Vortex

CHAPTER 11 Home Front

AUGUST 29-UNIVERSITY OF THE WTWATERSRAND, JOHANNESBURG

The University of the Witwatersrand looked more like a battlefield than a center of learning.

Tom posters, handlettered banners, and flags littered the university’s once-pristine lawns and treelined walkways. Thinning wisps of tear gas drifted past slogan-daubed gray stone buildings, swirling in a fitful westerly breeze. Squads of shotgun-armed riot troops wearing visored gas masks stood guard at every intersection and entrance.

Other policemen accompanied white-coated medical teams picking their way carefully across an open square-sorting through the scattered bodies of unarmed student demonstrators. Those found to be only lightly wounded were yanked to their feet and hauled off toward rows of canvas-sided trucks already filled with hundreds of other detainees. The trucks were manned by brown shirted AWB “police volunteers.” Those more seriously injured were piled onto stretchers and loaded onto waiting ambulances.

The rest were dragged off

to one side of the square-joining a steadily lengthening line of blanket-covered corpses.

None of the Security Branch troopers thought to look behind them, toward the second-story windows of a small brick apartment building just across

Jan Smuts Avenue.

“Got it.” Sam Knowles shut his camera off and backed away from the window.

“Great. ” Ian Sheffield stopped jotting rough notes for his voice-over commentary, flipped his pocket notebook shut, and joined Knowles by the back flight of stairs. They’d been tipped to the planned antiwar, anti-Vorster protest in time to find the perfect site for concealed camera work-a vacant one bedroom flat. A flat they’d secured with the hurried “gift” of several crumpled twenty-rand notes pressed into the sweaty palm of the building’s fat landlord.

The two American newsmen had come hoping they could get some good footage of a major student demonstration. Something to show that not all of South

Africa’s white minority supported Vorster’s brutal crackdown or his Pearl

Harbor-style surprise attack on Namibia. What they hadn’t expected was a full-fledged police massacre of Witwatersrand’s white, mostly

Englishdescended students.

Random shots crackled from outside, rising above the screaming sirens of ambulances rushing wounded to area hospitals.

Ian shook his head in amazement. Skin color no longer seemed the determining factor in judging police reaction. Vorster’s bullyboys were going after anyone who openly protested government policy. He wondered how members of South Africa’s economically powerful but politically weak

English minority would react to seeing their sons and daughters gunned down by riot troops.

Not very well, he guessed, feeling the same odd mix of elation and sorrow he always felt when covering a newsworthy tragedy. He could never shake the sense that he ought to have been doing something to help-not simply standing in the background waiting, watching, and recording.

Still, that was exactly what his job entailed. Reporters who involved themselves in the events they were covering were activists-not journalists. And besides, this was the story he’d been looking for so long. If he could smuggle the horrifying footage they’d just shot out of the country… Of course, that was a big if.

Ian watched as Knowles deftly slid the tape cassette from his camera into an unlabeled carrying case and replaced it with another showing random

Jo’burg street scenes they’d shot earlier in the day. Precaution number one, he thought. Any South African policeman who grabbed their camera this time would be hardpressed to stay awake long enough to realize he was watching the wrong tape.

Finished, the little cameraman stood up, shaking his head.

“I still don’t see how we’re gonna work this. I mean, sure, we can get the tape back to the studio. No problem there.” He shrugged into his shoulder harness.

“But how the hell do you plan to get it onto the satellite link past the censor?”

Ian moved past, heading down the stairs.

“Simple. We aren’t even going to try putting this out over the satellite.”

Knowles clattered down the stairs right behind him.

“Oh? You got some kind of steroid-pumped carrier pigeon I don’t know about?”

Ian grinned and held the door to the outside open.

“Nope.

“What then?”

He followed the cameraman out into a narrow, trash can -filled alley.

Their tiny Ford Escort sat blocking the far end of the alley. Matthew

Siberia, their young black driver, was already behind the wheel with the motor running.

“C’mon, boss man. Don’t keep me hanging… what’ve you got up your sleeve?”

Ian’s grin grew wider.

“How about the embassy’s diplomatic bag? I’ve got a friend in the public information section who’s willing to play along.

