a cadre of self-proclaimed terrorists and murderers. We should kill them, not kneel in surrender to them!”
Haymans ignored his redfaced minister of law and order, focusing his rhetoric instead on the other men crowded around the table. ” I do not suggest that we surrender unconditionally to these people, gentlemen.
That would be lunacy.”
Vorster started to speak, but Haymans’s calmer, more measured tones rode over his angry words.
“But we must be seen to be reasonable, my friends.
The Gawamba disaster has cost us dearly. We must try everything in our power to retrieve the situation. If these talks fail, the world must blame the ANC’s intransigence-not ours. On the other hand, continued discussions will bring obvious benefits.”
He ticked them off one at a time.
“Reduced tensions both externally and internally. More overseas credit. Lower military expenditures. And the hope that we can move the ANC away from its ridiculous insistence on a strict system of majority rule. “
Most of the others around the table again nodded their agreement, though many with obvious reluctance.
“I don’t see this proposal as a panacea for all our troubles, gentlemen.”
Haymans shook his head slowly.
“Far from it. But I do believe that it is a necessary political move at this point in our history. We can no longer survive by the simpleminded use of military power. Instead, we must continue the search for a compromise that protects both our people and the peace,”
He noticed Vorster’s face change as he spoke. The look of barely suppressed rage vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stare.
“Will you allow us to fully debate this proposal?” Vorster’s tone was surprisingly formal-almost as if he no longer cared whether he won or lost.
“Time is too short, Minister. ” Haymans matched Vorster’s formality.
“We must act soon if we are to save these vital negotiations, and I believe we’ve already fully explored all the relevant issues.”
I I I see. “
Haymans could scarcely hide his astonishment. Vorster giving up, almost without a right? It seemed so out of character. Still, the President had learned long ago never to waste opportunities given him by opponents. He leaned forward.
“Then, gentlemen, we can bring this matter to a vote. Naturally, I expect your support for my proposal.”
Haymans watched the quick show of hands calmly, confident of the final tally. With the exception of Karl Vorster and two or three others, all those around the table owed their current positions and power to Haymans and his National Party faction. All were wise enough to avoid unnecessary political suicide.
Haymans smiled.
“Excellent, my friends. We’ll make the announcement tomorrow, after we have had time to contact the ANC and the other black groups.” He avoided Vorster’s unwavering gaze.
“If there’s nothing further to discuss, we’ll adjourn this meeting.”
No one spoke.
Ten minutes later, Karl Vorster strode out the front doors of the
Parliament building and climbed into a waiting black limousine. His unopened briefcase still held the captured ANC operations plan called
Broken Covenant.
MAY 30-IN THE HEX RIVER MOUNTAINS, SOUTH AFRICA
Riaan Oost’s three-room cottage lay deep amid the sharp edged mountains of the Hex River range. Forty acres’ worth of grapevines climbed the steep hillsides above his cottage -vines that Oost and his wife tended for their absentee landlord. Six years of hard, unremitting labor had brought the vines to the point at which they would soon produce some of the world’s finest wine grapes.
But Riaan Oost’s need to work ceased at nightfall, ending as shadows thrown by the Hex River Mountains erased all light in the narrow valley.
Now he sat quietly in the front room of his small home, reading by the dim light thrown by a single electric lamp. When the phone rang, it caught him by surprise. He cast his
book aside and answered on the third shrill ring, “Oost here. Who’s calling?”
“Oost, dye say? I’m sorry. I’m trying to reach Piet Uys. Isn’t this oh five three one, one nine three six five?” The caller’s crisp, businesslike voice sent chills up Oost’s spine.
He spoke the words he’d memorized months before.
“No, it isn’t. This is oh five three one, one nine three six eight. You must have the wrong number.”
The telephone line clicked and then buzzed as the caller hung up.
Oost followed suit and turned to face his wife. She stared worriedly up at him from her needlework.
“Who was it, Riaan? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He swallowed, feeling the first surge of excitement pounding through his veins. It had been a long wait.
“It was them, Marta.
They’ve put things in gear.”
She nodded slowly, knowing that the moment she’d both prayed for and dreaded had come at last.
“You’ll be needing help, then?”
He shook his head.
“No. I’ll do all the moving myself. Less chance of trouble that way. You stay here and tell anyone who calls that I’ve gone to bed… that I’m feeling a bit under the weather. Can you do that for me?” He was already pulling on his jacket.
“Of course, darling.” She clasped her hands together.
“But you will be very, very careful, won’t you?”
Riaan Oost paused by the door, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Don’t worry, Marta. If anybody stops me, I’m just the simple colored boy running errands for his master. They’ll never think to look closely at what I’m carrying.” He blew her a kiss and went outside toward the too] shed attached to his cottage.
The ANC had recruited Riaan Oost more than ten years before. At the time, he’d been a student studying agronomy at the University of Cape Town.
He’d been unusual even then-one of the few hundred mixed-race youths permitted an education beside their white superiors. He’d also displayed a quiet, unwavering determination to learn, a determination that masked his fierce resentment of apartheid and the whole
Afrikaner-dominated system.
The ANC cell leader who’d spotted Oost had insisted that he spurn any contact with the student-run anti apartheid movement. And he’d obeyed, heeding the cell leader’s promise of a larger, more important role in later years.
Untainted by a public connection with dissidents and unsuspected by the security forces, Oost graduated with distinction. He’d married and moved to the western Cape, trapped in the only job open to a colored man of his talents and education~-tenant farmer for a loudmouthed, boorish
Afrikaner.
Oost smiled grimly to himself as he unlocked the shed door. Yes, it had been a long, painful wait. But now the waiting was almost over.
He pulled a rack of tools away from the shed’s back wall and knelt to examine the crates and boxes he’d uncovered. All of them seemed intact.
Just as they had on delivery six months before.
With a muffled groan, he heaved the first crate into his arms and staggered outside toward his battered old pickup. Grenade launchers, automatic rifles, and explosives weighed more than wooden vine stakes and baskets of fresh-picked grapes.
Half an hour later, Riaan Oost backed his overloaded truck carefully out onto the dirt track winding down his valley. He saw his wife standing sadly at the window, waved, and drove off into the surrounding darkness.
Broken Covenant’s first phase was under way.
CHAPTER 2
Staging
JUNE I -THE HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT, CAPE TOWN, SOUTH AFRICA
When the last camera light winked out, the temperature in the packed briefing room began falling-dropping slowly from an almost unbearable level of heat and humidity normally found only in Turkish steam baths. Around the room, reporters from across the globe swapped rumors, gossip, and friendly insults, fighting to be heard above a hive like buzz of frenzied conversation. It was the usual end to a very unusual South African government press conference.