“What is it? Has something gone wrong?” The grip on Muller’s wrist tightened.
He made no effort to pull away. Vorster sounded disappointed, not panicked. Excellent. Muller made a snap judgment. The older man’s craving for power must be overcoming the inhibitions normaHy imposed by custom and loyalty.
He must really believe that only he could stop Haymans’s sellout.
“Everything is moving forward as planned, Minister.” Muller leaned forward, closer to his leader’s rugged face.
“Though I have been forced to take certain measures .. …. “What measures?” Vorster kept his voice low, but his words had a steel-hard edge to them.
Without hesitating further, Muller told him everything. Vorster stayed silent as he spoke, save for an appreciative grunt when the younger man described Mbeki’s fatal “accident. “
He released Muller’s wrist.
“You’ve done well.”
Muller felt a wave of relief. The minister was fully committed.
Vorster clasped his hands behind his back and stared into the fire.
“Some of the things we are called upon to do would be distasteful, even reprehensible, in ordinary times. But these are not ordinary times.
“
He sighed and laid a hand on Muller’s shoulder.
“We are the servants of the Lord, Erik. And the Lord’s work is a heavy burden.” He straightened.
“But we should rejoice in that burden. It is an honor given to few men in any age.”
With difficulty, Muller hid his distaste. Why bring God into it? Power was justification enough for any deed. He forced a murmur of assent to satisfy Vorster’s sensibilities.
The two men turned away from the fire, two very different men driven toward the same means and the same end absolute control over the Republic of South Africa.
JUNE 18-IN THE HEX RIVER MOUNTAINS
Riaan Oost was aware first of the silence. An eerie, all encompassing silence spreading outward from the jagged, broken cliff face. No shrill animal cries or lyrical, lilting bird songs broke the odd stillness, and even the insects’ endless buzzing, whirring, and clicking seemed muffled and far away. The dust spun up by his pickup hung in the air, a hazy, golden cloud drifting north along the rutted trail.
He slid out from behind the truck’s steering wheel, careful to keep his hands in plain view. There were hidden watchers all around, armed men who feared treachery more than anything else. Oost moved slowly along the side of his pickup. His survival depended on his own caution and their continued trust. It had been that way ever since the guerrillas assigned to Broken
Covenant had begun arriving at his cottage.
He leaned into the back of the truck and hoisted a large wooden crate onto his shoulder. Beer and soda bottles clinked together, cushioned by loaves of his wife’s fresh-baked bread, packages of dried meat, and rounds of cheese. Supplies to keep men alive so they could kill other men.
Sweating under his load, Oost scrambled upslope toward the cliff face.
Broken shards of rock and soft, loose soil made it hard going, but no one came out of hiding to help him.
The cave entrances were almost completely invisible in the fading afternoon light, covered by fast-growing brush and lengthening shadows. Oost paused about ten feet away from the largest opening and stood waiting, panting and trying to catch his breath. The instructions he’d been given were clear.
The men inside the caves would initiate all contact. Any departure from normal procedure would be taken as a sign that he’d fallen into the hands of South Africa’s security forces. And that would mean death.
The bush in front of him rustled and then parted as a tall, gaunt black man cradling an AK-47 stepped out into the open. Oost’s eyes focused on the automatic rifle’s enormous muzzle as it swung slowly toward him.
“You are late, comrade.” The words were spoken in a soft, dry, almost academic tone, but Oost found them more frightening than an angry shout.
He stammered out a reply.
“I’m sorry, Comrade Kotane. The Boer who owns my vineyards made an unexpected visit this morning. I couldn’t leave earlier without arousing suspicion. “
The other man stared hard at him for what seemed an eternity and then nodded his acceptance of Oost’s excuse. He lowered the AK-47. “Is there any news?”
Oost felt the excitement he’d suppressed earlier bubbling up again.
“Yes! They’ve announced it on the radio. Parliament will definitely adjourn on the twenty-seventh as planned! “
A humorless smile surfaced and then vanished on the thin man’s face.
“So we are in business. Good. We’ve been waiting too long already. Are there any signs of increased police or Army activity?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the standard patrols.” Oost pulled a sheaf of paper out of his pocket.
“Marta and I have put together this list of their schedules and routes. You shouldn’t have any trouble avoiding them when the time comes. “
The other man took the papers, stung his rifle over one shoulder, and bent down to pick up the crate filled with food. Then he turned and looked back at Oost.
“You’ve done well so far, Riaan. Keep it up and one day your grandchildren will hail your memory as a hero of the liberation.”
Oost said nothing as the man pushed back through the tangle of brush and vanished. Then he turned and stumbled back down the slope, eager to get back to his wife. A hero of the liberation. The praise would please her as it had him.
Broken Covenant had ten days left to run.
JUNE 25-UMKHONTO WE SIZWE HEADQUARTERS,
LUSAKA, ZAMBIA
Col. Sese Luthuli was a deeply worried man.
Long silences from his agents inside South Africa weren’t unusual. Even the most urgent messages had to travel circuitously—through intricate networks of cutouts, drop points, and infrequently used special couriers. The ANC’s networks were deliberately designed that way to make life hard for South
Africa’s internal security apparatus. Convoluted, multi link message chains meant fewer suspicious longdistance calls for the police to trace.
Luthuli had always considered the necessary time lag a price well worth paying. Now he wasn’t so sure.
He halfheartedly scanned the newspaper clipping on his
desk again, already knowing that it didn’t contain the information he needed. Only the Sowetan had considered Dr. Nthato Mbeki’s death newsworthy, and then only as another example of the township’s urgent need for stricter traffic control and better street lighting. Even worse, the article hadn’t appeared until four days after Mbeki died. More days had gone by as copies of the paper made their way out of South Africa to
Zambia. And still more time had passed before Unikhonto’s Intelligence
Section cross-referenced Mbeki’s name with its list of active agents.
“
“Tragic Road Accident Takes Teacher’s Life,”
” Luthuli muttered, reading the headline aloud. Had it been a genuine accident? Probably. The
Sowetan said so, and its editors were usually quick to point the finger at suspected government dirty work.
More important was a question the article didn’t answer. When exactly had
Mbeki been killed? Had he passed the abort signal on down the line or not? So far, all efforts to check with the schoolteacher’s contact had proved fruitless. Shortly after Mbeki’s death, the man, a team leader for a highway construction firm, had been sent south into the Natal on an unexpected job. He was still gone, out of touch and effectively as far away as if he’d been sent to the moon.
Luthuli felt cold. What if Mbeki hadn’t passed the abort signal on? What if Broken Covenant was still operational?
He stabbed the intercom button on his desk.