Fallout, page 15
Why was he doing it? Instinct, he supposed. But, even more importantly, he had something to prove.
Nobody was going to get the better of him. Nobody. Just because he had his own office and secretary, didn’t mean he’d gone soft.
Although tense – and uncomfortable in the suit which was part of his new identity – he was looking forward to the challenge. To achieving his goal, and to finding out what apartheid South Africa felt like from the inside. That familiar buzz before a field operation: something he’d not felt since his guerrilla days.
Johannesburg’s Jan Smuts airport was named after the old wartime leader defeated by Malan’s Afrikaner Nationalists in 1948 – a defeat just as unexpected as Churchill’s in the British general election three years before.
Makuyana was not impressed by General Smuts’ reputation. Ostensibly more liberal than the Nats, Smuts had been just as dedicated to apartheid. A racist with a human face. More than that, a puppet of British imperialism.
Makuyana smiled wryly at his own inner sloganeering. Actually, he detested such rhetoric, preferring cool, rational language to lazy ZANU propaganda. His duty was to his country: not to a ruling party that had betrayed its ideals.
Jan Smuts airport was even less attractive than the man for whom it had been named. Security everywhere: white men in cubicles, watching and checking with steely suspicion.
Would his passport and new identity clear the system? He queued up, his tension growing.
‘Sydney K Nkala,’ the immigration official grunted the name as he paged through the passport, looking up to stare at Makuyana. ‘Your visa’s stamped for a trade visit. Who will you be visiting, Mr Nkala?’ He spat the name out carefully, as if distancing himself from the black man before him.
Makuyana rattled off institutions and places, but the man wasn’t that interested. By now he was used to blacks in sharp suits carrying briefcases and talking business. It all fitted in with his government’s policy of forging economic ties with other African countries, making it less likely for them to turn on the apartheid fortress in the south. Mind you, he didn’t like them any the better for it. To him, blacks were still blacks: in suits or not.
The official waited for Special Branch clearance to appear on his screen. Up it flashed.
Makuyana felt relieved at being waved through, but knew this was the easy part. From now onwards, the slightest slip and he’d be finished.
He’d remain a target for the ubiquitous eyes and ears of the police state simply because he wasn’t white. Would he return here in two days’ time as planned? Or would they have rumbled him?
Carrying only hand luggage – fresh shirts and underwear pressed into his large briefcase – he headed out through the bustle of passengers into the unknown.
Florence Dube made her decision. Mr Herson was just an old man, enjoying the mundane routines of his retirement.
Down to the shops and back. Walk round the garden. Cup of mid-morning coffee, then back into the garden to read the paper. A drink before lunch, and an afternoon nap. Cup of tea, walk to the local park. A crossword. A sundowner. Evening meal, with lots more to drink. Falling asleep in front of the TV.
She had the car bleeper, the telephone tap, and the mail intercept. So, she decided to call off the watchers. Easy to redeploy them if needed.
There was a more pressing matter: the RENAMO man, still in a coma in the medical centre. The doctor wanted to move him into a proper hospital with superior facilities. But Florence had refused. No chances could be taken: she had to assume the eyes of the enemy were everywhere – especially with such a serious threat to their security.
Swanepoel hated this period of dormancy which his masters had imposed. It felt like he was vegetating.
In a way he enjoyed living a double life in Harare, but couldn’t cope with inactivity. At the same time he knew that frustration was dangerous, could corrode your defences, expose you. Just one careless mistake could blow your cover.
He swilled the KWV in his glass, sniffing the aroma wafting upward, the liquid shining golden in the setting sun. Soon the warmth that had drenched the veranda would be gone. Winter was looming.
His garden was looking unkempt, with grass straggling across the path. He hated gardening: women’s work – if you couldn’t get a reliable servant to do it for you.
True, they’d given him instructions to keep his property tidy, to play the role of a houseproud pensioner. But bugger them. They didn’t know what it was like, wasting away in the field. Cut off from your roots, your drinking partners, the men with whom you could swap stories about old times.
How much longer would they keep him hanging about here? Could be days, but might be weeks, or even months. Apart from the brandy, there was just one consolation: he hadn’t been rumbled over the letter bomb.
That had been his trickiest mission yet in Harare. Unusually, he’d carried out the operation himself, instead of just coordinating it. Luckily, there was still no sign that anyone suspected him.
Meanwhile, life in his little suburban street continued as normal: kids playing, people going to and from work, cars driving past, music from teenagers’ ghetto-blasters.
He stood up rather unsteadily. Time for a bite to eat.
Then the phone rang. Startled, he almost knocked it over as he picked up the receiver. Apart from his wife, nobody ever phoned him here – unless it was urgent.
‘Mr Herson?’
‘Ja,’ he recognised the voice.
‘Sorry I didn’t phone earlier. We finally got the part for your camera and the repair is done. Can you pick it up tomorrow morning? About ten if you want to catch me. Otherwise, my assistant will be there.’
The instruction was clear. Be there at ten. On the dot. No messing.
