“They’re in the lift. I’m on my way.”
The phone went dead.
Ian turned to his companions.
“It’s showtime, guys.”
Knowles squatted by his equipment, hastily making one last check through slitted eyes. Siberia sat carefully in a chair facing the monitors, much calmer and obviously fascinated by the ease and assurance with which the
American handled his hightech gear.
Motion on one of the monitors caught Ian’s attention and he saw the door to
Muller’s room swing open. Muller himself entered, followed by a very short, very skinny black youth. Despite his earlier words to Emily, Ian was puzzled. Though it was tough to tell for sure from the flickering, grainy picture, Muller’s companion didn’t look as though he could possibly be more than sixteen or seventeen years old.
A light, hesitant tap on the door to their room brought him to his feet.
Emily came in through the half-opened door, gave him a quick kiss, and sat on the bed-all the while staring at the scene unfolding in the next room.
Ian joined her.
Muller could be seen standing near the chest of drawers, apparently counting out pieces of paper into the young black man’s outstretched hand.
Ian squinted at the wavering picture, trying to make out the details. Were those pieces of paper money? Probably. The Afrikaner must be paying for more information on the ANC’s operations.
But he didn’t like the expression on Muller’s narrow face-an odd mixture of contempt, self-loathing, and something even stranger. Something very strange indeed. Was it anticipation?
Apparently satisfied, the other man abruptly nodded and fumbled the thick wad of rand notes into his pants pockets. He muttered something indistinct.
Muller spoke for the first time.
“No words, kaffir!”
Shit. Ian leaned forward, suddenly anxious. Could the South African intelligence officer have spotted one of their camera leads after all?
He started to turn toward Knowles to ask … And Muller erupted into action, viciously smashing a clenched fist into the young black man’s stomach. As the kid doubled over in agony, the
Afrikaner followed up with a short, stabbing jab to the face. Other blows landed in rapid succession, driving the young man down onto the carpet in a crumpled, groaning heap. Blood spattered from his broken nose and cut lower lip.
For a second, Ian sat still, shocked into immobility. Then he was on his feet and moving toward the door. This wasn’t what he’d thought to see, and he’d be damned if they’d sit idly by and watch this murdering bastard
Muller beat some poor kid half to death. To hell with the reporter’s role as impartial observer! Sam Knowles was right behind him.
But Emily got there first and stood blocking the door. Her face was deathly pale but determined.
“Let me past, Em. ” Ian could feel the adrenaline roaring through his bloodstream.
“No.” She shook her head firmly.
“We’ve come too far to throw this chance away on a gallant whim. Trying to help that poor boy in there will only result in our deaths or imprisonment. You know that Muller is far more than a simple thug. We must follow your original plan.”
“And besides, the kid’s just a black anyway, is that it?” For the first time, Ian found himself wondering how much of the Afrikaner racial beliefs Emily had unconsciously absorbed.
She colored angrily.
“That is not fair, Ian Sheffield, and you know it!”
Knowles cleared his throat.
“I think she’s right, boyo. We’re playing for big stakes here. Bigger than what happens to any one person.”
Ian glowered from one to the other. Knowing that they were both right didn’t make it any easier to contemplate doing nothing as they watched
Muller indulge his private sadism.
“Oh, my God .” Matthew Siberia’s horrified whisper yanked their attention back to the scene still being played out on the video monitors.
The beating had stopped as suddenly as it had started. Now the young black man lay curled in a fetal position on the floor, moaning pitiably through a bruised throat. One eye was already swelling shut. And Muller, so full of rage a moment before, now knelt beside him, softly caressing his battered face!
Ian felt his stomach heave as the Afrikaner bent down and kissed the young black’s torn lips, smearing the other man’s blood over his own face. He felt cold. This couldn’t be happening!
Through ears that seemed stuffed full of cotton, he heard Emily muttering to herself.
“Of course, now I see it. The defrocked minister. Poor dead
Gabriel Tswane. October twenty-second. It all fits. This is like a ritual for him…. Oh, how ~tupid of me!”
Ian couldn’t look away from the monitors long enough to ask her what she meant. His image captured by both hidden cameras, Muller lifted the black teenager in his arms and carried him over to the bed. Then the Afrikaner stepped back and started unbuttoning his shirt.
God… Ian looked away, feeling sick. They’d failed. All their hard work and all their hopeful planning-all for nothing. No ANC mole. No truth about the Blue Train massacre. Nothing. Just a sordid, anonymous homosexual encounter. Just another (lead end.
He turned back to the monitors. Muller had all his clothes off now. He grimaced.
“Shut it down, Sam. We don’t need to see any more.”
“No. Leave the cameras on.”
Ian looked at Emily, astounded by the stern, grim note in her voice.
“C’mon,
Em. Why waste more time here? We can’t use this—he gestured toward the bodies writhing on the twin screens—this pornography.”
She shook her head stubbornly.
“Yes, we can. We must.
His face must have shown his confusion because she went on, “That man and his master, Vorster, knew of the ANC’s plans in advance. They must have! Nothing else could explain what has happened to my nation.”
“Agreed. ” Ian spread his hands.
“But how did they know? And how do we prove it?”
Emily stared off into space for a moment and then snapped her fingers.
“The attack on Gawamba!”
Gawamba? Of course! Ian felt his excitement returning, along with a healthy dose of humility. The truth had been sitting right there in front of him all the time. He’d known that the ANC base inside Zimbabwe had been an important command center-a place where guerrilla operations inside South Africa were planned and supervised. Precisely the kind of place where you’d expect to find documents describing upcoming missions-missions such as the scheduled attack on South Africa’s president and his cabinet.
And the South African paratroops who’d blown the shit out of Gawamba must have found those plans. Plans that had gone straight back to Erik Muller without passing through any of the normal SADF intelligence channels.
He frowned. The paratroops had to have removed the information without leaving a trace or else the ANC would simply have canceled the whole operation. Was that possible? He shook his head irritably. It must have been possible. Nothing else fit the facts.
But again, how could they prove it? Nobody in the world would believe the story without seeing some kind of evidence. And nobody connected with such treachery would ever dare admit it. He said as much to Emily.
She nodded toward the monitors.
“Erik Muller will prove it for us. I’m sure he has copies of those documents still. As insurance should Vorster find a new favorite. ” Contempt sharpened her words.
“So it is simple.
We will use these videotapes to force him to give us those documents.”
Blackmail. An ugly word and an uglier idea. He hadn’t become a journalist to twist people’s hidden weaknesses and vices against them. Catching Erik
Muller conferring with a South African spy inside the ANC leadership was one thing. Using the man’s strange sexual preferences against him was quite another. Ian stared at her.