Both Nicholson and Hurley looked relieved.
The CIA director leaned forward.
“Yes, Chris?”
“Just one thing more, Mr. Vice President. I’ve got MY people working on a continuing assessment of Vorster’s government: biographies, possible courses of actions, and so on. Something to give our analysts more hard data to sink their teeth into. ” Nicholson frowned.
“But with half the old leadership wiped out, and with things changing so fast, it’s taking longer to produce the material than I’d like. I’d appreciate any help the other agencies and departments could give my people. I I
Forrester looked meaningfully at Hurley.
“I’m sure that any of the other intelligence agencies with South Africa files will be more than happy to cooperate. Right, Ed?”
Hurley nodded ruefully, acknowledging the Vice President’s unspoken criticism. From time to time, the State Department’s Bureau of
Intelligence and Research exhibited an unfortunate tendency to regard the
CIA and the other intelligence agencies as overpaid and not overly bright errand boys. As a result, real interdepartmental cooperation often seemed more difficult to obtain than a ratifiable U.S.-Soviet strategic arms control treaty.
Satisfied that his message had gotten across and conscious of his next scheduled meeting, Forrester tapped the table.
“All right, let’s sum things up. As I see it, we recommend going tit for tat on the diplomatic front as a first step. Any objections to that?”
He looked slowly around the table. One by one, those present shook their heads. Staff reductions and strong notes were the small change in any diplomatic confrontation.
“Okay. I’ll pass that on to the President this afternoon.” Forrester shuffled his notepaper into a neat pile.
“In the meantime, we’ll put our staffs to work on more substantive responses. Up to and including expanded strategic minerals stockpiling and some low-key contingency plans for moving a UN peacekeeping force into the region should all hell break loose.
And we’ll recommend a heightened intelligence-gathering effort for the area. More satellite passes and more SIGINT work. That sort of stuff. Maybe we can get a better read on just what this Vorster character has in mind.
Comments?”
More silence from around the table. Forrester’s summary of their recommendations was on target. I-eft unspoken was the feeling that they’d once again labored mightily to produce more of what Washington was famous for: empty hot air.
As the NSC meeting broke up, Hurley leaned close to Forrester.
“Patience isn’t Vorster’s strong suit, Mr. Vice President. I don’t think we’ll have to wait long to see what he’s up to.”
AUGUST I O-JAN SMUTS INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,
JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA
The Jan Smuts International terminal building looked much like any other terminal in any other major airport anywhere in the world. Indecipherable boarding announcements and courtesy phone pages crackled over the public address system.
Cafeterias, bars, and small newspaper and book kiosks did a booming business as hungry, nervous, or bored travelers tried to pass the time before their flights. And television monitors showing arrivals and departures glowed from gleaming overhead metal stands.
But there were differences. Ominous differences. Most of those now waiting for incoming flights were men. Young men in their twenties and early thirties. Young men in military uniform-Citizen Force reservists summoned from their schools and jobs by Pretoria’s recent Emergency
Decree. Some looked as though their uniforms had shrunk or their stomachs had grown, but most were lean and fit-kept in shape by up to one full month of required military service in each calendar year.
Two American journalists in civilian clothes looked very much out of place in the sea of khaki-colored uniforms.
Ian Sheffield took his traveling case and identity papers from an unsmiling internal-security trooper and turned to help Sam Knowles. The little cameraman looked even more like a pack animal than usual. Pieces of video gear and sound equipment were slung across his sturdy back and shoulders and piled high on a squeaking, dented luggage cart.
“Behold the miracle of modern miniaturization. ” Knowles sounded disgusted.
“Now instead of just being buried under the weight of a single camera, I can rupture myself carrying the camera plus the rest of this shit.
“
They started down the teratinal, half-pushing and half dragging the overloaded luggage cart.
“Just whose bright idea was this move anyway?” Knowles huffed as he awkwardly maneuvered around a clump of curious South African soldiers.
Ian grinned but didn’t answer. The cameraman knew full well that he’d been badgering the New York brass for this change of location for nearly a month. With Parliament out of session and Vorster running the government practically single-handed, Cape Town was nothing but a pleasant backwater. Johannesburg, less than thirty miles from Pretoria, made a much more sensible base of operations. And since the network already leased a studio and satellite relay station
in the city, New York’s bean-counting accountants hadn’t been able to complain about added costs. At least not much.
Besides, being in Johannesburg put him that much closer to Emily.
They emerged into weak, lateafternoon sunlight and the loud, echoing roar of traffic. Chartered buses and trucks carrying more uniformed reservists jammed nearly every foot of curb space outside the terminal building. A sharp, unpleasant tang of mingled auto exhaust and unburnt jet fuel permeated the air. Ian fought the urge to cough, suddenly remembering that, at five thousand feet above sea level, Johannesburg sometimes had nearly as many air pollution problems as Denver did, back in the States.
Knowles nudged him with one camera-laden shoulder, indicating a young, stick-thin blackman dressed in a drab black suit, white shirt, and narrow black tie. He held aloft a handlettered sign with their names. Or at least a close approximation of their names. Sheffield’s was misspelled.
“We’re Sheffield and Knowles. What’s up?” Ian had to yell to be heard over the sound of traffic.
The young black man gestured nervously over his shoulder toward a parked
Ford Escort.
“I am Matthew Sibena, meneer. I am to be your driver while you are here in Johannesburg. Meneer Thompson sent me to pick you up.”
Ian nodded his understanding, surprised that Larry Thompson, the network’s penny-pinching Jo’burg station chief, had gone to all this trouble.
“Well, that’s nice of him. But I’m sure that we’ll be able to manage things ourselves. How about just dropping us off at the nearest car-hire firm on your way into the city?”
Sibena looked even more worried.
“Oh, no, meneer. That is impossible. It is a new security regulation, you see. All foreign newsmen must now have a
South African driver. That is why Meneer Thompson has hired me.”
Ian swore under his breath. Vorster’s government seemed to be doing everything it could to make the job of reporting events in South Africa even more difficult and more expensive. So now he and Knowles would have to work with this kid tagging along behind them. Ter-bloody-rific.
Then he shrugged and moved toward the parked car. They’d just have to see how things worked out.
“Okay, you’re our official driver. So let’s drive.”
The young black man looked greatly relieved.
Ian stopped in midstride and turned toward him.
“One thing, Matt. Call me Ian. And that pack mule over there is Sam Knowles. Save the meneer crap for Afrikaners.”
Sibena looked shocked at the idea of calling a white man by his first name. Then he nodded hastily, smiled shyly, and hurried forward to help