The young man in the monitoring centre at security HQ in Harare was struggling to concentrate.
Nothing much had happened since he clocked on for the late afternoon shift. He scrolled through the text on the screen in front of him. The surveillance system hadn’t logged any significant activity.
Suddenly the cursor flashed, grabbing his attention. An incoming phone call to a target. But who? He checked the system.
Name: Herson, Paul.
Address: a house in Avondale.
He noted the code number, and gave it to a middle-aged woman in the phone-tapping section.
‘Can you play this back for me?’
‘Sure.’ She smiled, handing him a pair of earphones.
He listened attentively.
‘Some message about collecting a repaired camera. Track the caller’s number, please.’
Five minutes later she came over to his desk, frowning. ‘Strange, this number of yours. It’s a private house, not a shop.’
‘Really?’ He looked puzzled. ‘Perhaps the guy forgot to call the customer during business hours?’
‘Well, maybe …’ she sounded sceptical.
He smiled ruefully. She was so conscientious. Everything was important to her – no loose ends when she was around.
‘What the hell. I’ll write a note for the boss.’
She returned his smile. Good boy. He was coming along nicely.
The Old Man looked doubtfully at his itinerary.
A decade or two ago the prospect of a foreign visit would have excited him. New places to see, maybe new heights to conquer. Now he viewed the whole idea with resigned weariness.
First Nairobi, in the grip of the capitalist West. Then Dar es Salaam: at least he had some friends there, from the days when his technicians had helped develop Tanzania’s infrastructure.
Finally, Zimbabwe.
They would land in Harare at nightfall, and the next five days would be packed with receptions, visits and meetings: some superficial, others very important. His printed schedule showed that everything had been organised with the usual attention to detail.
He scanned the list of his aides. Good – they had accepted all his handpicked nominees.
Wang and the others were his people. True believers. Their loyalty and dedication could not be faulted. Yes, the Party Secretary’s office had queried the unusually large number, but the Old Man had insisted he would need each of them.
Wang and a colleague would go on ahead to Zimbabwe. There, they would secretly prepare for the operation. He compared the official itinerary for Harare with the unofficial one. They fitted together perfectly.
His secretary was surprised to find him smiling. That hadn’t happened for years, she thought.
Florence strained to hear what the RENAMO man was saying. His speech was slurred, and he responded only intermittently to her questions – sometimes in Portuguese. She sensed the disapproval of the doctor, who hovered behind her.
‘Why did you go to the farm?’
‘Eliminar … eliminate.’
‘Eliminate who?’
‘Makuyana. Bastardo … he shoot me.’
‘How did you know he would be there?’
‘Informação …’
‘Information? From who?’
He shook his head. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Crap. Don’t piss me about!’ She stood up angrily, turning to the doctor. ‘He’s no use to us. Move him to the main hospital.’
A shout from the RENAMO man. ‘No! They kill me!’
‘Who will kill you?’ She sneered at him, feigning disbelief.
‘ANC.’
‘Why should ANC kill you? You’re more use to them alive.’
‘No. Inside ANC. Inside.’
‘Who inside?’
‘Não sei …’ he slumped back, mumbling.
She pounced. ‘Don’t know? What do you mean you don’t know?’
‘Not know name. Only face.’
The doctor intervened. ‘You must leave him to rest now. Otherwise he might not survive.’
Swanepoel was early for his appointment. He waited in his car, having checked and re-checked the car park for anything unusual, any surveillance.
Right on time a familiar figure appeared and climbed into the passenger seat. After the usual exchange of passwords, Swanepoel was given his instructions.
He was to re-activate his Harare network and keep it on hold. Two new operatives were being shipped in to give assistance: assassination specialists who would make direct contact themselves.
Target was a VIP. At the appropriate time he would be given the target’s name and details of the plan. He should expect an approach from a foreigner with the necessary passwords.
Meanwhile another matter. Something delicate.
His controller paused and coughed. Swanepoel caught his face outlined in the gloom. The face of a wealthy entrepreneur who had thrown his lot in with black nationalism the moment he’d seen the writing on the wall for white minority rule. Publicly loyal to the Zimbabwean government, privately playing both ends off to protect his investments and the ever-rising profits they generated on both sides of the Limpopo.
‘KJ briefed you on the foreign connection and the nukes. We think it’s time to rattle a few cages. The attacks on Makuyana’s mob have not yet achieved their objective. He seems to have gone to ground. We think he may be getting closer. So, you need to find out what the score is from our friends. Also, they have one of our field combatants.’
‘One of ours?’ Swanepoel was surprised he hadn’t heard this news from his own sources.
‘A combatant. Deniable. Seems he’s badly injured – though reports from the scene were confused. We think they’re spreading disinformation. Find him and eliminate.’
Florence Dube scrolled through the messages on Makuyana’s computer, only half concentrating.
What should she do with the RENAMO man? Confront him with Mngadi’s three aides? The ones Makuyana had been trying to check out? Risky, to say the least.
A message from the monitoring centre flashed up on the screen, but she didn’t notice.
