Larry Bond - Vortex

Investigations

SEPTEMBER 1 8-JOHANNESBURG, SOUTH AFRICA

Emily van der Heijden didn’t hide her envy as she studied the busy newsroom. By rights, she should have been a part of this noisy, exciting chaos.

The staff of the Johannesburg Star was on final countdown-working frantically to put the afternoon paper’s last edition to bed. Copyboys, harassed reporters, and redfaced, fuming editors threaded their way through a maze of desks, filing cabinets, and overflowing wastepaper baskets. Loud voices, ringing phones, and clattering typewriters and computer keyboards blended in a swelling, discordant clamor.

“Looks almost like the real thing, doesn’t it?” Brian Pakenham said bitterly.

Emily looked up at the tall, gangly, balding young man beside her. When they’d been in classes together, Pakenharn had been widely teased for his naivete and innocent good nature. He’d never shown a trace of the cynicism so necessary to thorough reporting. Four years as a real journalist working under South Africa’s press restrictions had changed him.

“But the Star is a fine paper, Brian.”

Pakenham shook his head.

“Wrong, I’m afraid. It used to be a fine newspaper. Now we’re just cutting and pasting official press releases that are so full of shit I keep wanting to reach for toilet paper after

I skim one.”

He jerked his head toward a dour-faced man conspicuously alone at the far end of the newsroom.

“And there’s the bloody Cerberus who makes sure nothing like the truth leaks into our readers’ minds.”

Emily followed his angry gaze.

“A security agent?”

“Uh-huh. One of your father’s brighter thugs. ” Pakenham saw her hurt look and blushed.

“Hey, Em, I’m sorry about that crack. It wasn’t fair.

I know you’re not to blame for any of this mess.”

She forced a smile.

“Yes. One cannot pick one’s parents, right?”

“Right.” He took her elbow and steered her through the crowded newsroom, dodging coworkers, leering wisecracks, and a handful of pink telephone message slips fluttered at him by his shared secretary.

The noise level fell off dramatically as the newsroom’s clear glass door closed behind them.

Pakenham glanced down at her as he led the way down a long, narrow hall toward a staircase posted with a sign that read EMPLOYEES ONLY.

“I can get you into the morgue, but then I’ve got to get back to work. ” He hesitated.

“Look, Em, is there anything I can do to help? What kind of material are you looking for?”

For an instant, Emily was tempted to tell him. The Johannesburg Star’s morgue, its reference library, was hugea roomful of filing cabinets crammed with yellowing back issues, old photographs, and folders full of clippings from newspapers and magazines around the world. Scouting through it on her own for information about security chief Erik Muller would take hours or even days. And there was always a chance that she’d miss something vital. Getting Pakenham’s help would make the task much easier. But it was also unwise.

Ian was right. The fewer people they involved, the fewer people they put at risk.

“I thank you for your offer, Brian, but there is really nothing very special in what I am doing. Just a bit of historical research… about my family, you see.” She was glad that negotiating the steep staircase made it impossible to look Pakenharn in the eye. She’d never been an especially convincing liar.

“Historical research. Oh, of course.” Obvious disbelief vied with ordinary politeness. He sighed and shrugged.

“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter very much anyway. I don’t expect to be here much longer.”

Emily came to a dead stop.

“What do you mean, Brian? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No special trouble.” Pakenham laughed harshly.

“No more trouble than any other white mate in this country.”

Oh. The Army.

“You’ve been called up?”

He shook his head.

“Not yet. But I will be soon. In fact, with all the casualties, I’m surprised it’s taken them this long to get around to me.”

A thin, humorless smile flitted across his face.

“Vorster and his broeders must be reluctant to see too many damned English rooineks running around with weapons.

“Will you go?”

“Yes.” It was Pakenham’s turn to look away.

“I’m not a hero, Em. I find it easier to face the thought of being an unwilling soldier than to go to one of the special camps as a prisoner.

“

The Star’s morgue occupied a windowless basement room, but powerful fluorescent lamps lit every corner. Scarred and stained worktables and chairs were scattered haphazardly around the room, seemingly moved wherever deemed convenient by the last reporter to use them. Two elderly, grayhaired women circulated through the morgue, carefully refiling clippings and old newspapers.

Pakenham introduced her to the older of the pair.

“Miss Cooke’s our own special genius. She’ll help you find whatever it is that you’re looking for.” He turned to go.

Emily put a hand on his arm.

“Good luck, Brian. I thank you for your help. Be safe.”

Another sardonic half-smile surfaced briefly and then vanished.

“I’ll try my best, Em. I just hope they send me to Namibia and not anywhere else.

I’d much rather shoot at some Cuban than at some poor black or student.

” He straightened to his full height.

“Hey, who knows … maybe I’ll run into your ex-fiance out there. He’s a soldier, isn’t he?”

Emily nodded.

“Yes. Perhaps you will.” It surprised her that even the thought of Henrik Kruger still hurt. Not because of anything he’d done.

Far from it. It was the memory of the anguish she’d caused him that was still painful. He’d been a good man, a kind man-just not the right man.

Not for her.

She watched Pakenham take the steps two at a time until he was out of sight. Then she turned to find the helpful Miss Cooke hovering nearsightedly at her shoulder.

It was time to buckle down to work.

Emily van der Heijden straightened her aching back and rubbed at weary, bloodshot eyes. The low, persistent hum and white glare of the morgue’s fluorescent lights had given her a pounding headache-a headache magnified by the hours spent combing through fading press clippings announcing births, store openings, and church outings. All the humdrum tedium that made news in the rural Transvaal.

So far she’d come up with nothing of any real use. The date of Erik

Muller’s birth, for instance. Something readily obtainable from public records. The fact that he was an only child. Unusual in an Afrikaner farm family, but not unheard of. Or the discovery that Muller’s father had died in a car wreck when Erik was seven. Again, nothing strange there.

Back in the early fifties the northern Transvaal’s roads had been rudimentary at best and accidents were common. At least the military expansion of recent decades had changed that. Now a web of multi lane superhighways crisscrossed the high veld, more superhighways than the rural towns and villages in the region needed. Some cynics suggested they were intended as alternate airstrips for jet fighters in case of war.

Some cynics were probably right.

Emily shook her head in exasperation. Her brain was wandering too far afield. Muller. Erik Muller. He was her target, her mission. She pushed the last yellowing scrap of newspaper aside and leaned backward, straining against the uncomfortable, straight-backed wooden chair.

“Miss van der Heijden?”

She opened her eyes.

Miss Cooke stood in front of her worktable, another pile of clippings clutched in eager hands. The librarian had proved an avid, enthusiastic helper. And one who seemed to possess an infallible, inexhaustible memory.