'I am glad you do not deny this, my uncle. Your guilt is proven beyond any doubt. By your action you have forfeited any claim to the leadership. Nelson Mandela alone has the greatness for that role.
However, my uncle, the revolution needs martyrs." From the pocket of his jacket Raleigh Tabaka took something wrapped in a clean white cloth. He laid it on the table. Slowly he opened the bundle, taking care not to touch what it contained.
They both stared at the revolver.
'This pistol is police issue. Only hours ago it was stolen from a local police arsenal. The serial number is still on the police register.
It is loaded with police-issue ammunition." Raleigh folded the cloth around the grip of the pistol. 'It still has the fingerprints of the police officers upon it,' he said.
Carrying the pistol he went round the table to stand behind Moses Gama's chair and placed the muzzle of the pistol at the back of his neck.
From outside the cottage they heard the singing begin.
'God save Africa." Raleigh repeated the words. 'You are fortunate, my uncle. You have a chance to redeem yourself. You are going to a place where nobody can ever touch you again, and your name will live for ever, pure and unsullied. "The great martyr of Africa who died for his people."' Moses Gama did not move or speak, and Raleigh went on softly, 'The people have been told you are here. They are gathered outside in their hundreds. They will bear witness to your greatness. Your name will live for ever." Then above the singing they heard the police sirens coming closer, wailing and sobbing.
'The brutal fascist police have also been told that you are here,' Raleigh said softly.
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The sound of the sirens built up and then there were the roar of engines, the squeal of brakes, the slamming of Land-Rover doors, the shouted commands, the pounding footsteps, and the crash of the front door being smashed in with sledgehammers.
As Brigadier Lothar De La Rey led his men in through the front door of the cottage, Raleigh Tabaka said softly, 'Go in peace, my uncle,' and he shot Moses Gama in the back of the head.
The heavy bullet threw Moses forward, his shattered head slammed face down upon the table, the contents of his skull and chips of white bone splattered against the wall and over the kitchen floor.
Raleigh dropped the police pistol onto the table and slipped out into the dark yard. He joined the watching throng in the street outside, mingling with them, waiting with them until the covered body was carried out of the front door of the cottage on a stretcher. Then he shouted in a strong clear voice, 'The police have murdered our leader. They have killed Moses Gama." As the cry was taken up by a hundred other voices, and the women began the haunting ululation of mourning, Raleigh Tabaka turned and walked away into the darkness.
A servant opened the front door of Weltevreden to Manfred De La Rey.
'The master is expecting you,' he said respectfully. 'Please come with me." He led Manfred to the gun room and closed the double mahogany doors behind him.
Manfred stood on the threshold. There was a log fire burning in the hearth of the stone fireplace and Shasa Courtney stood before it.
He was wearing a dinner-jacket and black tie and a new black silk patch over his eye. He was tall and debonair with silver wings of hair at his temples, but his expression was merciless.
Centaine Courtney sat at the desk below the gun racks. She also wore evening dress, a brocaded Chinese silk in her favourite shade of yellow with a necklace of magnificent yellow diamonds from the H'am Mine. Her arms and shoulders were bare and in the muted light her skin seemed flawless and smooth as a young girl's.
'White Sword,' Shasa greeted him softly.
'Ja,' Manfred nodded. 'But that was long ago - in another war." 'You killed an innocent man. A noble old man." 'The bullet was intended for another - for a traitor, an Afrikaner who had delivered his people to the British yoke." 'You were a terrorist then, as Gama and Mandela are terrorists now. Why should your punishment be any different from theirs?" 'Our cause was just - and God was on our side,' Manfred replied.
'How many innocents have died for what other men call "just causes"? How many atrocities have been committed in God's name?" 'You cannot provoke me." Manfred shook his head. 'What I attempted was right and proper." 'We shall see whether or not the courts of this land agree with you,' Shasa said, and looked across the room to Centaine. 'Please ring the number on the pad in front of you, Mater. Ask for Colonel Bothma of CID. I have already asked him to be available to come here." Centaine made no move, and her expression, as she studied Manfred De La Rey, was tragic.
'Please do it, Mater,' Shasa insisted.
'No,' Manfred intervened. 'She cannot do it - and nor can you." 'Why do you believe that?" 'Tell him, Mother,' said Manfred.
Shasa frowned quickly and angrily, but Centaine held up her hand to stop him speaking.
'It is true,' she whispered. 'Manfred is as much my son as you are, Shasa. I gave birth to him in the desert. Although his father took him still wet and blind from my child bed, although I did not see him again for almost thirteen years, .he is still my son." In the silence one of the logs in the fireplace fell in a soft shower of ash and it sounded like an avalanche.
'Your grandfather has been dead for twenty years and more, Shasa. Do you want to break my heart by sending your brother to the gallows?" 'My duty - my honour,' Shasa faltered.
'Manfred was as merciful once. Hehad it in his power to destroy your political career before it began. At my request and in the knowledge that you were brothers, he spared you." Centaine was speaking softly, but remorselessly. 'Can you do less?" 'But - he is only your bastard,' Shasa blurted.
'You are my bastard also, Shasa. Your father was killed on our wedding day, before the ceremony. That was the fact that Manfred could have used to destroy you. He had you in his power - as he is now in your power. What will you do, Shasa?" Shasa turned away from her, and stood with his head bowed staring into the fireplace. When he spoke at last, his voice was racked with pain.
'The friendship - the brotherhood even - all of it is an illusion,' he said. 'It is you, Mater, whom I must honour." No one replied to him, and he turned back to Manfred.
'You will inform the caucus of the National Party that you are not available for the premiership and you will retire from public life he said quietly, and saw Manfred flinch and the ruination of hi dreams in the agony of his expression. 'That is the only punishmen I can inflict upon you, but perhaps it is more painful and lingerin than the gallows. Do you accept it?" 'You are destroying yourself at the same time,' Manfred told him 'Without me the presidency is beyond your grasp." 'That is my punishment,' Shasa agreed. 'I accept it. Do you accep yours?" 'I accept,' said Manfred De La Rey. He turned to the doubl, mahogany doors, flung them open and strode from the room.
Shasa stared after him. Only when they heard his car pull awa, ú down the long driveway did he turn back to Centaine. She wE weeping as she had wept on the day that he brought her the news o Blaine Malcomess' death.
'My son,' she whispered. 'My sons." And he went to comfor her.
A week after the death of Dr Hendrik Verwoerd, the caucus of the National Party elected Balthazar Johannes Vorster to the premiership of South Africa.
He owed his elevation to the awe-inspiring reputation that he had built for himself while he was minister of justice. He was a stron man in the mould of his predecessor and in his acceptance speech he stated boldly, 'My role is to walk fearlessly along the road already pointed out by Hendrik Verwoerd." Three days after his election he sent for Shasa Courtney.
'I wanted personally to thank you for your hard work and loyalty over the years, but now I think it is time for you to take a wellearned rest. I would like you to go as the South African ambassador to the Court of St James in London. I know that with you there South Africa House will be in good hands." It was the classic dismissal, but Shasa knew that the golden rule for politicians is never to refuse office.