Georg Scheepers was now convinced the chameleon was Jan Kleyn. On the other hand, he had not identified Franz Malan’s code name.
He realized van Heerden regarded this pair as the chief actors. By concentrating on them, he hoped to be able to figure out who the other members of the committee were, and just what they were intending to achieve.
Coup d’etat, van Heerden had written at the end of the last text, dated two days before he was killed. Civil war? Chaos? He did not answer the questions. He merely asked them.
But there was one more note, made the same day, the Sunday before he went into the hospital.
Next week, wrote van Heerden. Take it further. Bezuidenhout. 559.
That’s his message to me from the grave, thought Georg Scheepers. That’s what he would have done. Now I have to do it instead. But what? Bezuidenhout is a suburb of Johannesburg, and the number must surely be part of the address of a house.
He suddenly noticed he was very tired and very worried. The responsibility he had been given was greater than he could ever have imagined.
He switched off the computer and locked the diskettes in his filing cabinet. It was nine o’clock already, and dark outside. Police sirens were wailing non-stop, like hyenas, keeping watch in the darkness of the night.
He left the deserted prosecutor’s offices and walked to his car. Without really having decided to do so, he drove toward the eastern edge of the city, to Bezuidenhout. It did not take him long to find what he was looking for. Number 559 was a house bordering the park that gave Bezuidenhout its name. He parked by the curb, switched off the engine and put out the headlights. The house was white, in glazed brick. A light was on behind drawn drapes. He could see a car in the drive.
He was still too tired and worried to think about how he should proceed next. First of all, the whole of this long day would have to sink into his consciousness. He thought of the lioness lying motionless by the riverbank. How she stood and came towards them. The wild beast is clawing at us, he thought.
It suddenly dawned on him what was the most important thing.
The murder of Nelson Mandela would be the worst thing that could happen to the country just now. The consequences would be horrific. Everything they were trying to achieve, this brittle attempt to reach a settlement between blacks and whites would be demolished in a fraction of a second. The dikes would be breached and the flood would rage over the whole country.
There were people who wanted this apocalyptic flood to take place. They had formed a committee to open the floodgates.
That was as far as he got in his thoughts. Then he saw a man leave the house and get into the car. At the same time one of the drapes was pulled back in a window. He could see a black woman, and another one behind her, younger. The older woman waved, but the one behind her did not move a muscle.
He could not see the man in the car. It was too dark. Even so, he knew it was Jan Kleyn. He crouched down in his seat as the other car passed. When he sat up again, the drapes were back in place.
He frowned. Two black women? Jan Kleyn had come out of their house. The chameleon, mother and child? He could not see the connection. But he had no reason to doubt van Heerden. If he had written that it was important, then so it was.
Van Heerden had stumbled upon a secret, he thought. I must go down the same track.
The next day he called President de Klerk’s office and asked for an urgent appointment. He was told the president could see him at ten that night. He spent the day writing a report on the conclusions he had drawn. He was superficially nervous as he sat waiting in the president’s antechamber, having been welcomed by the same somber security guard as before. This evening, however, he was not forced to wait. At exactly ten o’ clock the security guard announced the President was ready to see him. When Scheepers entered the room, he had the same impression as last time. President de Klerk seemed to be very tired. His eyes were dim and his face pale. The heavy bags under his eyes seemed to weigh him down to the ground.
As briefly as possible he reported what he had discovered the previous day. For the moment, however, he said nothing about the house in Bezuidenhout Park.
President de Klerk listened, his eyes half-closed. When Scheepers was finished, de Klerk sat there without moving. For a brief moment he thought the president had fallen asleep while he was talking. Then de Klerk opened his eyes and looked straight at him.
“I often wonder how it is that I’m still alive,” he said slowly. “Thousands of boere regard me as a traitor. Even so, Nelson Mandela is the one picked out in the report as the intended victim of an assassination attempt.”
President de Klerk fell silent. Scheepers could see he was thinking hard.
“There is something in the report that disturbs me,” he said. “Let us assume there are red herrings laid out in appropriate places. Let us imagine two different sets of circumstances. One is that it’s me, the president, who is the intended victim. I’d like you to read the report with that in mind, Scheepers. I’d also like you to consider the possibility that these people intend to attack both my friend Mandela and myself. That doesn’t mean I’m excluding the possibility that it really is Mandela these lunatics are after. I just want you to think critically about what you are doing. Pieter van Heerden was murdered. That means there are eyes and ears everywhere. Experience has taught me that red herrings are an important part of intelligence work. Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” said Scheepers.
“I’ll be expecting your conclusions within the next two days. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more time than that.”
“I still believe Pieter van Heerden’s conclusions indicate it’s Nelson Mandela they intend to kill,” said Scheepers.
“Believe?” said de Klerk. “I believe in God. But I don’t know if he exists. Nor do I know if there is more than one.”
Scheepers was dumbfounded by the response. But he understood what de Klerk meant.
The president raised his hands, then let them drop on his desk.
“A committee,” he said thoughtfully. “That wants to frustrate all we’ve achieved. Dismantling in a just way policies that have gone wrong. They are trying to open the floodgates over our country. They will not be allowed to do that.”
“Of course not,” said Scheepers.
De Klerk was lost in thought once more. Scheepers waited without saying anything.
“Every day I expect some crazy fanatic to get to me,” he said circumspectly. “I think about what happened to my predecessor Verwoerd. Stabbed to death in parliament. I am aware the same could happen to me. It does not scare me. What does frighten me, though, is that there isn’t really anybody who can take over after me.”
De Klerk looked at him, smiling slightly.
“You are still young,” he said. “But right now the future of this country is in the hands of two old men, Nelson Mandela and me. That’s why it would be desirable for both of us to live a little bit longer.”
“Shouldn’t Nelson Mandela get a greatly increased bodyguard?” asked Scheepers.
“Nelson Mandela is a very special man,” replied de Klerk. “He’s not particularly fond of bodyguards. Outstanding men rarely are. Just look at de Gaulle. That’s why everything will have to be handled very discreetly. But of course I have arranged for his guard to be strengthened. He doesn’t need to hear about it, though.”
The audience was at an end.
“Two days,” said de Klerk. “No more.”
Scheepers got to his feet and bowed.
“One more thing,” said de Klerk. “You mustn’t forget what happened to van Heerden. Be careful.”