See No Evil

25

Calder kept a careful watch in his rear-view mirror all the way from Yeoville back to Sandton. The traffic was heavy and he was no expert at counter-surveillance so he couldn’t be certain whether there was anyone on his tail. As he approached the northern suburb, he took a diversion through a white residential neighbourhood, driving around two or three blocks and then back on the main street to Sandton. Nothing followed him.

The wealth of Sandton amazed him anew after the dilapidation of Yeoville. The whites had abandoned the centre of Johannesburg to create their own fortress of privilege, comforting to the well off, threatening to the dispossessed. They were behaving just like rich white people did all over the world. Libby had a point, Calder thought.

He parked the car in a well-secured underground bunker and took a lift up to the hotel forecourt and walked inside. Someone was waiting for him in an armchair facing the entrance.

Cornelius.

Calder checked the rest of the lobby. Empty apart from the hotel staff. He looked behind him. Two middle-aged women with cases were climbing into a cab.

‘I’m alone,’ said Cornelius, getting to his feet.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I came to see you.’

‘From London?’

‘You’ve done an awful lot for my family over the last few weeks,’ Cornelius said. ‘I thought you deserved an explanation. In person.’

‘Todd talked to you?’

‘He did. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’

Calder followed Cornelius out of the hotel and through a series of walkways, constantly looking over his shoulder as he did so. In a few minutes they came to a kind of modern piazza, presided over by a thirty-foot bronze statue of Nelson Mandela and with a fountain in the middle. Around the piazza were a series of cafés and restaurants under awnings. It was cool, and very few people were sitting outside. Cornelius had no problem finding a quiet table.

‘Todd’s doing well,’ Cornelius said.

‘He shouldn’t have spoken to you. I didn’t want him to.’

‘I’m sorry about your sister,’ Cornelius went on. ‘And very grateful for all you have done for Todd and Kim. I realize you nearly got yourself killed on two occasions for them.’

‘Three,’ said Calder, remembering Visser’s bullet. ‘And I’m doing this for me now. How did you find out where I was?’

‘Kim told me.’

Calder remembered the voicemail message he had left for her. But why had she disclosed his location to Cornelius, of all people?’

Cornelius ordered coffee. Shoppers strolled through the square. A gaggle of white teenage girls paused in front of them, giggling and shrieking. One of them pulled out a dinky mobile phone and started flicking her thumbs while the others looked on.

‘It’s true that Daniel Havenga came to see me at Hondehoek with a friend, Andries Visser. It’s also true that they offered to finance the bid for the Herald. And not just that. They wanted to provide funding for a string of newspaper and magazine acquisitions afterwards.’

‘Did they say where the money was coming from?’

‘Yes. Something called the Laagerbond. They said it was a highly secret group that existed to promote the interests of the Afrikaner nation. They didn’t believe in violence or even in the continuation of apartheid, which they recognized was an obsolete ideology, but they did believe in the power of public opinion. They had access to substantial funds which were lodged in Switzerland. Daniel said the group wasn’t part of the government and it would continue to exist if the government fell. They wanted to fund someone, a man with influence in the world’s media, who could build an international stable of newspapers and magazines which would put the Afrikaner point of view in the future. Daniel felt that the main threat to Afrikaners was international public opinion. He had seen what had happened to Nazis after the fall of Germany and he didn’t want something similar to happen here. He said he believed that Afrikaners were not evil, but someone had to persuade the rest of the world of that. Me.’

‘What about the Cape Daily Mail?’

‘They were happy to see that closed. They wanted me to keep hold of the other South African papers, although in the climate of US hostility to investment in South Africa at that time, I think that would have been difficult. Their idea was that my papers would gradually take on a more favourable editorial slant, not necessarily pro-government, but pro-Afrikaner.’

‘Did they want you to become a member of this Laagerbond?’

‘They didn’t say so specifically, but I got that impression.’

‘And you said yes?’

‘I said I’d consider it. And I did.’

‘But why? After all you had done to fight apartheid?’

