Craig just smiled. He knew the ambassador well enough now to know that no insult had been intended.
“What about all that socialist doctrine the
ANC people were spouting earlier? Nationalizing key industries and the rest?”
Hurley laughed.
“They were pretty quiet about it. Seems like their experiences with Cuban-style ‘fraternal socialism’ soured a number of them on good old Marx and Lenin. Plus they’ve had a close look at what’s left of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. There’s even talk of breaking up existing state-run industries. “
Craig breathed a little easier. His biggest fear had been that the
Constitutional Convention would fall apart while squabbling over economic ideology. Maybe the sheer chaos and horror of the past several months had knocked some sense into South Africa’s inhabitants.
Hurley continued, “Even the basic political framework they’ve picked makes imposing socialism or any other ism more difficult. They’re moving toward a weaker federal government presiding only very loosely over stronger provincial and local governments. Plus they’ll have just one federal capital-Johannesburg. “
He smiled again.
“No more of this crazy shuttling back and forth. Can you see our government moving between D.C. and San Francisco every six months?”
Craig winced at the thought. Things ran badly enough when the government just sat still in Washington.
“Why Johannesburg?”
Hurley shrugged.
“Lots of reasons. Politically, Pretoria generates too many bad memories, and picking Cape Town seemed like a step backward toward the days of British colonial control. Johannesburg’s never been a capital city before. Racially’? Well, Jo’burg’s population distribution’s pretty close to the national average. Both Cape Town and
Pretoria are too white. “
The ambassador shook his head.
“Anyway, the location
doesn’t matter as much because the whole federal government won’t matter as much. After what they went through under Vorster and his predecessors, it’ll be a long time before anybody in this country lets a central government have much power at all.”
Craig frowned.
“That could mean trouble someday. They might need a tougher federal government to impose reform on individual provinces if they go back to apartheid. Hell, a lot of our early civil rights rulings had to be enforced by federal troops.”
“Maybe. All we can do is help them get started.” Hurley tapped the sheaf of documents Craig was still slowly shuffling through.
“And that’s not a bad start.”
“Yeah.” Craig flipped a page and stopped suddenly.
“What in God’s name are these?” He held out an inset map showing proposed boundaries for two
“Reserves”one labeled the Oranjewerker Staat, the other the Azanian
People’s Republic.
Hurley grinned.
“Now those are two of the most bizarre ideas I’ve ever heard seriously proposed in a serious political setting.” He shook his head in disbelief.
“And the strangest thing of all is that they may actually make a certain amount of sense-at least sense South Africa style.
“The idea’s to create a couple of places of last resort for the holdouts on both sides. White diehards can try their cherished whites-only, rural lifestyle in Oranje. And black separatists can enjoy their own company in the APR. Inside each enclave, they’ll be free to live however they want. But outside them, they’ll have to obey the laws of the Federal
Republic.”
Craig laughed.
“Yeah, and we’ll see how long that lasts. The old folks may believe in apartheid of one sort or another, but their kids will start asking some hard questions when they see the rest of the country sorting itself out.”
“Not all the true believers will be in the reserves,” Hurley reminded him.
“Nobody in this damn country knows what it’s like for different races to live together. It took seventy plus years for Soviet-style communism to fade. It could take that long for South Africa to recover fully from this mess. “
Craig nodded. Hurley’s warning was valid. South Africa’s racial and political problems wouldn’t vanish overnight or even in one or two generations. People were too stubborn and contrary to expect overnight brotherly love. Far from it.
Still, at least South Africans of goodwill and common sense now had a decent chance to pull their country together. That was more than most of them had ever expected. Craig smiled down at the draft constitution on his desk. With that as a framework, they might even succeed.
APRIL 12-PROVISIONAL SUPREME COURT, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF SOUTH AFRICA, JOHANNESBURG
Television cameras had carried the weeklong trial into homes throughout
South Africa and around the world. Tens of millions watched a story of ambition, blind hatred, and treachery unfold-piece by sordid piece.
Despite earlier predictions, the case hadn’t been tried before an international war crimes tribunal. The eleven justices, the prosecutors, and the defense attorneys were all South Africans. Even the laws being applied-though stripped of all racial references-were South African. In many ways, this trial was the first test of the new nation’s ability to handle its own problems.
In the end, an overwhelming tide of undeniable evidence produced the only possible verdict-guilty on all counts.
“The prisoner will rise.”
Helped by his barrister, Karl Vorster staggered to his feet and stood wavering. Few would have recognized him as the man who’d once held South
Africa in an iron grip. Stooped shoulders and lost weight made him appear smaller and much older-an impression strengthened by his gaunt, haggard face, trembling hands, and sunken, red-rimmed eyes. He’d aged twenty years in barely half as many months.
South Africa’s acting chief justice spoke flatly.
“Karl Adriaan Vorster, you have been found guilty of high treason, murder, and conspiracy to commit murder, Have you anything to say before this honorable court passes sentence on you?”
With a visible effort, Vorster raised his eyes from the table in front of him and tried to square his shoulders. His enemies might have him in their clutches now, but soon his memory would inspire other, younger men to carry on his work.
“I refuse to acknowledge the authority of this illegal government or this puppet court. Kill me if you will. But only
God Himself may judge me or my actions.”
A low murmur of outrage raced through the spectators and witnesses seated behind him.
The chief justice simply waited until silence returned. Then he folded his hands.
“Know then, Karl Adriaan Vorster, that this court sentences you to life imprisonment at hard labor. You will have all the days that
God grants you to contemplate your crimes and the wickedness of your ways.” He gestured to the pair of waiting policemen-one white, the other black.
“Remove the prisoner.”
Vorster felt his shoulders sag. Despair flooded in, burying that last flicker of hope and bitter defiance. He had lost everything-even the chance for martyrdom.
APRIL 21 -PELINDABA, THE PLACE OF MEETING
Col. Robert O’Connell stood motionless watching the crowd of military and civilian dignitaries drift away across Pelindaba’s manicured lawns and gardens. It didn’t look anything at all like the war-ravaged, corpse-strewn compound he’d last seen. In the months since the end of the war, work crews had worked night and day bulldozing slit trenches and demolishing machinegun bunkers. Even the wrecked uranium enrichment building had been torn down-its existence now marked only by a solitary metal plaque.