Closed Circle, page 31
“Can they force him to supply a sample?"
“The question is, will they, not can they?"
“If they don't, all we'll prove is his homosexuality. And we'll destroy him for that, not because he's a murderer."
Freek, who had been leaning over the table, trying to get closer to Yudel, perhaps as a preliminary to shaking him, sank back in his chair. Yudel could see that he understood, but he could also see Freek’s exasperation with him. He shook his head to throw off all doubts. “It makes no difference. You have no choice in this. He's an evil bastard. You know that. Nothing else comes into it."
“Before this little man continues," Momberg was saying as Yudel entered the attorney-general's office, “I want my protest noted. As far as I am concerned, he is just trying to defame my branch. I have heard nothing that can be used as evidence..."
The attorney-general was nodding in apparent agreement. Yudel knew that it would be best to save him the need to answer. “I haven't got much more," he said from the doorway.
Momberg's broad mouth twisted in distaste, he again contrived to avoid looking directly at Yudel. “You've got nothing. I've heard nothing, only gossip."
Yudel went directly to the chair he had occupied before lunch and sat down. The attorney-general and Freek followed. For the second time both security policemen were still on their feet when he started speaking. “We now come to the matter of the unnatural sexual acts performed on the detainee, Robin Du Plessis, who is willing to testify, and on the bodies of one white and three black activists before they were murdered. I have in my possession a sperm sample, obtained by the district surgeon of Pretoria..."
Yudel got no further. Wheelwright seemed to fly headlong across the room and Yudel was on the floor, his head and shoulders under part of the attorney-general's desk. Chairs crashed against the wall and someone was on his knees next to him. Momentarily he saw Wheelwright in profile, the normally immaculately positioned hair flying wild around his head, then he was gone, disappearing in a single spasmodic movement, his leather-soled shoes clattering across the floor. Another chair crashed over and slid heavily before coming to a stop and the room was still.
Looking cautiously from beneath the desk before emerging, Yudel rejoined the company. Wheelwright was pinned to a far wall by Freek's forearm pressed against his throat. “I've got evidence." His voice, gurgling with the constriction and higher-pitched than usual, shook with anger. “I've got evidence in my office." His chest was heaving with effort and emotion. The seemingly immovable control, the supreme arrogance that went with special branch inviolability, the unquestioned power: all were gone, lost in the fury and panic that went with the exposure of something far more shameful than the killing of a few activists. “You fucking moaf." The muscles on one side of his face were twitching independently of their owner's wishes. “You'll pay for this, moaf." It came from the word hermaphrodite and to many like Wheelwright it was the ultimate insult.
Freek released him, backing slowly away. Wheelwright turned the panic-stricken workings of his face towards his boss. “I've got evidence in my office. I've got plenty of evidence."
“Yes, then go fetch it." Momberg was gesturing with both hands, his head shaking from side to side, his big voice booming as he tried to regain the control his colonel had just lost. The moment had come upon him too quickly and the damage was as yet beyond assessing. “Go fetch it then."
Wheelwright was gone, leaving the door open. The girl from the waiting room, her tongue protruding between her lips at the unusual excitement, appeared briefly in the open door, then closed it. Yudel spoke. “Do you want me to continue?"
“You wait for my man." Momberg's voice held the tone of command.
“He's not coming back," Yudel told him.
Momberg was looking directly at Yudel for the first time now. His mouth opened as he tried to reply, but closed again without saying anything.
“He knows the truth. He can't come back."
“You'd better continue, Mister Gordon," the attorneygeneral said. “I'll tell you this though. This whole thing is going to need a ministerial decision."
“Wait." Momberg was talking to Yudel. In the same way that he had not been able to look at Yudel, now he was unable to look anywhere else. “You wait. First I'm going to phone. I'm going to phone Colonel Wheelwright's office."
“Phone security," Yudel said. "He's had enough time to reach the main entrance..." He left the thought unfinished.
It took a moment before Momberg moved to the phone. The attorney-general had leant back in his chair, offering him access to the phone. The brigadier dialled the number of security at the main entrance. “This is Brigadier Momberg. Has Colonel Wheelwright left this building in the last minute or two?" Yudel was watching his face and he saw the barely perceptible change, the slight pinching together of his lips, the hardness entering his eyes.
Momberg hung up and started towards the door. “I want him back here." It was a deep angry growl, but to Yudel it was nothing more than a performance for the benefit of those in the room. It was the sort of reaction Momberg would want them to remember. “I want him back here now." Then he was gone. Like his colonel, he did not close the door behind him.
Thirty
“I don't think he meant us," Yudel told Freek.
