed vaguely from the whisky he had drunk the night before. He was still angry, angry with his father for accusing him of gambling, angry with his sister for blaming him for what happened to her, angry with Edwin for threatening Kim, and above all angry with himself. He had made mistakes over the last few weeks, but he was going to atone for them. He was sure that he had made real progress with George. There was more to be done, but the anger made him more determined to do it.

He left the highway and soon he was in wine country: rolling hills and acre upon acre of vines, russet and yellow. Many of these were watched over by low white farmhouses whose central gables proclaimed their Dutch ancestry. He skirted the town of Stellenbosch and followed a winding road up into a valley. The valley floor was lush: oaks, vines, pasture, a river, but on either side rocky mountain crags rose up into black clouds. It had just been raining, water dripped from the trees and glistened on the vines.

He rounded a corner and came to two white gateposts, one of which bore the name Hondehoek. The other had the usual series of badges threatening armed response and vicious dogs. He drove up the driveway, bordered by golden-leaved oak trees, to the farmhouse, proudly bearing the figures 1815 on the gable. In front of it was the garden: moist, luxuriant, mysterious.

He rang the bell. The door was answered by a tall grey-haired man, dressed neatly in Ralph Lauren shirt and chinos. Calder explained that he was a friend of the van Zyl family, and the man smiled broadly and offered to show him round. It turned out that he was a German who had bought the house and land from Cornelius in 1989. The house and garden were in immaculate condition, and the German said he had taken back the management of the vineyards on the estate.

Calder asked about Doris and Finneas. The German knew them, and had kept them on when he had taken over the property. Finneas had left a few years later, weakened by AIDS, and was now dead. Doris too had died, of a stroke three years before. The new owner remembered Martha’s desk. It had been left behind by Cornelius, but he had sold it when he had moved in. As far as he could remember the desk had been empty; if there were any papers in it, they would have been thrown away. No diary.

As they wandered round the garden, Calder imagined Martha van Zyl working there. It was a beautiful place. Although only a few miles from Stellenbosch, the house seemed much more remote, wrapped in the mists and the valley. Everything was pristine, more pristine than Calder imagined it with Martha in charge. He was standing by a bell suspended from two white posts, when he heard a bird whooping loudly in the tree behind him.

His host swore in German.

‘What was that?’ Calder asked.

‘They call it a bokmakierie,’ the German replied. ‘The South Africans love them, but I think they’re a pest, especially in the summer, when they wake up at five o’clock in the morning and start yelling. There are two of them. I thought they’d gone a couple of years ago, but they seem to have returned.’

Calder thanked him and left, the call of the bokmakierie ringing in his ears.

Calder was aware that the theory he and George Field had hatched about the Laagerbond funding Zyl News was just that, a theory. There could be all kinds of innocent explanations for Havenga and Visser’s visit to Cornelius that day. If there was an innocent explanation, then Daniel Havenga would probably give it, so Calder decided the direct approach would be the best way to test the hypothesis.

Stellenbosch was a quiet town, where imposing modern university buildings shared the streets with much older residences. Havenga lived on Dorp Street, an oak-lined road of white Cape Dutch houses with black painted railings and window-frames, many of which had been turned into art galleries. Peaceful, wealthy, old, it felt more like New England than Africa. A gap-toothed woman with wild black hair enthusiastically ushered Calder’s car into a space outside an ancient-looking general store named Oom Samie’s: she would demand a small tip later for watching over it. Calder walked a few yards along the street to Havenga’s house and rang the bell. The professor answered the door himself. Calder could see what Caroline meant about the ears. He was a small man with white hair, a beard and a mischievous monkey face. He raised his eyebrows in puzzlement when he saw Calder, but he also smiled in tentative welcome.

‘Professor Havenga?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name’s Alex Calder. I’m a friend of Todd van Zyl. I know you knew his parents. He has some questions he would like me to ask you.’

‘About what?’

‘About his mother.’

‘I see. Come in.’

Calder almost tripped over a compact suitcase that was lying in the hallway.