Cornelius sighed. His eyes moved over to the giant statue. Nelson Mandela was laughing. It said a lot for a country that it would build a monument to its founder not looking grim and statesmanlike but having a good time. ‘By then I could see that apartheid was finished. What scared me was what would come later. South Africa was in the middle of a violent revolution. The townships were in flames, people were killing each other, my brother was blown up by guerrillas, the communists had an execution list with my name on it. I was torn. Part of me wanted to flee the country, go to America and start a new life. But part of me was reluctant to abandon my roots. My Afrikaner roots. Three hundred years of family history. Generations of hard-working, honest, decent people who suffered terrible hardship and survived through prayer and strength of character. I had denied them for most of my adult life, I had married two English-speaking women, but I knew that much of the Afrikaner way of life was good, and I didn’t want to see it disappear in flames.’

‘Did Beatrice Pienaar influence you?’

Cornelius glanced quickly at Calder. ‘You know about her?’ Calder didn’t answer. ‘Yes. Yes, she did. She was a perceptive woman: she felt that the Afrikaner nation was facing its biggest challenge. The answer wasn’t in preserving the past, it was the duty of her generation to find a position for Afrikaners in the world of the future.’ Cornelius smiled. ‘She sounded like Daniel Havenga’s pupil. And yes, she made me think that perhaps I had a duty as well.’

‘So. Are the Laagerbond funding your bid for The Times?

Cornelius laughed. He and Nelson shared the joke.

‘What’s so funny?’ said Calder.

‘I said no. After Martha died, I said no. Then I really did want to quit the country as soon as possible. I told Daniel and his friends I wasn’t interested, sold my newspapers here, and went to the States.’

‘But you bought the Herald?’

‘Yes. For some reason that I have never been able to fathom, Lord Scotton ignored Evelyn Gill’s bid and went for mine. We bought the Herald, we turned it around, we battled through the recession of the early nineties and came out the other side all guns blazing. Zyl News never looked back. And we never took a cent of the Laagerbond’s money.’

‘Do you expect me to believe that?’

Cornelius looked at Calder levelly. ‘Yes. That’s why I came down here.’

Cornelius looked like a man who was used to getting his way. But he also looked honest.

‘Hold on,’ Calder said. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Tarek’s home number. It was a Saturday and Tarek’s small daughter answered with a disconcerting Home Counties accent. A moment later, Tarek was on the line.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Calder. ‘Any luck?’

‘Actually, yes. I spoke to our media analyst in New York. He’s been covering Zyl News for fifteen years and knows the company very well. When the first US acquisitions were made in the early eighties Bloomfield Weiss did some fancy stuff with parallel loans to get around South African exchange controls. But since then all their acquisitions have been made with either internally generated funds, the syndicated loan market, or high-yield bonds. The accounts are all public and they add up. Our guy is sure that there is no major South African financing.’

Calder glanced at Cornelius. ‘Thanks, Tarek.’

‘Wait,’ said Tarek. ‘We were discussing The Times takeover. My analyst said that the more interesting question is where Evelyn Gill’s funding comes from. We know he has relationships with Swiss private banks. Three years ago a Sunday newspaper in London ran a story that the money had ultimately come from Islamic sources, but Gill denied this and sued the paper successfully. My man believes that South Africa is a more likely possibility.’

‘Really?’

‘As it happens, I went to school with a guy called Jeff Tidwell, who was FD of Beckwith Communications until a couple of years ago.’ Calder knew that Tarek’s expensive education had included a stint at an English public school, before university in the States. ‘I called him yesterday. He said he had no idea what I was talking about, he said Gill had used his own funds all along, he’d never taken a penny from outside investors.’

‘That can’t be right, can it?’

‘Actually, no. According to my analyst there are tens if not hundreds of millions that must have come from somewhere outside Beckwith Communications, and Gill never made that much from his metal-trading business. I think Jeff was lying to me. Which shouldn’t surprise me, I never really trusted him at school.’

‘All very interesting. Thanks again, Tarek.’

‘Any time, my friend.’

