Jan Kleyn lay in bed thinking about all this, that Saturday morning of May 9. In the evening he would be visiting the house in Bezuidenhout Park. It was a habit he regarded as sacrosanct. The only thing that could get in the way was something connected with his work for BOSS. That particular Saturday he knew his visit to Bezuidenhout would be very much delayed. He needed to have an important meeting with Franz Malan. That could not be postponed.
As usual, he woke up early that Saturday morning. Jan Kleyn went to bed late and woke up early. He had disciplined himself to get by with only a few hours sleep. But that morning he allowed himself the luxury of sleeping late. He could hear faint noises from the kitchen where his servant, Moses, was making breakfast.
He thought about the telephone call he had received just after midnight. Konovalenko had finally given him the news he was waiting for. Victor Mabasha was dead. That did not only mean a problem had ceased to exist. It also meant the doubt he had been entertaining the last few days about Konovalenko’s abilities had been put to rest.
He was due to meet Franz Malan in Hammanskraal at ten. It was time to decide when and where the assassination would take place. Victor Mabasha’s successor had also been chosen. Jan Kleyn had no doubt he had once again made the right choice. Sikosi Tsiki would do what was required of him. The selection of Victor Mabasha had not been an error of judgment. Jan Kleyn knew there were invisible depths in everybody, even the most uncompromising of people. That was why he had decided to let Konovalenko test the man he had chosen. Victor Mabasha had been weighed in Konovalenko’s scales and found wanting. Sikosi Tsiki would undergo the same test. Jan Kleyn could not believe that two people in succession would turn out to be too weak.
Shortly after half past eight he left his house and drove towards Hammanskraal. Smoke hung low over the African shanty town alongside the freeway. He tried to imagine Miranda and Matilda being forced to live there, among the tin shacks and homeless dogs, the charcoal fires constantly making their eyes water. Miranda had been lucky and escaped from the inferno of the slums. Her daughter Matilda had inherited her good fortune. Thanks to Jan Kleyn and his concession to forbidden love, they had no need to share the hopeless lives of their African brothers and sisters.
It seemed to Jan Kleyn that his daughter had inherited her mother’s beauty. But there was a difference, hinting at the future. Matilda’s skin was lighter than her mother’s. When she eventually had a child with a white man, the process would continue. Sometime in the future, long after he had ceased to exist, his descendants would give birth to children whose appearance would never betray the fact that there was black blood somewhere in the past.
Jan Kleyn liked driving and thinking about the future. He had never been able to understand those who claimed it was impossible to predict what it would be like. As far as he was concerned, it was being shaped at that very minute.
Franz Malan was waiting on the veranda at Hammanskraal when Jan Kleyn turned into the forecourt. They shook hands and went straight in to where the table with the green felt cloth was waiting for them.
“Victor Mabasha is dead,” said Jan Kleyn when they had sat down.
A broad smile lit up Franz Malan’s face.
“I was just wondering,” he said.
“Konovalenko killed him yesterday,” said Jan Kleyn. “The Swedes have always been very good at making hand grenades.”
“We have some of them here in South Africa,” said Franz Malan. “It’s always hard to get hold of them. But our agents can generally get around the problems.”
“I suppose that’s about the only thing we have to thank the Rhodesians for,” said Jan Kleyn.
He recalled briefly what he had heard about events in Southern Rhodesia nearly thirty years ago. As part of his training for his work in the intelligence service, he heard an old officer describing how the whites in Southern Rhodesia had managed to evade the worldwide sanctions imposed upon them. It had taught him that all politicians have dirty hands. Those vying for power set up and break rules according to the state of the game. Despite the sanctions imposed by every country in the world apart from Portugal, Taiwan, Israel, and South Africa, Southern Rhodesia had never run short of the goods they needed to import. Nor had their exports suffered any serious downturn. This was due not least to American and Soviet politicians who flew discreetly to Salisbury and offered their services. The American politicians were mainly senators from the South, who considered it important to support the white minority in the country. Through their contacts, Greek and Italian businessmen, hastily established airlines and an ingenious network of intermediaries, they had taken it upon themselves to lift the sanctions by back-door methods. In their turn Russian politicians had used similar means to guarantee access to the Rhodesian metals they needed for their own industries. Soon there was nothing left but a mirage of isolation. Nevertheless, politicians throughout the world continued to preach condemnation of the white racist regime and praise the success of sanctions.
Jan Kleyn realized later that white South Africa also had many friends throughout the world. The support they received was less noticeable than what the blacks were getting. But Jan Kleyn had no doubt that what was happening in silence was at least as valuable as the support being proclaimed in the streets and public squares. This was a fight to the death, and in such circumstances everything goes.
“Who’ll replace him?” wondered Franz Malan.
“Sikosi Tsiki,” said Jan Kleyn. “He was number two on the list I made earlier. He’s twenty-eight, born near East London. He’s managed to get himself banned by both the ANC and Inkatha. In both cases for disloyalty and theft. He’s now full of such hatred for both organizations, I’d call it fanatical.”
“Fanatics,” said Franz Malan. “There’s generally something about fanatics that can’t be completely controlled. They have absolutely no fear of death. But they don’t always stick to the plans that have been laid.”
Jan Kleyn was irritated by Franz Malan’s magisterial tone. But he managed to conceal that when he responded.
“I’m the one calling him fanatical,” he said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll live up to the description in practice. He’s a man whose cold-bloodedness is scarcely any less intense than yours or mine.”
Franz Malan was happy with the response. As usual, he had no reason to doubt what Jan Kleyn said.
“I’ve talked to the rest of our friends on the committee,” Jan Kleyn went on. “I called a vote, since we were talking about picking a replacement after all. Nobody disagreed.”
Franz Malan could picture the committee members in his mind’s eye. Sitting round the oval-shaped walnut table, slowly raising their hands one after another. There were never any secret votes. Open decisions were necessary in order to make sure members’ loyalty never wavered. Apart from a determination to use drastic methods to secure the rights of Afrikaners and by extension all whites in South Africa, the committee members had little or nothing to do with each other. The fascist leader Terrace Blanche was regarded with ill-concealed contempt by many of the other committee members. But his presence was a necessity. The representative of the diamond family de Beers, an elderly man whom no one had ever seen laugh, was treated with the double-edged respect often aroused by extreme wealth. Judge Pelser, the Broederbond representative, was a man whose contempt for humankind was notorious. But he had great influence and was seldom contradicted. And finally there was General Stroesser, one of the air force high command, a man who disliked the company of civil servants or mine owners.