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.