And he’s got a friend back in D.C. who’ll make sure our tape gets on the right plane to New York.”

Knowles whistled softly.

“Pretty hot shit. I knew there was a good reason you charm-school grads get paid more than a lowly tech like myself.”

Ian nodded, unsuccessfully resisting the temptation to look smug. It was foolproof. Not even the South Africans would

risk a major diplomatic incident by searching boxes or bags shipped under the U.S. embassy seal. Their footage would air all over the world before

Vorster’s censors realized what had happened.

And all hell would break loose right after that. He frowned. He and Knowles would almost certainly be expelled for violating South Africa’s new press law. No great sorrow there, he thought.

Except for Emily. He’d lose her for sure.

Ian sighed. He’d probably already lost her.

She’d been gone for more than a month and he hadn’t heard a single word from her-not one card, not one letter, not one phone call. Either Emily was still locked up out of touch or she’d decided to try to forget him. And if that was the case, he couldn’t really blame her. Their love affair hadn’t brought her anything but trouble.

Nothing but trouble. Afrikaner families revolved almost entirely around the father. The father’s wishes. The father’s orders. The father’s beliefs. So how could he have expected Emily to withstand her own father’s rage for very long?

Knowles nudged him. They’d reached the end of the alley.

Sibena popped the trunk and got out to help them load the car. He looked scared.

“Anything wrong, Matt?”

The South African shook his head rapidly.

“No, meneer, ah, Ian. But when I heard the shooting and the sirens from there… ” He flapped his hand toward the university and swallowed hard.

“I was frightened of what the police might do if they found me here.”

Ian nodded sympathetically. He couldn’t blame Sibena for being afraid. In fact, he’d halfexpected to find the kid gone when they came out. It couldn’t have been easy sitting out in the open, just waiting for an AWB thug to wander along, whip or gun in hand.

The young black man had more than earned his meager pay over the past couple of weeks. Unfailingly and excessively polite, he’d displayed a working knowledge of every major thoroughfare and back alley in

Johannesburg. Even skeptical Sam Knowles had to admit that his shortcuts had saved them several hours of transit time. But they’d never been able to gain his trust. No matter how hard they tried to reassure him, Sibena always seemed braced for a blow or curse.

Sound gear, camera, and tapes securely loaded, Knowles slid into the front beside their driver while Ian crammed himself into the Escort’s cramped backseat.

The South African’s hands clutched the steering wheel.

“Where to now,

Meneer Sheffield?”

The habits of a lifetime were hard to break.

Ian leaned forward over the seat.

“Just take us back to the studio, Matt.

Nice and easy. I don’t want anybody in uniform taking an interest in us before we’ve dropped our little package off. Got it?”

Sibena nodded convulsively and cautiously pulled out into traffic, threading his way south through a steady stream of ambulances, military trucks, and wheeled APCs. Helmeted policemen riding north toward the university stared down at the little car, but nobody made any move to stop them.

Not right away.

Not until they were within five minutes’ drive of the TV studio and relative safety.

Ian heard the wailing, high-pitched siren first. He swung round in the backseat and stared out through the Escort’s rear window. Damn. A police car racing fast up Market Street, blue light pulsing in time with the siren.

“Oh, God.” Sibena pulled off to the side and switched the engine off with shaking hands.

The squad car pulled in behind them.

Ian leaned forward again, trying to reassure the younger man.

“Don’t sweat it, Matt. You’re with us, right? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He just wished his own voice sounded more in control.

Sibena gulped a quick breath and nodded.

The police car’s doors popped open and three blue-jacketed officers climbed out. They stood staring at the Escort’s rear bumper for a moment, then one leaned in through the car window, reaching for a radio mike.

“Checking our number plates,” Knowles muttered.

Ian nodded. One of the riot troops must have gotten suspicious and reported them. Now what? Could they bluff it out? Fast-talk their way past these creeps long enough to hide the film inside the studio?

Maybe. And maybe not. He grimaced. This was getting ridiculous. Every time they got close to a big story, South Africa’s security forces seemed ready and waiting to snatch it away from them.

