Larry Bond - Vortex

Emily was the lucky one. She could make occasional, lightning-fast trips outside to pick up supplies. He and Matthew Sibena were trapped in this tiny apartment-unable to so much as show their faces in public lest they be recognized and arrested. Every scrap of news Emily could pick up on her trips to the neighborhood market seemed to indicate that they were still at the top of South Africa’s Most Wanted list.

Soft snores drifting through the open door into the apartment only bedroom showed that Sibena had again taken refuge in deep, uninterrupted sleep. Ian felt the trace of a smile flicker across his face. Over the last two weeks, the young black man had astounded them by being able to sleep through anything and at any time. He could sleep through the noise of the morning rush hour, in the sweltering heat of a sun-lit afternoon, or even on a night that seemed far too quiet. It was a talent Ian often envied.

“Oh! ” Emily sat up suddenly, looking pale and frightened.

“Bad dream?” He gently stroked her shoulder.

She shook her head, puzzled.

“No, I do not think so.” She sat listening for a moment.

“I thought I heard something just now. Soft footsteps right outside the door.”

Ian cocked his head, listening for himself.

“I don’t know, Em, I don’t hear any th-“

A savage kick smashed the front door open and left it dangling from one set of bent hinges. For one terrifying second, Ian felt his heart stop beating. He sat frozen in shock.

“Police! Police! Nobody move! Nobody move!”

Men in blue-gray uniforms poured into the apartment from the outside hallway. Two charged past the sofa, splitting up and spreading out to search the other rooms. A third policeman slid to a stop in front of them, aiming a Browning Hi Power pistol very precisely at an imaginary point right between Ian’s eyes.

The barrel looked ten feet across.

“Do not even think to move, man, or I will blow your blery brains across the girl there.” The pistol didn’t waver.

“You are the American reporter,

Ian Sheffield?”

Still in shock, Ian nodded.

“Then I arrest you on charges of espionage and violation of the National

Emergency decrees.” The smug note of triumph in the man’s voice was unmistakable.

Ian flushed bright red, ashamed to have been caught so quickly and apparently so easily.

“Lieutenant!” One of the other policemen emerged from the bedroom, dragging Matthew Sibena along in an iron-fisted grip. The young black man looked dazed, frightened, and completely disoriented.

“Look what else

I’ve found!”

The officer arched a single finely sculpted eyebrow.

“A black?” He sneered at Ian and Emily.

“ANC, eh? Your controller, perhaps?”

Sibena twisted helplessly in the larger South African policeman’s locked arms.

“No! That’s not so! I’m not ANC, I swear it, baas. “

“Shut up, kaffir!” The police lieutenant still hadn’t lowered his gun.

“Well, American?”

Ian looked back and forth from Emily to Siberia to the pistol, thinking fast. Right now, the three of them didn’t have the slightest chance to wriggle out of this nightmarish situation. The police were too alert, too ready for trouble. The odds and ends of martial arts training he’d picked up for physical and mental exercise wouldn’t be of any use if they thought he might be dangerous. He needed to divert their attention away from him-to convince these policemen that they had him thoroughly cowed and under control.

He let his face crumple in abject terror and allowed a whining note to creep into his voice.

“That’s right. He’s an ANC guerrilla. The ANC was supposed to get us out of the country before any of this happened.”

Emily breathed in sharply suddenly, but stayed silent. Good girl, he thought. She knows me too well to think I’ve suddenly cracked.

He glared accusingly at Siberia’s stunned face.

“Your people failed us, comrade! And I’ll be damned if I’ll take the fall for them!” Watch it,

Ian, he told himself. No need to lay it on too thick.

“That’s enough. ” The lieutenant smiled in satisfaction.

“You can make a full confession later. In the meantime, just stay still and keep your mouth shut. “

Another policeman, smaller than the one holding Sibena, wandered back into the living room.

“All clear, Lieutenant. There’s nobody else here.”

“Good. ” The lieutenant waved Ian and Emily up from the sofa with his pistol.

They rose cautiously, with Ian’s right arm still wrapped around Emily’s shoulders. He could feel her shaking uncontrollably and squeezed gently with his right hand, trying to offer some assurance that all was not lost.

“Take these three to headquarters. I’ll stay here and look for documents.” The lieutenant holstered his pistol and stepped aside as the larger policeman hauled Sibena toward the door.

“And keep an eye on that kaffir! He’s probably had some kind of combat training.”

Ian hid a thin-lipped, humorless smile as he followed Emily out into the hallway with his hands up in the air. They had a small chance after all.

Maybe these two South African policemen weren’t going to be looking the right way at the right time.

MARKET STREET, NEAR JOHN VORSTER SQUARE, JOHANNESBURG

The police minivan wasn’t designed for comfort-just efficiency. The smaller of the two policeman sat behind the wheel, separated from his companion and their three prisoners by the front seat itself. His four passengers perched on fold down plastic benches that ran the length of each side of the vehicle.

Matthew Sibena sat on the right, immediately behind the driver, swaying uncomfortably from side to side as the minivan turned or changed lanes.

Steel handcuffs pinioned his wrists behind his back. The beefy policeman with thinning hair sat next to him, his gaze shifting periodically from

Sibena to Emily to Ian and back again. He cradled a pump-action shotgun in his lap.

Ian sat directly across from the guard, with Emily to his left. Like

Sibena, he was handcuffed, but the policemen had left her hands free. He wasn’t sure if that was because they viewed Emily as just a “helpless” woman or because of her father’s importance in the government. Whatever the reason, he didn’t plan to complain. Only the fact that she could still use her hands made any escape attempt even remotely feasible.

But so far no opportunity had presented itself. Traffic on Johannesburg’s streets was light at this time of night, and their driver was proving dangerously efficient. He’d managed to time every light perfectly-only having to slow gradually without ever coming to a complete stop.

Ian could feel ice-cold sweat beading on his forehead and soaking the shirt under his arms. He shivered. Time was running out.

In five or six minutes at the most, they’d be trapped inside Johannesburg’s heavily fortified police headquarters. And he didn’t have any illusions about the kind of treatment they’d receive at the government’s hands. Men who’d allowed their own countrymen and colleagues to be gunned down by terrorists wouldn’t show any mercy to a foreigner, a member of a despised race, and a woman accused of high treason. Under the circumstances, even

Emily’s father wouldn’t be able to save her. He was sure that their lives inside a South African interrogation center would, at best, be “nasty, brutish, and short.”

Christ. The very thought of Emily under torture was unbearable. He tensed, ready to spring even while the minivan was moving. Maybe it would be better to die fighting than to be meekly led to a protracted slaughter.

The van braked sharply to a complete stop. Unable to use his hands, Sibena slammed into the front seat and rocked back. The rest of them had to hold on tightly to avoid following suit.