Cornelius’s eyes had never shifted from Calder. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘I believe you,’ said Calder, putting away his phone. He then told Cornelius about Tarek’s suspicions of Gill.

‘Of course!’ said Cornelius. ‘How stupid of me.’ He drummed the table with his fingers, his brain firing. ‘After I said no, the Laagerbond looked for someone else to back. And they found a right-wing bigot who would do anything for money and power. It makes sense. I’ve noticed that his papers have an anti-ANC bias whenever they report on South Africa. I thought it was personal: he was so angry with me for beating him on the Herald deal that he took it out on my country. But that never made much sense. Laagerbond backing does. Plus he now owns a couple of major titles in this country.’

Calder watched the older man. ‘What about Martha?’

‘I didn’t kill her.’

Calder sipped his coffee, considering Cornelius’s response.

‘I want to help you,’ Cornelius continued. ‘This isn’t just about Martha. When it was I could try to put everything behind me, forget about it. But this is about Todd and your sister and Caroline and Kim and you.’ Cornelius leaned forward, brushing a salt cellar out of the way. ‘For the last eighteen years I have been in denial. I didn’t want Martha’s death dragged up and picked over, nor did I want my connections with the Laagerbond dogging me for the rest of my career, even though they didn’t come to anything. So when Martha’s mother asked me questions about the Laagerbond and urged me to go to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, I ignored her. Just like I ignored Todd later. I never considered whether the Laagerbond had anything to do with Martha’s death, I did my best not to consider her death at all. The police said it was a random guerrilla killing and that fit with my view of what was happening in South Africa at the time. It was buried and I wanted it to stay buried. It was only when Todd spoke to me yesterday that I realized I had to face the truth.’ Cornelius stared hard at Calder. ‘I want to help.’

‘OK.’ Calder took a deep breath. ‘There are a couple of things you need to know, if you don’t know them already. I warn you, they will make unpleasant listening.’

‘Tell me,’ said Cornelius.

‘Did you know Beatrice Pienaar was a spy?’

‘George Field claimed that, but it was paranoia,’ Cornelius said. ‘He could never prove it.’

‘He can now,’ Calder said. ‘It came out during the Truth and Reconciliation Commission hearings. She was a lieutenant in the security police.’

‘No!’ said Cornelius. ‘No one ever told me.’

‘Did you ask?’

‘No,’ Cornelius admitted.

‘What happened to her?’

‘I don’t know. After Martha died we became... less close. She quit Zyl News.’

‘The second thing is...’ Calder hesitated. He wasn’t sure that Cornelius deserved to hear the next bit.

‘What?’ Cornelius said.

Calder ploughed on. As Cornelius himself had said, this was about much more than him. Calder needed to find the truth. ‘Did you know your wife had a lover?’

‘No!’ Cornelius looked truly shocked. ‘Oh, God.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘And I was just worried about what she thought about Beatrice. This was at the end, wasn’t it? Just before she died.’

‘Yes.’

‘Who was it? Not George Field? Or Havenga? He was a randy old bastard but I can’t imagine him and Martha. I can’t imagine anyone and Martha.’

‘Benton Davis.’

‘What!’ Calder kept quiet as he let the idea sink in. Cornelius’s shoulders slumped. ‘I suppose it was because of Beatrice.’

‘I think she did suspect something.’

‘You know the stupid thing is, Beatrice and I didn’t even sleep together,’ Cornelius said. ‘Oh, I was besotted with her all right. And she did have a big influence on my attitude then, I was so confused about everything. But I never slept with her. I had never been unfaithful to Martha and some part of me wanted to try to preserve that, even though things were going so badly between us. Damn!’ He slammed his hand on the table so the coffee cups clattered. ‘Damn!’

‘That’s why Martha went to Kupugani. To meet Benton. He spent a couple of days in Johannesburg and sneaked up there to meet her. The authorities covered it up. That’s why Martha mentioned Benton in the letter to her mother that Todd found. And that’s also why Benton lied to me.’