The policeman with the mike thumbed it off and motioned in their direction. The other two moved forward, hands resting prominently on the pistols holstered at their hips. Pedestrians who’d gathered around the two parked cars, drawn by the flashing lights, scattered out of their way-curiosity suddenly quenched by a sensible desire not to get caught up in whatever was going on.

The older of the two policemen, glowering and gray haired, rapped impatiently on Ian’s window.

He rolled it down, reminding himself to be polite no matter how hard the

South African tried to provoke him. The tape locked in their trunk was too important to risk losing in a senseless run-in with the police.

“Yes?”

“You are Sheffield?” The policeman’s harsh, clipped accent marked him as an Afrikaner.

Ian nodded cautiously.

The policeman’s lips twitched into a thin, unpleasant smile.

“I ask that you all get out of the car. Now, please.” His tone made it clear he hoped they’d refuse.

Swell. Another South African cop out for journalistic blood. Ian caught

Knowles’s raised, questioning eyebrow and shrugged. What realistic choice did they have?

Ian popped the door and clambered awkwardly out of the Escort’s backseat.

Knowles and Sibena followed suit. Sweat beaded the young South African’s frightened face.

Ian folded his arms, trying to appear unconcerned.

“What seems to be the problem?”

The Afrikaner’s fixed smile thinned even further.

“You and your ‘colleagues’ —he stressed the word contemptuously—were seen filming a minor demonstration at the

University of the Witwatersrand. That is a serious violation of our law.”

Blast. Some of the riot police must have spotted them. Or somebody else had betrayed them. Maybe the landlord they’d bribed…

Ian shook his head.

“I’m afraid your information is inaccurate, Officer.

We’re on our way back from shooting a few background pictures of your city.

Nothing controversial or prohibited. Certainly nothing exciting.”

I ‘in that case, meneer, you won’t mind letting us take a look at them, eh?”

Ian hid a smile of his own and did his best to look upset.

“If you insist.

But I’ll protest this interference to the highest levels of your government.” He turned to Knowles.

“Please give these gentlemen the tape from your camera, Sam.”

His short, stocky cameraman looked sour as he unlocked the trunk and reluctantly handed over the wrong cassette. He started to slam the trunk shut.

“Halt! “

Knowles stopped in mid slam his back suddenly rigid.

The Afrikaner shouldered him aside and bent down for a closer look at the gear piled inside the trunk. He pawed through the stacks of equipment and muttered in satisfaction as he uncovered the carrying case full of unlabeled tapes.

“And what are these, Meneer Sheffield?”

Ian tried to keep his voice even.

“Blank cassettes.

“I see.” The policeman nodded slowly, his eyes cold.

“I think we shall confiscate these as well. If they really are blank, they will be returned to you.”

Damn it. Another story and hours of hard work down the drain. He tried to ignore Knowles’s quiet, steady swearing and said stiffly, “I insist on a receipt for the property you’ve illegally seized.”

“Certainly. ” The Afrikaner looked amused. He nodded toward his counterpart, a younger man who’d hung back from the whole scene as though reluctant to involve himself.

“That fellow there will be glad to write any kind of receipt you want, won’t you, Harris?” Spite dripped from every word.

Ian glanced at the younger policeman with more interest. What could he have done to warrant such hatred from his older colleague? Maybe he just had the wrong last name. Some Afrikaners never bothered to hide their long-standing, often mindless dislike for those descended from South Africa’s English colonists. It was a feeling that the English usually reciprocated.

Without another word, the older man turned on his heel and strode back to the waiting squad car, holding the case of videotapes out from his body as though they were contaminated.

“Mr. Sheffield?” The younger policeman’s voice was apologetic.

Ian looked steadily at him.

“Yes?”

The South African held out a piece of paper.

“Here is that receipt you asked for.”

Ian took it and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Great. Instead of a story that would lift the lid on Vorster’s security services, he had a junior policeman’s signature on a piece of meaningless official notepaper.

The policeman cleared his throat and stepped closer, lowering his voice so that his colleagues couldn’t hear him.

“I’m truly sorry about this, Mr.

Sheffield. Not all of us are happy with the things that are happening in our country. But what can we do? We must uphold our laws-no matter how much we may regret them.”

