I drove back home trying to figure out what was going on. It didn’t add up at first. Havenga and a young woman by herself meant philandering. Havenga and Visser together meant Laagerbond. Why would someone like Zan, a fully paid-up radical opponent of apartheid, be talking to the Laagerbond, her bitter enemy?
Perhaps she was acting as some kind of agent for Cornelius? Yes, that made sense, I thought. I could imagine Cornelius trusting her and neither of them telling me about it. Yes that must be it.
I arrived back at Hondehoek, made myself a cup of coffee and took it out into the garden. It rained last night, but it was a bright clear morning. As I felt the gentle sunshine on my face I knew that wasn’t the right explanation, however much I wanted it to be.
The three men and Zan were not in the midst of a tense negotiating session. They were relaxed in each other’s company. Visser was smoking a cigarette, Havenga was chattering away and laughing, Zan was smiling too. They were conspiratorial. That was it, conspiratorial.
And what about the red-haired man? He was holding Zan’s hand in a familiar way, the way you would hold the hand of someone you knew for a long time, a long-standing girlfriend. Yet there was also something illicit about it. His eyes were on Zan. He was happy in her company, enjoying their brief time together. And he was with Visser and Havenga.
He looked intelligent, clean cut, a young professional.
It’s obvious. She is his girlfriend. Both of them were conspiring with the Laagerbond.
Okay, but how could Zan, the activist member of the Black Sash and the End Conscription Campaign, talk to these people in such a familiar way? The old Zan maybe, the Zan who enrolled in the Rand Afrikaans University to spite her father perhaps, but not the new Zan, the Zan who transferred to Wits, joined marches and protested against apartheid in all its forms.
Unless the old Zan has never changed.
Everyone knows that over the last ten years the security forces have infiltrated the main opposition groups, the SACP, the UDF, the ANC. They’ve done it with spies; often white spies, which is why so many black opponents of the regime have become wary of dealing with whites over the years. Well, one of those spies is Zan.
She probably met her red-haired boyfriend at the Rand Afrikaans University. The security police would think she’s a perfect candidate, the pro-Afrikaner daughter of a prominent English-speaking liberal family. All they had to do was to get her to deny her opinions and bury them. Which she has done very effectively.
And that’s why she has suddenly reappeared in our lives. She is working with the Laagerbond to warm up Cornelius, observe him and ultimately help persuade him to join forces with them. Just like Beatrice Pienaar.
The Operation Drommedaris paper I read in Daniel Havenga’s briefcase mentioned Impala’s opinion of Cornelius. I assume Impala is Beatrice Pienaar. It said this opinion was confirmed by Eland. Is Zan Eland?
It would be wrong to say that I never believed in Zan’s change of heart. I did believe in her radicalism, her return to the family, because I wanted to believe in it. I always hated the way she turned against Cornelius and me, and there was nothing I wanted to do more than accept her back.
But the prodigal daughter is a spy.
Here comes her car now. What the hell am I going to say to her?
Later...
Zan’s gone. Finneas is driving her to the airport; I couldn’t.
She sat in the kitchen while I made us some coffee. She seemed cool, relaxed. “You didn’t go to the Project today, did you?” she said.
“There was a riot last night. The visit was postponed.”
“I see. Was that you I saw in Church Street?” she asked casually.
She had obviously seen me. She was fishing to find out whether I had seen her. I smiled. “Yes, I ran some errands.” I turned away from her and fiddled with the kettle. “Where were you? I didn’t see you.” I could hear my voice was strained. Hoarse.
“Yes you did,” Zan said slowly. Matter-of-factly.
I turned to face her. “What the hell were you doing with those men?” I demanded, giving up all pretense of innocence.
Zan smiled. “They’re friends of mine.”
“You’re a spy, aren’t you?” I said. “A spy for the Laagerbond. You’re trying to lure your father into joining them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Zan. “What’s the Laagerbond?”
“Who was that boy whose hand you were holding so sweetly?” I asked.
“Just an old friend from university,” Zan said.
“University? Which one.”
Zan didn’t answer immediately. She seemed to be thinking. “Those friends I was with,” she said at last. “They are very powerful people. I like them, but they can be dangerous. They can even get people killed.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I’m just suggesting that it would be a good idea if you didn’t tell anyone who you saw me with today. And I wouldn’t share your wild ideas about me being a spy with anyone else either. Especially Pa.”
“You are threatening me! Get your stuff and get out of my house now!”
Zan smiled again. “All right,” she said, slowly pulling herself to her feet. And then, as she was at the kitchen door: “Enjoy your weekend with Benton.”
I rushed into the garden to give her time to pack. She was quick. Thank God she’s going to London. But what the hell do I do now?
I can’t believe what she’s done. That she was betraying us, her family, the whole time. She’s eaten with us, talked to us, laughed with us. And who else has she betrayed? How many people who work for the cause are in jail because of her? I thought that hatred that she showed me when she was a teenager had disappeared, but it hasn’t. It has grown and festered under her skin. I suppose I can imagine her betraying me, but her own father? Except in her twisted mind she probably believes she’s helping him to see the light.
I’ve no doubt her threat is real. Perhaps I should just keep quiet as she suggested. But how can I do that when it will mean that Cornelius will sell out to the Laagerbond? I can’t go through the rest of my life pretending that Zan is my sweet little radical stepdaughter. God knows what damage she will do to the ANC once she gets to London.
Plus she’s read this diary. And recently as well. How else would she know about Benton? Of course that’s the other part of the threat. She’s going to tell Cornelius about him.
I don’t know what to do. I need to talk to someone about it. Talk to Benton. He’s the one person who can give me a sensible, objective view.
I’m glad I wrote that letter to Mom yesterday. Next time I hear from Zan, as I surely will, I’ll tell her that if anything happens to me it will all come out.
I’d like to talk to Cornelius. He’s in Philadelphia at the moment and won’t be back here for a couple of weeks. I’m worried about using the phone; after my run-in with the security police I wouldn’t be surprised if it was tapped. And I don’t know whether I can trust him. I don’t know how deep Zan and Beatrice and the Laagerbond have gotten their claws into him.
Oh, God, I’m so scared. How did I get myself into this mess?