Michael Ridpath - See No Evil

Du Toit was smiling. They had just told Sir Evelyn Gill that the Laagerbond agreed to go up to a price of nine hundred and twenty million for The Times. It was a high price, but it was worth it. And as Gill never tired of telling them, they had made a handsome profit on all the publications they had backed him to buy so far. ‘If you call Hans in Zurich, everything should be in order,’ he said.

‘And get The Times on to the AIDS campaign right away,’ Visser added. ‘We’re becoming increasingly worried about our president. If he carries on the way he’s going, this country will be a one-party state run for the benefit of the blacks.’

‘Government by the Kaffirs for the Kaffirs.’ Gill’s laughter boomed around the room. Visser caught du Toit’s eye and winced. But by now he knew it was just a show of Yorkshire bluntness. Evelyn Gill was a very effective manipulator of his editors: forceful at some times, subtle at others. ‘Don’t worry,’ Gill went on. ‘Half the world knows your president’s barking mad because he thinks there’s no link between HIV and AIDS. Once we’ve got hold of The Times, we’ll point it out to the other half.’

‘I know we can rely on you, Evelyn.’

‘Bloody right you can. Oh, by the way. I got a call from a lad who used to work for me as my finance director. Jeff Tidwell, you remember him. I had to get rid of the bugger in the end, he was a lazy sod. But he did tell me that someone at Bloomfield Weiss had been on the phone asking where we got our funding from.’

Visser sat up straight. ‘What did he say?’

Gill chuckled. ‘Don’t worry. Jeff’s a bit dozy, but he’s not that dozy. He knows not to let me down. He told the merchant wanker it were all me own cash. Now, I must get on to Zurich.’

Du Toit leaned forward and switched off the phone. ‘I don’t like the sound of that, do you?’

‘No,’ said Visser. He closed his eyes. Once the van Zyls got hold of the link between the Laagerbond and Gill, it was all over. The bid for The Times would crumble. It wouldn’t take long before Operation Drommedaris would come to light and then the whole Laagerbond would unravel. Under his watch as chairman.

He regretted now not shooting Calder when he had had the chance. Although he had ordered the execution of a number of people in his time, he had never actually killed anyone himself. Despite what he had said, the local police would have taken an interest and it would have been awkward to sort that out. He could see that he had scared the hell out of Calder, scared him enough to make him leave the country, but the man was still causing trouble.

Freddie Steenkamp had been right all along.

He glanced at du Toit. ‘Do you mind?’ he said, picking up the phone. He dialled Freddie’s number and explained what was going on.

‘We’ve got to act,’ the former head of military intelligence said.

Visser sighed. ‘You’re right. We know Alex Calder is back in London. Send Moolman over there to deal with him.’

‘And Cornelius van Zyl?’ Steenkamp asked.

‘Yes,’ said Visser.

‘What about the woman?’

Visser glanced at du Toit, who could hear only Visser’s side of the conversation. ‘Is that necessary?’

‘We know how much trouble she can cause. We should have dealt with her years ago, I’ve always said that.’

‘I know you have, Freddie. All right.’

‘I’ll get Kobus on to the woman right away. Then he can go to London and finish the job.’

‘Good. But no fuck-ups this time.’

‘It’s not me who fucked up,’ said Freddie Steenkamp.

Visser put down the phone. He saw du Toit staring at him.

Visser broke out in the explosion of coughs he had been restraining as he was speaking to Steenkamp.

‘That’s not just a cold, is it?’ du Toit said.

Visser shook his head. ‘Cancer. The lung.’

Du Toit winced. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘At least I will have seen the Laagerbond buy The Times ,’ Visser said. He knew now he was a dying man. He wanted du Toit to know it too.

‘You’ve done a lot for the Bond, Andries.’

Du Toit’s concern was touching. Despite the slicked-back red hair and the fancy office Dirk du Toit still had an air of youth, energy and innocence. He was a big, strong, honest man with an open, honest face. The kind of man who went to kerk every Sunday, who read to his children every night, who helped out his neighbours when they were in difficulty. The kind of man who had built the Afrikaner nation. The kind of man Visser had always wanted to be.

‘When I go, I don’t know who will take over from me. I’d like it to be a younger man. Even if Freddie Steenkamp does succeed me, I would be happy knowing that you had a senior role in the Bond.’

Du Toit smiled gravely. ‘It would be an honour.’

‘There’s something you should be aware of,’ said Visser. ‘Something that until now has been handled by myself, Daniel Havenga and Freddie.’

‘Yes?’

‘You remember when Martha van Zyl was murdered back in 1988?’ Visser said.

‘Yes. That wasn’t us, though, was it?’

Visser tried to smile, but coughed instead. ‘No. As you know, I’m against the use of violence except when it’s necessary. But you also know that occasionally Freddie Steenkamp is right, it is necessary.’

‘Perhaps,’ du Toit said. ‘Although was it really necessary to kill Cornelius van Zyl’s brother?’

‘From what Impala told us, it had a major effect on van Zyl’s psychology. Together with his name on the phoney SACP hit list we planted. Impala was confident that he would have gone along with Drommedaris if it hadn’t been for the death of his wife.’

‘Perhaps.’

Visser could see du Toit looked unhappy. But if he were to enter the inner sanctum of power of the Laagerbond, he would have to know everything. ‘Well, after nearly twenty years her son has stirred up a lot of people running around trying to find out what happened. I’ve scared one of these people back to London, but if we are to retain control of the situation we are going to have to use violence again. There is no other way. Kobus Moolman is seeing to it as we speak.’

‘Who are the targets?’

‘Cornelius van Zyl. A man called Alex Calder. And—’ Visser’s chest rasped again. He knew du Toit would not like the answer, which was why it was important he be informed early, rather than find out later. ‘And Zan van Zyl.’

Benton couldn’t sleep. For a man of his height it was difficult, even in the first-class cabin. He had no compunctions about charging Zyl News for the upgrade, even though most Bloomfield Weiss trips these days were business class. But he was apprehensive about going to South Africa again.

He hadn’t been since that awful time so long ago when Martha van Zyl had been brutally murdered in front of him and he had been lucky to escape with his life. He still had nightmares about that. They had morphed over the years, until they settled into a disturbing slow-motion scene where, naked, Martha stretched out her arms towards him and he slowly raised a heavy gun and shot her several times. As she died, she mouthed, ‘Stay with me, Benton.’ Now he did not want to go to sleep. He did not want to conjure up that dream.

The police custody had been a nightmare of its own. Although it should have been evident that he had only just escaped being shot himself, the cops had arrested him. They left him alone for an hour or so, and then they asked him whether he had murdered Martha. They seemed strangely pleased when he refused to admit to anything. With unmistakable relish they began to persuade him to confess. They stripped him naked and one of them beat him with a weighted hosepipe. It hurt like hell. The pain was so bad that he passed out. When he came to they had manacled his hands and suspended him from a beam along the ceiling of the cell. His muscles, still sore from the beating, burned with pain as they bore his weight. His left arm felt broken. Still he refused to speak, apart from cursing his captors and demanding to see someone from the US embassy. It was his anger that made him hold out. He was angry that they were treating him like an animal because he was black and he was angry that they were doing nothing to find the people who really had shot Martha.