‘Benton Davis, the two-faced, slimy bastard! All those years we worked together, all that arse-kissing he went in for, and all that time he knew he’d screwed my wife.’ He shook his head. ‘I guess it was my fault.’ The anger subsided a notch. ‘OK. So who did kill her, then? You’ve found out so much about my family so far, but can you answer that question?’

‘No,’ Calder said. ‘It could be the Laagerbond. I had a nasty experience with Andries Visser which suggests that they are capable of violence. Or it could have been the police. Or, well...’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s just a suspicion.’

‘Edwin?’

Calder shrugged. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. I do know he tried to blackmail someone into stopping me asking awkward questions.’

‘Blackmail who? You?’

‘It’s not me. In fact I’d rather not say who it is, or what he’s got on them. Although if Edwin has his way, you’ll find out soon enough.’

Cornelius frowned. ‘Don’t tell me.’ His face was grim. ‘I’m not altogether surprised. I’ve always suspected him of blackmailing Lord Scotton somehow when we took over the Herald; the way Scotton sold out to me instead of Gill never made any sense.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve put far too much trust in Edwin over the years.’

‘One thing’s for sure,’ Calder said. ‘Benton knows a lot more about all this than he has told me.’

‘You’re dead right, the bastard.’ Cornelius’s fingers drummed the table. ‘Let’s find out what he does know.’ He pulled out his own mobile phone and pressed some buttons. ‘Benton?... Sorry to interrupt your weekend... That’s right, I’m in Johannesburg. Look, I really need you down here as soon as possible... I can’t talk about it over the phone. It’s delicate... No, just you... I’m staying at the Intercontinental in Sandton... Good, we’ll have breakfast together tomorrow morning.’

Cornelius put his phone down and grinned. ‘I love the way when you tell an investment banker to jump all they want to know is how high.’

‘That’s bloody marvellous! Good on yer.’ The Yorkshire accent echoed around the room from half a world away. ‘There’s one decision you won’t regret.’ A heavy chuckle boomed down the line. ‘I know some people as will hate the idea of The Times being owned by a lad from Sheffield. Someone who had to make his own brass.’

‘I’m sure they will, Evelyn,’ Visser said, leaning forward towards the speaker phone. He decided not to point out that Gill had received most of his funds from the Laagerbond. Visser was in Dirk du Toit’s office at the headquarters of the United Farmers Bank near Church Square in the centre of Pretoria. There were few people working in the bank on a Saturday; it was an ideal time for du Toit to focus on Laagerbond business.

Du Toit was smiling. They had just told Sir Evelyn Gill that the Laagerbond agreed to go up to a price of nine hundred and twenty million for The Times. It was a high price, but it was worth it. And as Gill never tired of telling them, they had made a handsome profit on all the publications they had backed him to buy so far. ‘If you call Hans in Zurich, everything should be in order,’ he said.

‘And get The Times on to the AIDS campaign right away,’ Visser added. ‘We’re becoming increasingly worried about our president. If he carries on the way he’s going, this country will be a one-party state run for the benefit of the blacks.’

‘Government by the Kaffirs for the Kaffirs.’ Gill’s laughter boomed around the room. Visser caught du Toit’s eye and winced. But by now he knew it was just a show of Yorkshire bluntness. Evelyn Gill was a very effective manipulator of his editors: forceful at some times, subtle at others. ‘Don’t worry,’ Gill went on. ‘Half the world knows your president’s barking mad because he thinks there’s no link between HIV and AIDS. Once we’ve got hold of The Times, we’ll point it out to the other half.’

‘I know we can rely on you, Evelyn.’

‘Bloody right you can. Oh, by the way. I got a call from a lad who used to work for me as my finance director. Jeff Tidwell, you remember him. I had to get rid of the bugger in the end, he was a lazy sod. But he did tell me that someone at Bloomfield Weiss had been on the phone asking where we got our funding from.’

Visser sat up straight. ‘What did he say?’

Gill chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. Jeff’s a bit dozy, but he’s not that dozy. He knows not to let me down. He told the merchant wanker it were all me own cash. Now, I must get on to Zurich.’

Du Toit leaned forward and switched off the phone. ‘I don’t like the sound of that, do you?’

