Vortex (13 page)

Birds, frightened by the sudden noise, fled their perches and took to the air, a lazy, swirling, circling cloud-black specks against a deep blue sky.

His job done, Muller’s agent slid behind the wheel of his car, started it, and drove off in satisfied silence.

EMILY
VAN
DER
HELIDEN”S
FLAT
,
CAPE
TOWN

South Africa’s state-owned television cameras showed only what the government wanted them to show. And right now they showed a grim-faced

Karl Vorster standing rigidly at a

podium-backed by an enormous blue-, white-, and orange striped national flag.

“My fellow countrymen, I stand before you on a day of sorrow for all South

Africans.” Vorster’s harsh voice emphasized the guttural accents of

Afrikaans as he spoke, pausing with evident reluctance for the simultaneous translation into English.

“I come with dreadful news-news of a bloody act of terrorism so horrible that it is without parallel in our history. I must tell you that the reports you’ve undoubtedly been hearing all this evening have been verified. At approximately one o’clock this afternoon, a band of black
ANC
communists murderously attacked the Blue Train as it passed through the Hex

River Mountains.”

Vorster’s rough-edged, gravelly voice dropped another notch.

“I have now been informed that the train was completely destroyed. There were no survivors. The President of our beloved Republic is dead.”

Ian Sheffield felt Emily’s grip on his hand tighten. He glanced at her. She wasn’t making any effort to hide the tears welling in her eyes. No surprise there. She’d hoped that Haymans would be the leader who could orchestrate a peaceful reconciliation of South Africa’s contending races. He looked back at the stern visage dominating the television screen. There wasn’t much chance that Vorster would continue Haymans’s negotiating efforts. Much chance? Hell, he thought, no chance. Even Gandhi would have been reluctant to trust the good will or good faith of the
ANC
after this attack on the

Blue Train.

Ian wondered about that. What could the
ANC
have thought it would gain? How could they have been so stupid?

“As the government’s senior surviving minister, I have assumed the office and duties of the presidency. I have done so in accordance with the

Constitution-compelled by my love of God and this country, and not by any misplaced sense of personal ambition. I shall govern as president only until such time as the present emergency has passed.”

Right. Ian shook his head, not believing a word. Methinks thou dost protest too much, Vorster old son.

“Accordingly, my first action as president has been to declare an unlimited state of emergency extending to all provinces of the Republic.”

Vorster’s hands curled around the edge of his podium.

“I intend to root out this terrorist conspiracy in our country once and for all. Those responsible for the deaths of so many innocents will not escape our just vengeance.”

As South Africa’s new and unelected president continued speaking, Ian felt Emily shiver and understood. Vorster’s grim words spelled the end of every step toward moderation her nation had taken over the past decade. The newly declared state of emergency imposed dusk-to-dawn curfews on all black townships; allowed the security forces to shoot anyone violating those curfews; restored the hated pass laws restricting nonwhite movement and travel, and reimposed strict government controls on the press and other media.

Ian knew that, under normal circumstances, that last bit of news would have really pissed him off. But circumstances were far from normal. There didn’t seem to be much that Vorster’s new government could do to him as a reporter that his own network hadn’t already done.

When reports of the Blue Train attack first started to spread, he and

Knowles had filmed a quick segment and shipped it off to New York on a rush satellite feed. Flushed with triumph, they’d notified the network of their plans to fly immediately to Pretoria so they could cover the government’s reaction to the
ANC
attack.

But they hadn’t even had time to crack open a bottle of champagne in celebration before New York’s top brass quashed their plans. He and his cameraman weren’t needed in Pretoria, Ian had been told. The network’s top anchor and his personal news team were already en route to cover the developing story firsthand. Instead, he and Knowles were supposed to “stand by” in Cape Town, ready to provide “local color” stories, should any be needed. The fact that on-site anchoring had become network-news standard procedure since the Berlin Wall came tumbling down did nothing to cushion the blow. Just because New York’s story-hogging

had a historical precedent did nothing to make it any more palatable.