Ian restrained an impulse to feel sorry for the man. Individual apologies couldn’t atone for insufferable 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?”

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 his perfectly tailored Savile Row suit with natural authority. And when he spoke, his precise, well-modulated voice reflected an accent acquired during several years of advanced study at the London School of Economics. He sat comfortably in a chair, framed by a plain, pale-blue studio backdrop-apparently un flustered by the knowledge that his words and picture were being broadcast to several million television sets all across the United

States. As the leader of Inkatha, one of South Africa’s largest black political organizations, Mantizima was used to the exercise of power in all its forms.

The screen split, showing “Nightline” ‘s New Yorkbased anchor. Polite skepticism tinged the anchor’s own precise voice.

“As you know, Chief

Mantizima, many leaders of the ANC and other anti apartheid organizations have said that you’re nothing more than an apologist for Pretoria’s racial policies. Surely your continued opposition to Western economic sanctions seems likely to reinforce those charges?”

Mantizima shook his head vigorously.

“Your information is out-of-date,

Mr. Thorgood. It is true that I once opposed

sanctions as counterproductive-as bound to hurt our own people while discouraging constructive talks on South Africa’s future. But that was before this madman Vorster came to power. I had hoped that the Haymans government would someday see reason. I have no such hope for this new government dominated by thugs and murderers.”

The anchorman sat forward, visibly interested.

“Are you suggesting that you now support tighter economic sanctions?”

Mantizinia nodded once, his jaw firm.

“Yes, Mr. Thorgood. That is exactly what I am saying. And that is the message I intend to carry to both your

Congress and your president. In fact, I now believe that sanctions alone will not suffice. “

For once, “Nightline” ‘s top-rated moderator looked confused.

“But what other…”

Mantizima’s once-smiling eyes grew cold.

“Direct intervention. Only the full application of all the power in the hands of the Western democracies can put an end to this man Vorster’s genocidal reign of terror. “

Silence filled the airwaves for what seemed an eternity. Gideon Mantizima had done what no other politician or pundit had ever been able to do. He’d left “Nightline” ‘s veteran anchorman speechless.

“Off! I want that verdomde machine off! Now!” Vorster’s shout echoed around the wood-paneled walls of his office. From one corner, a pale, visibly frightened aide scurried to obey. The other men clustered around the television set shrank back into their chairs.

Mantizima’s image vanished in mid-sentence.

Vorster rose from behind his desk, his face grim.

“Treason! Treason so black that it stinks in my nostrils. ” His hands balled into fists.

“We’ve treated this, this skepsel—he used the Afrikaans word meaning “creature –almost as if he were a man for years. Allowed him to administer his own tribe land even. And this is how we are repaid!”

He turned to face the foreign minister.

“I want Mantizima’s passport revoked immediately, Jaap. “

The foreign minister, more skeletal than ever, sat wrapped in a heavy overcoat. He looked troubled. “is that wise, Mr. President? Why not simply arrest him on his return?”

Vorster shook his head decisively.

“No. Imprisonment or execution would only make him a martyr for Zulu hotheads. ” He smiled unpleasantly.

“By cutting him off from his followers, from his base of power, we will make this Mantizima just another wandering black beggar without a voice. He’ll wither away without troubling us further.”

Jowly Marius van der Heijden looked up, an ambitious gleam in his eye.

“And what of KwaZulu, Mr. President? Which black will you appoint to rule the homeland in Mantizima’s place?”

The others nodded. Van der Heijden had a good question. KwaZulu consisted of patches of separate territory scattered throughout Natal Province-most on or near the road and rail lines linking the province with the rest of

South Africa. And that meant Pretoria could not risk prolonged disorder in the homeland. Someone would have to fill the leadership vacuum left by Mantizima’s de facto exile.

“None! As of this moment, KwaZulu’s special status is ended. All administrative and police matters in the area will come under our direct supervision.

“This socalled warrior tribe will again learn to fear the lash, the gun, and our righteous anger-as they did in the days of our forefathers.”

His advisors murmured their approval.

South Africa’s 6 million Zulus would pay in blood for their chief ‘s arrant treachery.