How could she organise a surprise showdown with the ANC guys?
The message stared up at her.
Makuyana’s absence was frustrating. She enjoyed the responsibility but needed his guidance now.
Still the message hung on the screen.
Florence picked up the phone and dialled the medical centre.
The doctor’s response was cool. ‘He can’t be moved for at least a day – probably longer.’
‘But I need him in the main hospital.’
‘Alive, presumably?’ A rhetorical question, tinged with sarcasm.
‘What do you think!’ Florence snapped, then recovered herself. ‘Look, I’m sorry. This isn’t simple.’
‘I know,’ the doctor softened a little. ‘I’ll do what I can. As soon as he can be moved, I’ll book a bed.’
Florence put down the receiver. Something was nagging her brain.
The unread message.
She scanned it quickly, snatching a glance at her watch. It was now an hour since the scheduled pick-up – and a full sixteen hours since the message had been sent. Perhaps it was as innocent as it sounded, but she couldn’t afford to chance it.
She typed a note to the monitoring centre. Step up surveillance on Herson – especially his phone and movements.
Contact her immediately if anything came up.
The newspapers ran the story, but it didn’t make the front pages. English tourist murdered in Hong Kong: no apparent motive, no trace of the killer. There was a brief mention of Sewell’s background as a physical education teacher, but no reference to his activism.
In the London office of Green Planet there was deep gloom and shock, but no public acknowledgement.
Jenny felt devastated. She bought all the papers and scoured each report for details. What a waste – a desperate waste – of Dick’s life.
When she met Jim for a drink that evening, she could hardly speak. He hugged her warmly but she seemed stiff and remote. More like an acquaintance than a close friend. For a moment he was consumed by jealousy. Had she cared so much for Sewell? More than she cared for him?
He felt ashamed of himself.
Jenny finally spoke. ‘After I get the documents back from my aunt, we can’t take any risks. They’ve already cost one life – and could cost more. So, no open chats on the phone. No careless behaviour.’
Then, as if she was reading his mind, she looked directly at him for the first time, and gently touched his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Jim. I’m an emotional wreck right now. I just want to do justice to Dick.’
Jim nodded, putting aside his own feelings. He did understand – of course he did. Dick Sewell’s memory haunted him too.
Then he sighed – he had news of his own. Another foreign trip. The last thing he needed, but he had no choice.
He showed Jenny the letter he’d just received. He was to present his team’s research at a university conference in a couple of weeks’ time.
In Zimbabwe.
Next day Jenny stopped off at a phone kiosk on the way to work.
‘Jenny! How nice to hear from you!’ her aunt exclaimed.
When the phone rang, Ruth Brown had been catching some early morning sun on the patio of her cottage in the Dorset village of Burton Bradstock.
The two women had been close since Jenny’s teenage years, when she’d chosen to spend weekends and the occasional holiday with her aunt. They would discuss politics well into the night – and during long walks over the gentle hillsides and coastal paths of nearby Thomas Hardy country. Much of Jenny’s political education had been gleaned from Ruth.
‘Can I pop down for a visit? It’s ages since we saw each other. I got back from China a week ago. I’ve lots to tell you.’
‘Lovely!’ said Ruth. ‘I was hoping you’d call. There’s a special present waiting for you.’
Jenny smiled in relief – and at her aunt’s discretion over the open line.
‘Can I come this weekend? There’s a train to Dorchester which gets in at eight o’clock on Friday evening.’
‘Fine – I’ll pick you up there.’
Makuyana bought an evening paper outside his hotel in Johannesburg.
The law had been altered to allow visitors like him to stay in such hotels if the owners agreed. ‘Honorary whites’ they were called, by sceptical local blacks – and equally sceptical whites.
He flicked through the Star, his attention caught by a round-up of recent attacks against the apartheid state. An explosion outside a military building in the city. Another, targeting a police station. Skirmishes with the army in the Kruger National Park, along the border with Mozambique.
Makuyana felt quietly elated. The Afrikaner regime was no longer impregnable. And now he was inside: raising two fingers as it crumbled.
Early next morning he would travel to Pretoria, to the address given to him by Oliver Magano – the ANC’s Lusaka man. What would he find there? Vital new information? Or a trap?
If he walked into a trap in the capital of Afrikanerdom, there would be no way out.
The Leader stood erect on the podium surveying the million-strong mass before him, filling Beijing’s Square of Heavenly Peace where Chairman Mao had proclaimed the birth of the People’s Republic nearly 40 years before.
The crowd was hushed. Expectant. He knew he had to rise to the occasion. Months of work and planning had gone into assembling majorities in the Party for the next great leap forward – and orchestrating media coverage to prepare the public for the new line.
As he sat in his special seat, waiting for his moment, the Leader wondered what Mao would have made of it all.
Close to the Great Helmsman’s mausoleum at the other end of the Square, stood a symbol of the changing times: a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant. Outside, there was a queue of young people in fashionably bright clothes – so different from the sombre blue or grey uniforms that filled the square in Mao’s day.
