“If you say this is possible, then it must be so. But what of all the equipment you’ll need? Do you have such things here in South Africa?”
Knowles glanced up from a piece of scrap paper he’d filled with hastily scribbled notes.
“Not all of it. But I know where I can lay my hands on the stuff we don’t have.” He turned to Ian.
“I’ll have to have a few items
FedExed over from the States through London. It’s gonna cost an arm and a leg… “
Ian shrugged.
“So we expense it! If this works, nobody’ll begrudge a penny. If it doesn’t, the network can bill our respective estates, right?”
Knowles showed his teeth.
“I like the way you think, boss man.” Then he frowned.
“That still leaves us with one pretty big problem.”
Ian nodded.
“Sibena.”
He’d been giving the problem posed by their full-time driver and part-time police informant a lot of thought. Even if the young black man was cooperating with the South African security services against his will, they still had to find a way to shock him into working with them-and not against them.
“Uh-huh. How are we gonna make a move on this Muller goon with Matt still on our tail?” The cameraman’s frown grew deeper.
“Shit, all he’s gotta do is make one lousy phone call to the bad guys and we’re toast!”
“Too true. But I’ve got a couple of ideas about how to get a handle on our friend, Matthew Sibena.” Ian bent forward over the coffee table and added two more pieces of electronic gear to Knowles’s scribbled list.
Then he drew a quick sketch.
The cameraman pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.
“You sure you’ve never thought about working for the CIA, boyo? You’re just the kind of devious son of a bitch I hear they’re looking for.”
Ian looked back and forth from Knowles to Emily and then laughed.
“Maybe
I am. But I guess that makes us a matched threesome, right?”
At least they had the grace to blush.
OCTOBER 18-NEAR THE HILL BROW HOSPITAL FOR BLACKS, JOHANNESBURG
Johannesburg lay smothered in a dull yellow-brown pall of auto exhaust
and industrial fumes. The smog had been building up for days, trapped by a ridge of high pressure that shoved any wind to the north or south.
Ian Sheffield sat staring out the backseat window as Matthew Siberia drove down Edith Cavell Street, careful to stay, as always, well within the posted speed limit. The young black man had insisted on locking all the Ford Escort’s doors before venturing into the Hillbrow district, and it was easy to see the reasons for his caution.
Though officially a white residential area, Hillbrow had long been a bustling multiracial neighbor hoW-full of trendy cafes, inexpensive apartment buildings, and late-night jazz clubs. But time and the Vorster regime’s return to strict apartheid had not been kind to the area. Now the district’s cracked sidewalks, trash-filled alleys, and boarded-up windows stood in stark contrast to the walled mansions, swimming pools, and flowering gardens of the rich white suburbs north of Johannesburg.
Though it was broad daylight, few people were on the streets. Most were at work, in the government’s crowded detention camps, or staying close to their illegally occupied flats. And some of those who dared to venture out shook angry fists or spat contemptuously at the sight of white faces inside the Escort.
Siberia shook his head nervously.
“I’m telling you, Meneer Ian, this is a bad place, a dangerous place. Surely you and Sam could find another area to take your pictures today?”
Ian leaned forward.
“Don’t sweat it, Matt. We’ll be okay. But we got the word through the grapevine that there might be some kind of illegal demonstration at the hospital here. That’s too good to pass up, right,
Sam?”
Knowles winked back and then nudged him, pointing out a graffiti-smeared phone booth a few yards ahead,
Ian nodded. It was time to activate their plan. He could feet his heart starting to race. A lot depended on what happened in the next few minutes. If they couldn’t turn Siberia against his masters, they’d have to abandon all hope of nailing Erik Muller.
Ian tapped Siberia on the shoulder.
“Pull in right here, Matt. Sam and
I can walk the rest of the way. We’ll take a few back alleys to avoid the cops.”
They popped the doors open as the Escort coasted into the curb and stopped.
Ian shrugged into his favorite on-camera blazer as Knowles pulled his gear off the backseat and out of the trunk. Then he waited while Knowles bent low one final time, fiddled with something out of sight inside the trunk, and slammed the lid shut.
The little cameraman nodded once. They were ready.
Ian leaned in through the driver’s side window.
“Just take it easy while we’re gone, Matt. We’ll be back in a jiff .
“
He ignored the stricken look on the man’s face and headed toward the phone booth, fingering his pockets as though looking for change. Knowles followed him with the Minicam and sound gear slung over his shoulder,
Once inside the phone booth, Ian waited until Sam stopped behind him—blocking most of Sibena’s view. Then he picked up the receiver and hurriedly unscrewed the mouthpiece. A small metal disk lay nestled loosely inside-the microphone disk that ordinarily transformed sound waves into electrical impulses for transmission over the phone lines. He tapped it out into his cupped palm and slipped it into one of his jacket pockets.
“C’mon, boyo. I can’t stand here looking like a barn door all day.”
Knowles’s mutter showed that he was just as nervous.
“Almost done.” Ian cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder, pretending to make a call. He reached into another pocket and pulled out a microphone disk that looked very much like the one he’d just removed. But this disk had another, very special function built into its wafer-thin circuits. Over short distances, it worked like a miniature wireless transmitter. And any conversation over this telephone could now be picked up by the radio receiver and tape recorder hidden inside the Escort’s trunk.
Ian fitted the new disk into place and screwed the mouthpiece shut. Sweat trickled into his eyes and he wiped it off on his pants leg. Done.
He backed out of the phone booth and waved toward the car where Matthew
Sibena sat peering anxiously at them through the front windshield. Then Ian and Knowles moved
away down a nearby alley, skirting heaped piles of rotting garbage-walking fast until they were out of sight.
The alley opened up onto Klein Street beside a small, shabby Dutch Reformed
Church. Somebody had scrawled anti-Vorster slogans in white paint across its brown brick walls.
“This way.” Knowles pointed off to the right.
“There’s another alley leading back a few yards up.”
A minute later, Ian and his cameraman crouched near the side of a nightclub that had been raided and padlocked shut by the police. From their vantage point behind an overflowing Dumpster, they could just see the phone booth.
Matthew Siberia was in the booth, talking on the telephone and gesturing frantically while turning from side to side to see if they were on their way back.
“Well, I’ll be damned. Your cockeyed plan worked!” Knowles shook his head.
“He actually fell for it. Son, you’re a frigging cloak-and-dagger genius!”
“Yeah, sure.”
“There he goes!”
Ian risked another look. The phone booth was empty. Their driver was probably already back inside the car, waiting nervously for their return with that same helpful, friendly expression he always wore. Ian was staking a lot on the belief that much of Matthew Sibena’s desire to help was quite genuine.