‘Sorry about that,’ said the professor. ‘I’ve only just got in from Pretoria this morning. Through here.’ He showed Calder into a cramped living room, made even more cramped by the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that covered every wall. An attractive woman of about forty appeared, whom Havenga introduced as his partner and sent off to make coffee.

‘Do I detect a Scottish accent?’ Havenga said.

‘You do,’ Calder admitted.

‘Well, you’ve come a long way. How can I help?’ The professor’s eyes were bright, and his smile was friendly, but he was leaning forward nervously in his armchair.

‘I understand you were a friend of Martha’s?’

‘Oh, yes, a great friend. I thought it was a breath of fresh air to have an American around. It’s much better now, but in those days the university was very inward-looking, very insular.’

‘Do you have any idea who killed her?’

The professor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Wasn’t it ANC guerrillas somewhere in the north? Near the Mozambique border?’

‘That’s what the police said.’

‘I see. And Todd doesn’t believe them?’

‘No.’

Havenga shrugged. ‘He may be right. All kinds of awful things were covered up by the authorities in those days. I suppose Martha’s death might be one of them. It’s very hard to unravel those mysteries now. It was what, fifteen years ago?’

‘Eighteen,’ Calder said. ‘And it is difficult. Which is why I am here.’

The woman arrived with a cafetière of coffee and two mugs. Havenga gave her a meaningful look and she withdrew. Havenga poured the coffee and swore as he spilled some. Definitely nervous.

‘I was very fond of Martha,’ Havenga said as he passed Calder his mug. ‘But I didn’t know her that well. If she had personal problems, I wouldn’t know about them. There were rumours of some difficulties with her husband, but there are always those kinds of rumours in Stellenbosch. The town is notorious for it.’

‘I wonder if you could tell me about a meeting you had with Cornelius van Zyl a short time before Martha was killed.’

Havenga sat up straight. ‘Meeting? I don’t follow.’

‘Yes. With Andries Visser, from the Finance Ministry.’

Havenga looked nonplussed. He didn’t say anything.

‘You do know Andries Visser?’

‘Um... We served on some committees together, I think. A long time ago.’

‘Right,’ Calder said. ‘And one day you and he paid a visit to Cornelius.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Caroline saw you.’

‘Caroline? Martha’s daughter? She was only a kid, wasn’t she?’

‘An observant kid with a good memory.’

‘She might have a good memory, but I don’t. I don’t remember any meeting.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’ The smile had gone, the eyes were no longer twinkling, but wary.

‘Were you a member of the Broederbond, professor?’

Havenga forced a laugh, pleased with the change of subject. ‘That’s something I couldn’t possibly divulge to you. But I am a current member of the Afrikanerbond, which is its successor organization. As you no doubt know, my field is journalism, and so I have a close professional interest in the Afrikaans language and its role in modern-day South Africa.’

‘How about the Laagerbond?’

Havenga was just about to take a sip of his coffee. He paused with the rim of the mug millimetres from his lips.

‘The Laagerbond,’ Calder repeated. ‘Are you a member of the Laagerbond?’

Havenga recovered, lowering his coffee and pursing his lips. ‘Laagerbond? Interesting name. I can’t say that I have heard of it, though.’

‘What about Operation Drommedaris?’

Havenga slowly shook his head, his lips tightly shut.

‘No, of course not,’ Calder said. ‘Thanks for your time, professor. I think I’ve found what I was looking for.’

Havenga put down his mug and leaped to his feet. ‘I don’t see how. I had no idea what you were talking about.’

Calder smiled at the professor. ‘Oh, you were very helpful. Believe me, very helpful.’

Daniel Havenga was severely agitated after Calder left. He paced about the tiny living room, playing over the conversation in his head. He hadn’t made any slips, had he? Alex Calder had seemed to think he had. He was shocked at how much that man had been able to piece together. Martha’s death had devastated him at the time, and even now, eighteen years later, his eyes prickled at the thought of it. The irony was that neither he nor Andries Visser nor the Laagerbond had been responsible. He wished he could just tell Calder that but he couldn’t. There was too much else at stake.

He picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Andries? It’s Daniel. I’m worried...’