“About time .” The driver started the car and pulled smoothly away from the curb. His foot shoved down hard on the accelerator. Within seconds, the
Fiat was moving at sixty miles an hour, racing down the darkened street without headlights.
Mbeki didn’t even have time to turn before the car slammed into him and crushed his skull beneath its spinning tires. By the time his neighbors poured out of their houses, Dr. Nthato Mbeki, one of Soweto’s most promising teachers, lay sprawled on Bila Street’s dirt surface, bloody and unmoving.
Without any eyewitnesses to question, Soweto’s harried police force could only list his death as another unsolved hit and-run accident.
The signal to abort Broken Covenant died with him.
CHAPTER 3
Broken Covenant
JUNE 14-NEAR PRETORIA, SOUTH AFRICA
Karl Vorster’s modest country home lay at the center of a sprawling estate containing cattle pens, grazing lands, and furrowed, already-harvested wheat fields. His field hands and servants lived in rows of tiny bungalows and larger, concrete block barracks dotting a hillside below the main house. The house itself was small and plain, with thick plaster walls and narrow windows that kept it cool in the summer and warm in the winter.
Twenty men crowded Vorster’s study. Most were dressed casually, though a few who’d come straight from their offices wore dark-colored suits and ties. Two were in military uniform. A few held drinks, but none showed any signs that they’d taken more than an occasional, cautious sip. All twenty stood quietly waiting, their serious, sober faces turned toward their leader.
Despite the soft country-western music playing in the background and the smells wafting in from a barbecue pit just outside, no one there
could possibly have mistaken the gathering for any kind of social event. An air of grim purpose filled the room, emanating from the tall, flint-eyed man standing near the fireplace.
Vorster studied the men clustered around him with some satisfaction. Each man was a member of his secret inner circle. Each man could claim a “pure” and unblemished Afrikaner heritage. Each shared his determination to save South Africa from failing into a nightmare era of black rule and endless tribal warfare. And each held an important post in the Republic’s government.
Vorster held his silence for a moment longer, watching as the tension built. It served his purpose to have these men on edge. Their own inner alarm would lend extra importance to his words. Then he glanced at
Muller, who stood rigidly waiting for his signal. The younger man nodded back and pulled the study door shut with an audible click. They were ready to begin.
“I’ll come straight to the point, my friends.” Vorster kept his words clipped, signaling both his anger and his determination.
“Our beloved land stands on the very brink of disaster.”
Heads bobbed around the room in agreement.
“Haymans and his pack of traitorous curs have shown themselves ready to sell out to the communists, to the blacks, and to the Uitlanders. We have all seen their rush to surrender. No one can deny it. No one can doubt that the talks they propose with the ANC would be the first step toward oblivion for our people.”
More heads nodded, Muller’s among them-though he hid a cynical smile as he heard Vorster’s rhetoric ride roughshod over reality. He doubted that
Haymans had ever seriously contemplated the complete abdication of all white authority. Still, the exaggeration had its uses. Even the faint chance of a total surrender had already roused a fire storm of anger and hatred among South Africa’s militant right-a fire storm that Vorster would use to cleanse the Republic when the time came. And Muller knew that time was coming soon. Very soon. He turned his attention back to his leader’s impassioned diatribe.
“We must be ready to save our people when they cry out for our aid. As they will! True Afrikaners will not long be deceived by the web of false promises of peace Haymans and his cronies are spinning. Soon the bestial nature of our enemies shall stand revealed in the clear light of day.”
Vorster clenched his right fist and raised it high, toward the ceiling.
“God will not allow his chosen people to fall into the Devil’s clutches.
He will save us. And He will punish all who sin against the Afrikaner way-against God’s way!”
For a split second Muller was lost in the illusion that he’d somehow stumbled into a church meeting. It was an impression reinforced by the muttered “Amen” ‘s that swept through the room.
Vorster’s next words shattered the illusion.
“Therefore, gentlemen, we must be prepared for immediate action. When the people turn to us for salvation, we must move quickly to seize all reins of power-the ministries, the military, and the information services alike. You will be our vanguard in this effort. Do you understand me?”
One of the men still wearing a suit and tie stepped forward a pace.
Muller recognized the sober, jowly face of the Transvaal’s Security
Branch chief, Marius van der Heijden.
“Not quite, Minister. Are we to plan for direct action against Haymans’s faction?”
“A good question, Marius. ” Vorster slowly shook his head and lifted his eyes to meet those of the others around the room. ” I am not planning a coup d’etat. I propose no treason against the State.”
He looked steadily at Muller.
“No, that is not what I foresee.”
Muller felt a chill run down his spine, Was the minister going to blow the Broken Covenant secret? Even one of these trusted few could inadvertently reveal the knowledge he held to the wrong people. And such a leak would prove disastrous. He opened his mouth to interrupt.
But Vorster spoke first, calming his fears.
“I believe that our enemies themselves will give us the opportunity we seek. The timing will be their own. That is why you must be ready to move quickly. When God’s day of reckoning comes, only
those who act swiftly will emerge victorious. So be prepared. That is all
I ask of you now.”
Again, the men filling the room nodded their agreement, though few bothered to hide their puzzlement. No matter, Muller thought, they’d been given all the advance warning they should need. And if the ANC’s plan worked, South Africa would soon find it had new masters.
Satisfied, Vorster allowed himself to relax, momentarily concealing his naked ambition beneath a mask of benign good fellowship.
“But come now, my friends. No more business tonight, eh?”
He sniffed the air appreciatively.
“It seems that my ‘boys’ have done a good job with the beef tonight. And a fine thing, too. After all, this politicking is hard work, and we must keep up our strength, right?”
Appreciative chuckles greeted his attempt at humor, and the other men began drifting toward the door-ready for the barbecue that provided a cover for the evening’s meeting.
As Muller started to follow, he felt a strong hand close on his sleeve.
It was Vorster.
The minister tugged him back toward the fireplace, away from the others.
“Well, how goes it? Are those black bastards still on schedule? Has there been any reaction to Haymans’s offer of talks?”
Muller stared impassively at him, carefully weighing the pros and cons of telling Vorster about the ANC’s failed attempt to abort Broken
Covenant. Until now, the minister’s role in this conspiracy had been largely passive-more a matter of withholding information from others in the government than of acting on it. If he retroactively approved Muller’s secret efforts to push the ANC attack forward, Vorster would be playing a more active part in betraying his erstwhile colleagues. But would he go that far?