SEPTEMBER 4-NEAR RICHARDS BAY, NATAL PROVINCE, SOUTH AFRICA

The Uys family farmhouse lay sheltered in a small valley meandering southeast from the Drakensberg Mountains toward the Indian Ocean. A shallow, gravel-bottomed creek bur bled gently past a large, one-story stone house, attached

garage, and shearing pens. Sheep wandered the hillsides above the valley, moving with docile stupidity from one patch of tall, green grass to the next.

It seemed the very picture of peace and tranquillity. But that was an illusion.

Piet Uys held the phone in shaking, work-gnarled hands, listening to the first three unanswered rings with mounting panic.

“Richards Bay police station. ” The voice on the other end was dry and businesslike-almost disinterested.

Uys took a quavering breath.

“This is Piet Uys of two Freeling Road. I want to report a theft in progress.”

The voice grew more interested.

“What kind of theft, Meneer Uys?”

“I have seen several blacks prowling around my sheep pens. They want my sheep!” Fear crept into the elderly farmer’s voice.

“We need the police here, as quick as you can. Please! “

“Calm down now, meneer. We’ll have a patrol on the way up there in minutes. Just stay in your house and don’t get in the way. We’ll deal with those blacks for you.”

“Yes, yes, I will stay inside. Hurry, please.” Uys hung up and stepped back from the phone, hands held away from his sides.

“That was very good, Mr. Uys. Very good, indeed. You’ve been most cooperative.”

The Afrikaner farmer looked up into the sardonic eyes of the tall, muscled Zulu leaning negligently against his kitchen countertop.

“You will not harm us then … as you promised?”

The Zulu smiled wryly and shook his head.

“Of course not. We do not make war on women, children, or old men. We leave that to your government.”

The black man stood up straight, suddenly seeming even taller.

“But the police are another matter entirely. They are fair game.”

He stroked the R4 assault rifle cradled in his hands.

“A beautiful weapon, Mr. Uys. Another reason we owe you our thanks. It will make our task this morning much easier.”

Uys’s leathery, weather-worn face crumpled. He’d been issued the rifle as a member of the neighborhood Commando-one of South

Africa’s paramiliuuy home-guard units. And commandos were supposed to kill antigovernment guerrillas, not arm them. He’d failed his nation and failed his people.

the Zulu leader watched him sob for a moment and then turned away, disgusted. He looked at the younger black man standing close to Uys’s moaning, panic-stricken wife.

“Watch them closely, but do not hurt them.

You know when to leave?”

The younger man nodded, eyes bright and excited.

“Good. Mayibuye Afrika!” The older Zulu raised his new assault rifle high in a salute and strode out of the farmhouse toward the rest of his waiting men.

White South Africa was about to learn that not all Zulus had forgotten their warrior past.

NATAL POLICE PATROL, NEAR RICHARDS BAY

Blue light flashing, the police squad car turned off the highway to the left, bumping over gravel and loose dirt onto an unpaved track leading to the Uys family steading.

Four uniformed officers of the South African police crowded the car-two in back and two in front. All were middle-aged reservists called back to duty when the younger men went north to join the police and Army sweeps through black townships.

“Ag, man, I tell you, there’s been some blery heavy fighting up there in the Namib. 1,ots of boys won’t be coming home. That’s what I’m hearing anyway.” The driver kept his eyes on the road, but his mind was on the argument they’d been having off and on since leaving the station that morning.

One of the two men in back snorted.

“And I say that’s just defeatist bullshit, Manic. I read the papers, man, and I’ve seen nothing about heavy casualties.”

“No surprise there, man! You think they’re going to print everything that happens? Just so some communist spy can read it with his morning post?”

The driver smiled as his

sarcasm drew chuckles. He glanced over his shoulder at a beet-red face.

“They’re tossing big shells back and forth up there, Hugo. And I know what that’s like. I was in Angola back in ‘75 when those verdomde Cubans started pouring one hundred twenty-two millimeter shells in on our poor heads like they was raindrops. I said to myself, I said, Manic… A barrage of groans drowned out the driver’s thousandth recitation of his heroic wartime exploits.