‘No,’ said Visser. He closed his eyes. Once the van Zyls got hold of the link between the Laagerbond and Gill, it was all over. The bid for The Times would crumble. It wouldn’t take long before Operation Drommedaris would come to light and then the whole Laagerbond would unravel. Under his watch as chairman.

He regretted now not shooting Calder when he had had the chance. Although he had ordered the execution of a number of people in his time, he had never actually killed anyone himself. Despite what he had said, the local police would have taken an interest and it would have been awkward to sort that out. He could see that he had scared the hell out of Calder, scared him enough to make him leave the country, but the man was still causing trouble.

Freddie Steenkamp had been right all along.

He glanced at du Toit. ‘Do you mind?’ he said, picking up the phone. He dialled Freddie’s number and explained what was going on.

‘We’ve got to act,’ the former head of military intelligence said.

Visser sighed. ‘You’re right. We know Alex Calder is back in London. Send Moolman over there to deal with him.’

‘And Cornelius van Zyl?’ Steenkamp asked.

‘Yes,’ said Visser.

‘What about the woman?’

Visser glanced at du Toit, who could hear only Visser’s side of the conversation. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘We know how much trouble she can cause. We should have dealt with her years ago, I’ve always said that.’

‘I know you have, Freddie. All right.’

‘I’ll get Kobus on to the woman right away. Then he can go to London and finish the job.’

‘Good. But no fuck-ups this time.’

‘It’s not me who fucked up,’ said Freddie Steenkamp.

Visser put down the phone. He saw du Toit staring at him.

Visser broke out in the explosion of coughs he had been restraining as he was speaking to Steenkamp.

‘That’s not just a cold, is it?’ du Toit said.

Visser shook his head. ‘Cancer. The lung.’

Du Toit winced. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘At least I will have seen the Laagerbond buy The Times,’ Visser said. He knew now he was a dying man. He wanted du Toit to know it too.

‘You’ve done a lot for the Bond, Andries.’

Du Toit’s concern was touching. Despite the slicked-back red hair and the fancy office Dirk du Toit still had an air of youth, energy and innocence. He was a big, strong, honest man with an open, honest face. The kind of man who went to kerk every Sunday, who read to his children every night, who helped out his neighbours when they were in difficulty. The kind of man who had built the Afrikaner nation. The kind of man Visser had always wanted to be.

‘When I go, I don’t know who will take over from me. I’d like it to be a younger man. Even if Freddie Steenkamp does succeed me, I would be happy knowing that you had a senior role in the Bond.’

Du Toit smiled gravely. ‘It would be an honour.’

‘There’s something you should be aware of,’ said Visser. ‘Something that until now has been handled by myself, Daniel Havenga and Freddie.’

‘Yes?’

‘You remember when Martha van Zyl was murdered back in 1988?’ Visser said.

‘Yes. That wasn’t us, though, was it?’

Visser tried to smile, but coughed instead. ‘No. As you know, I’m against the use of violence except when it’s necessary. But you also know that occasionally Freddie Steenkamp is right, it is necessary.’

‘Perhaps,’ du Toit said. ‘Although was it really necessary to kill Cornelius van Zyl’s brother?’

‘From what Impala told us, it had a major effect on van Zyl’s psychology. Together with his name on the phoney SACP hit list we planted. Impala was confident that he would have gone along with Drommedaris if it hadn’t been for the death of his wife.’

‘Perhaps.’

Visser could see du Toit looked unhappy. But if he were to enter the inner sanctum of power of the Laagerbond, he would have to know everything. ‘Well, after nearly twenty years her son has stirred up a lot of people running around trying to find out what happened. I’ve scared one of these people back to London, but if we are to retain control of the situation we are going to have to use violence again. There is no other way. Kobus Moolman is seeing to it as we speak.’

‘Who are the targets?’

‘Cornelius van Zyl. A man called Alex Calder. And—’ Visser’s chest rasped again. He knew du Toit would not like the answer, which was why it was important he be informed early, rather than find out later. ‘And Zan van Zyl.’