Ian gritted his teeth. Here they were in the middle of the biggest South

African news event in recent memory, and he’d been shunted off to the sidelines without so much as a thank you Christ, talk about a career on the skids! He’d slipped off into a black hole without even realizing it.

“Oh, my God…” Emily’s horrified whisper brought him back to the present.

Vorster was still on-screen, rattling off a list of those he’d named to a “temporary” Government of National Salvation. Cronje, de Wet, Hertzog,

Klopper, Malherbe, Maritz, Pienaar, Smit, and van der Heijden. Ian ran through the list in his mind. Some were names he didn’t recognize, but those he did recognize belonged to notorious diehards. All were

Afrikaners. Clearly, Vorster didn’t intend to give the Englishdescended

South Africans and other Uitlanders any share in government. Wait a minute … van der Heijden?

He looked sharply at Emily.

Stricken, she stared sightlessly into the screen and then, slowly, turned her eyes toward him. She nodded.

“My father, yes. ”

Ian pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. He’d known that Emily’s father was some kind of government bureaucrat. But he’d always imagined someone more suited to handling crop insurance or international trade figures-not the kind of man who’d apparently just taken the number two spot in South Africa’s security forces.

For an instant, just an instant, he found himself thinking of Emily not as a beautiful and intelligent woman who loved him, but as a possible information source-as a conduit leading straight into the heart of South

Africa’s new government. Then he saw the sadness in her eyes and realized that was just what she feared. She was afraid of what her father’s newfound power would do to what they had together.

Wordlessly, Ian reached out and took her in his arms, holding her closely against his chest. One hand stroked her hair and the back of her neck.

But he found his eyes straying back to the tall, grim-faced man still filling the airwaves with words and phrases that promised vengeance and rekindled racial hatred.

JUNE
30-
STATE
SECURITY
COUNCIL
CHAMBER
,

PRETORIA
,
SOUTH
AFRICA

Pretoria, South Africa’s administrative capital, lay at peace beneath a cloudless blue sky. Though several newly built steel-and-glass office buildings dotted its skyline, Pretoria still seemed more a quiet, nineteenth-century university town than the prosperous, bustling governmental center of a twentiethcentury state. Rows of jacaranda trees shading wide streets and an array of formal, flower-filled gardens helped maintain the illusion.

On a low hill overlooking the central city, the Union Buildings-two sprawling, three-story structures connected by a semicircular colonnade-sat surrounded by their own carefully manicured gardens.

Thousands of bureaucrats, some petty, others powerful, occupied the two mirror-image buildings. From their offices emerged the constant stream of directives, reports, regulations, and queries required to govern the sovereign Republic of South Africa.

On the surface, nothing much had changed. The various ministries and departments functioned according to time tested procedures-still carrying out the moderate policies of men whose bodies lay hundreds of miles away in a temporary morgue alongside the Cape Town railway. But all who worked in the Union Buildings knew those policies were as dead as the men who’d formulated them.

South Africa now had a more ruthless set of masters.

To defeat any attempts at electronic eavesdropping, the members of the new State Security Council met in a small, windowless room buried deep inside the Union Buildings complex. The fifteen men now in charge of their country’s foreign policy apparatus, military services, and security forces sat quietly around a large rectangular table. All of them

owed their appointments to one man, Karl Vorster, and all were acutely aware that their futures depended on continued obedience to his will.

Now they waited for an indication of just what that will might be.

Vorster studied the map laid out by his deputy minister of law and order.

Red circles outlined South Africa’s most troublesome black townships. Other colors designated varying degrees of past resistance to Pretoria’s policies.

“The circles dotting the map were surrounded by abstract symbols-symbols that stood for the sixty thousand active-duty and reserve police officers awaiting his orders.

He nodded vigorously.

“Magtig, Marius. This plan is just what we need. Show the kaffirs who’s boss right from the start and save a lot of trouble later, eh?”