The squad car bounced and rolled over ruts left by the heavy trucks that carried Piet Uys’s wool to market and his unneeded sheep to the slaughterhouse.

The youngest of the four men squirmed uncomfortably in the front seat.

“How much farther to this place anyway? I’ve got to take a piss like you wouldn’t believe.”

The driver laughed.

“I’m not surprised, man. You must have drunk ten cups of coffee with your lunch. Don’t you know all that caffeine’s bad for you?

It will kill you someday. Shit!”

He slammed on the brakes and fought for control as the squad car fishtailed to a bone-jarring stop amid a yellow-gray cloud of dust and thrown gravel.

Rocks spanged off the cab of the large, open-topped truck blocking the road.

“Christ! Those damned blacks could have killed us with that stunt!” The driver sounded personally aggrieved at the thought that anyone would wish him harm.

“Get out and see if they’ve left the keys in the cab, Hugo.

Otherwise we have to go around.”

The beefy policeman in back nodded and reached for the squad car’s door handle. He never finished the movement.

Bullets shattered the front windshield and punched in through the car’s thin metal sides-tearing through flesh and ricocheting off bone before tumbling off end over end into thin air. Three of the four South African policemen died instantly. The fourth lived just long enough to claw futilely for his holstered pistol before sliding slowly down the bloodsoaked seat.

Thirty meters up the hillside, the Zulu leader rose from his crouch, already replacing the half-used clip in his assault rifle with practiced hands. He turned to the small group of men hiding beside him.

“Take all their weapons and ammunition. And look for a portable radio set. We will need it all before we are done. “

He watched in silence as they raced down the hill toward the bullet-riddled police car. The assault rifles, shotguns, and pistols carried by the dead policemen would more than double the firepower at his disposal. Better still, the news of this bold deed would spread, drawing more young men from the kraals and city streets to his side-and to the cause of his exiled chief.

He smiled. After more than a century of uneasy peace, the Zulu war regiments, the imp is were once again on the march.

SEPTEMBER 6-MINISTRY OF LAW AND ORDER,

PRETORIA

Brig. Franz Diederichs sat at attention in front of Marius van der

Heijden. A general in the Security Branch of the South African Police,

Diederichs was a short, wiry man whose narrow face was dominated by a pair of cold blue eyes and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth. It was a face that reflected its owner’s character and temperament.

“You understand the importance of this assignment, Franz?”

Diederichs nodded once.

“Yes, Minister.”

Van der Heijden ignored him. In his view, subordinates were, by definition, incapable of fully understanding anything they hadn’t heard at least twice.

“The President’s decision to give this ministry direct control over KwaZulu reflects his personal confidence in our ability to get the job done. Nothing must shake that confidence, understood?”

Diederichs nodded again, carefully concealing his impatience. Both van der Heijden’s mannerisms and his ambitions were well-known to those who worked for him.

“Good.” The deputy minister of law and order laced his fingers across a prominent paunch.

“Then you will also understand my insistence that this ‘insurrection’ —he sniffed

contemptuously, as though that were too significant a term for what was happening in Natal—be smashed as quickly as possible.”

Diederichs leaned forward.

“Will I be able to call on additional police units or troops, Minister?”

Van der Heijden shook his head.

“No. Manpower is too scarce at the moment. Every trained man is needed for service on the Namibian front or to help maintain order in the townships. You must work with what you have. You must use terror, Franz!” He pounded his desk once and pointed a plump finger in Diederichs’s direction.

“Terror must swell your ranks!”

His outstretched finger swiveled and came to rest, aimed now at the portrait of Karl Vorster hung prominently on the far wall.

“The President himself agrees with this precept. In his own words, Brigadier. In his own words! He has said that he wants one hundred dead Zulus as payment for every policeman they have so foully murdered. Ten kraals are to be wiped from the face of the earth for every white farm they dare to attack!

Blood must answer for blood! And fire for fire! Show no mercy toward these traitorous blacks, Franz.” Van der Heijden paused, breathing hard.

“End their cowardly ambushes. Root them out. And then kill them!”

For the first time since entering the room, Diederichs allowed himself a single, short smile.