Larry Bond - Vortex

Vorster rocked forward, pen in hand.

“Let him visit America. His testimony will only confuse our enemies in their Congress and show the world that we have nothing to fear. “

Muller watched in silence as his leader signed the travel permit.

Vorster’s growing tendency to see only what he wished to see disturbed him. In the past, Mantizima. had publicly opposed economic sanctions on

South Africa because he believed they hurt his people more than they hurt whites -not as a favor to Pretoria. And the wily Zulu chief’s struggle with the ANC was a battle for future political power in a black-majority government-not the signpost of a permanent alliance with the forces of apartheid.

He took the signed permit from Vorster’s outstretched hand and left quietly. Further argument would only endanger his own position.

Gideon Mantizima might continue to cooperate with Pretoria, but Muller doubted it. The Zulu chief was shrewd enough to recognize a dead end when he saw one. South Africa’s director of military intelligence suspected that Vorster would regret allowing Mantizima the freedom to choose a new course.

SEPTEMBER I -JOHANNESBURG

The doorbell buzzed, waking Ian Sherfietd from a fitful, dream-ridden sleep. Another buzz, louder and longer this time. He opened his eyes reluctantly, fumbling for the bedside lamp switch. Two in the flipping morning, for God’s sake. Who the hell could that be? Johannesburg, like all of South Africa’s major cities, was under a midnight curfew.

Ian stumbled out of bed and struggled into a pair of jeans while hopping toward the front door. Pain flared briefly as he slammed a knee into a sofa. The tiny furnished flat he’d rented was reasonably priced and convenient, but he still hadn’t lived there long enough to navigate safely in the dark.

Three short, sharp obscenities helped dispel most of the pain, but he was still hobbling when he got to the door. He yanked it open, ready to vent some well-earned anger on the idiot who’d disturbed him.

It was Emily.

Even bundled in a long winter overcoat against the chill

night air, she was beautiful. A single suitcase rested on the floor behind her. She smiled shyly, looked down at herself, and then up at him, her eyes shining.

“Do I look like a ghost, maybe?”

Ian realized he was standing slack jawed, mouth open Re a drooling village idiot. He hastily closed it and pulled her into his arms.

Emily responded eagerly to his kiss.

When they came up for air, she stepped back slightly, a mock-serious look on her face.

“Well, Mr. Reporter, may I come in? Or shall I sleep here in your hallway?”

” Hmmm. ” Ian stroked his chin, as if pondering the question.

“I guess I could loan you some blankets and a pillow. Might get kinda cold out here, though. My neighbors might complain, too. I guess you’ll have to come inside. “

Laughing, he dodged her kick and led her into the flat.

Emily wrinkled her nose at the decor, a failed mix of cheap framed posters, plastic flowers, dark-colored carpeting, and imitation Scandinavian-design furniture. Knowles had best characterized the place as a study in Twentieth

Century Bad Taste. Ian wished he’d thought to wash the dishes stacked in his small sink. His bachelor habits were often embarrassing.

She wagged a finger in his face.

“Clearly you are not fit to live alone,

Ian Sheffield. You need a good woman to look after you.”

That was too perfect an opening to pass up. He smiled.

“I’ve tried finding one, but I guess I’m stuck with you.”

She smiled back.

“Yes, perhaps that is so.”

Which raised an interesting question.

“What about your father? Does he know you’re here?”

Sorrow briefly touched her eyes as she shook her head.

“But Emily, he’ll…”

“Sshh.” She laid a soft, sweet-smelling finger across his lips.

“My father has not been home for these two weeks and more. He spends A his days in

Pretoria, organizing this … this butchery. ” Her words were clipped, angry, and he remembered that she’d been a student at the University of

Witwatersrand. Some of her friends or teachers might have been among those he’d seen lying motionless on the pavement-gunned down by the police her father commanded.

She paused for a moment and then went on, calmer now.

“Besides, I told that witch Vi1joen I was returning to Cape Town to stay with some friends there. They’ll cover for me if he should call.”

Ian nodded, deeply moved by the risks she was running to be near him.

She shrugged out of her heavy coat and sat down on the sofa. He sat next to her.

“Anyway, Ian, I have news that would not wait any longer. Unbelievable news!” Her words tumbled out over one another, anger turned to excitement.

As she recounted the story of her father’s party and the muttered conversation she’d overheard, Ian felt his own pulse speeding up. If he could prove that Vorster had advance warning of the ANC’s Blue Train ambush… My God! He’d make headlines around the U.S. Hell, around the whole world!

But how could he get that kind of proof? South Africa’s new rulers weren’t going to come clean just because he asked a few pointed questions. He frowned. This guy Muller Emily had mentioned was the key.

Muller. The name was somehow familiar.

Memories fell into place as long hours of study paid off. Erik Muller was some kind of cloak-and-dagger honcho. Ran South Africa’s Directorate of

Military Intelligence. Rumor said he handled most of the government’s dirtiest jobs surveillance blackmail, even assassinations. Just the kind of man you’d expect to be one of Karl Vorster’s favorites, Ian thought.

And just the kind of man who’d know the truth about the Blue Train massacre.

So somehow he had to get a hook into this Muller character. Find some way to either force or persuade the man to come clean. That wasn’t going to be easy…. Reality reared its ugly head.

“Damn it!” He slammed a clenched fist into his thigh.

“What’s wrong?” Emily looked concerned.

“I forgot that Sam and I probably have our own spy tagging along with us wherever we go.9’

He filled her in on their suspicions of Matthew Sibena.

“Personally, I think the kid’s being forced to inform on us. Sam isn’t so charitable.”

“Then get rid of him. Fire him, and hire another driver.”

“Who will come from the same place as Matthew.” Ian shook his head.

“No,

I think we should hang on to him. He seems like a good kid, and I really believe he hates Vorster as much as we do.”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Anyway, Matt’s reasons don’t matter much. The fact is, if I start sniffing around Muller’s tail, the bastard’s going to get wind of it before I’ve even properly started. And then, whoosh,

Sam and I are out of the country on the next jet leaving Jan Smuts

International. “

He lapsed into a depressed silence, only looking up when Emily lightly tapped his knee.

“You’re forgetting something else, Ian Sheffield. Her eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

“Me!” She leaned closer to him, completely serious now.

“I have a journalism degree, too. I know how to do research. How to interview sources. How to track down the truth. And I am a Transvaaler, just like this Erik Muller.”

She took his hand.

“Let me hunt this man for you while you and Sam lead these spies on a wild-goose chase. Please?”

Ian looked down at their intertwined fingers. Everything she said made perfect sense, but… “It could get dangerous. Muller’s supposed to be a killer by trade.”

Emily nodded.