Marius van der Hejjden flushed with pleasure at Vorster’s praise.

“Yes, Mr.

President. A thorough sweep through the townships should flush out the worst rabble-rousers and malcontents. Once they’re in the camps, we’ll have a much easier time keeping order.”

Vorster abandoned his contemplation of the map and looked up at the other members of his Security Council.

“Any comments?”

One by one, they shook their heads.

Every member of Vorster’s handpicked government saw the immediate security problem they faced. Years of misguided pampering by the dead Haymans and his liberal cronies had allowed the blacks to build up a network of their own leaders and organizations. Organizations around which violent opposition to a strengthened apartheid system could coalesce. And that was intolerable. The black anti apartheid movements would have to be crushed and crushed quickly.

What van der Heijden proposed was simple, straightforward, and bloody.

Teams of armed police troops backed by armored cars would descend on the most radical townships en masse-searching house to house for known agitators. Anyone resisting arrest would be shot. Anyone obstructing the police in the lawful performance of their duties would be shot. And anyone who tried to flee the closing police net would be shot. Those who escaped death would find themselves penned up in isolated labor camps, unable to spread their gospel of poisonous dissent.

Vorster bent down and signed the top page of the thick sheaf of arrest orders with a quick flourish.

“Your plan is approved, Marius. I expect immediate action.”

“At once, Mr. President.”

From his seat next to Vorster, Erik Muller watched with ill-disguised contempt as the beefy, barrel-chested man hurriedly gathered his papers and maps and rushed from the room. Van der Heijden really wasn’t anything more than a typical, block headed provincial policeman. The man’s socalled plan relied entirely on the application of brute force and overwhelming firepower to gut any internal resistance to the new regime. And where was the subtlety or gamesmanship in that?

He would have preferred a more surgical approach involving carefully selected arrests, assassinations, and intimidation. Muller shrugged mentally. Van der Heijden’s Operation Cleansing Fire appealed to the new president’s bias for direct action. Besides, the Transvaaler was just the kind of bluff, hearty kerel, or good fellow, that Vorster liked. So be it. Let the new deputy minister win this opening round. Muller would pour his energies into maintaining his authority over foreign intelligence-gathering and special operations.

Those were the next items on the State Security Council’s agenda. Muller grew conscious of Vorster’s scrutiny.

“Director Muller is here to bring us up-to-date on activities designed to punish the nearest kaffir-ruled states for aiding our enemies. Isn’t that right, Erik?”

“Yes, Minis… Mr. President.” Muller caught himself in time. Although he’d occupied the chief executive’s office for just two days, Vorster had already shown himself a stickler for titles. Muller beckoned a waiting aide over and watched through slitted eyes as the man unrolled a large-scale map of southern Africa.

Then he rose and leaned over the map. One finger traced the jagged outline of Mozambique.

“I trust you’re all familiar with our covert support for Renamo?”

Heads nodded. Limited involvement in guerrilla operations against

Mozambique’s Marxist government had been a staple of South Africa’s foreign policy for more than a decade. Under growing international pressure, the Haymans government had tried to untangle itself gradually from Renamowith only minor success. Too many lower-echelon officers and bureaucrats, including most of the men now sitting on the Security

Council, had been unwilling to end a campaign that was so successfully destroying Mozambique’s economy. They’d kept supplies and intelligence reports flowing to the guerrillas despite Pretoria’s orders to the contrary.

“Well, I’m pleased to report that the President” Muller inclined his head in Vorster’s direction—has authorized an expanded assistance program for Renamo. As part of this program, we’ll be meeting a much higher percentage of their requests for heavier weaponry, more sophisticated mines, and additional explosives.”

Muller paused, watching interest in his words grow on the faces around the table.

“Naturally, in return we’ll expect a stepped-up pattern of attacks. Especially on the railroads connecting Zimbabwe with the port at Maputo and the oil terminal at Beira.”