“You heard what he said. He said, I want him back here. I am a police officer. Momberg is my senior. I took that as an order." Freek smiled, a wry, sardonic expression. “I always do my duty." Freek drove quickly, slipping red lights if he saw no traffic in the side streets, watching the speedometer rise above the speed limit. “By this time Momberg's own staff will be reacting," Freek said. "I want to bring him in myself."
The address was on Waterkloof Ridge, overlooking Pretoria's spreading, tree-filled suburbs. The suburb was home to the owners of large companies, cabinet ministers, a few heads of government departments, managing directors of the South African branches of international conglomerates and others who possessed the particular skills needed to accumulate large sums of money. It was not the sort of place where police officers lived. The house stood high above sloping lawns that were dotted by a network of stone-sided ponds. Substantial wings ranged to either side of a gabled facade in which a heavy wooden door was surrounded by stained glass windows that imitated the style of earlier centuries. Freek parked in the drive, then led the way up the broad, curving stairs in the centre of the house. The door was standing open and he went in without knocking. He barely paused in the hall before moving through an arch into the passage that led to the wing on the right-hand side. Yudel had not seen Freek take out his revolver, but now he was carrying it in his right hand, holding it at shoulder level and pointing it at the ceiling.
They found Wheelwright in his study. This time he had closed the door behind him. Freek pushed it open, waited a moment for it to swing wide, then stepped into the opening. The security policeman was sitting at his desk, his elbows resting on the polished surface, his forehead supported by the points of his fingers. Next to one of his elbows was a half-empty bottle of brandy and a broad glass containing a little of the same liquid.
The room was large, broad bay windows opening into the garden. On two sides the walls were decorated with the symbols of Afrikaner history. The yoke for a team of oxen, an old muzzle-loader rifle, the wheel of an ox wagon, its wooden spokes gleaming with fresh varnish: all were reminders of heroic deeds of other ages. The wall behind the desk was almost completely hidden by two large flags, one from the old Afrikaner republic of the nineteenth century and the other bearing the swastika of Gys Muller's Afrikaner Revival Movement.
Wheelwright looked up as they came in. The movement was slow and preoccupied until the shock of seeing them jerked his head back. Yudel saw his right hand make for the drawer on that side of the desk. Before it had travelled more than a few centimetres Freek's voice froze its movement with the certainty of a physical obstruction. “I'll easily kill you," he said. “I won't lose a minute's sleep over it."
The hand that had been moving to the drawer hung suspended above the desk, then sank slowly to its surface. A brief shudder passed through Wheelwright's head and shoulders and was gone. He averted his eyes and reached for the bottle of brandy. His hand shook as he poured a little of the liquid into the glass and brought it to his lips. His greying hair that, until an hour ago, Yudel had only seen carefully slicked back in immaculate order now hung over his forehead in tangled disarray. His tie had been removed and, with his jacket, occupied the front of the desk. The drooping eyelid was heavier than ever, almost closing over its eye. But it was the loss of control, the unsteadiness of his hands and the shudder, that again passed quickly through him that surprised Yudel. “This is my house. What are you doing in my house?" He had found his power of speech, but the sound of his voice was ragged and uneven.
“You're coming in with us."
“Let me see your warrant." Wheelwright managed a smile, a bitter extending of his features.
“I don't need one," Freek said. “You're a police officer and so am I and I'm acting under orders from your superior. I don't need a warrant." There was no gloating, no enjoyment of any sort in Freek's voice, nothing that suggested this was anything more than business. “Yudel, get the gun out of his desk drawer."
Yudel came out from behind Freek, passed round the desk, carefully staying out of any possible line of fire. He found the automatic under stationery in the top drawer. “Little Jew, this means nothing," Wheelwright said. “Your day will..." He lost the direction into which his threat was developing. Instead he raised the brandy glass to his mouth, spilling a few large drops on the desk as he swallowed it down.
“Get on your feet." Freek's voice offered no possibility of an argument. “This is a direct order from your superior officer."
“Who's my superior officer?" Wheelwright leaned slowly forward and drew a sheet of paper from beneath his jacket, leaving it where Freek could see it. “I have no superior officer."
Freek took the paper from him and Wheelwright chuckled, a coarse croaking sound. Yudel was watching Freek and saw the surprise appear on his face. “The bastard has resigned," he said.
Wheelwright's ravaged laughter subsided into a few final disjointed chuckles. He spoke to Freek: “You have chosen sides against your own people. You could have been with us. You were one of us. You were a man we could have used. Instead, you chose this Jew above your own kind. We have a list of names, old friend. And we won't forget you. You will pay for your foolishness.
“These people who are running the country now, they are not true Afrikaners. Where do you think all these reforms are leading? Do you want to see Afrikaner women and children in concentration camps again? Do you want to see your family ruled by the kaffirs? Do you want your wife and daughters raped and murdered? You want the genocide of your own people? You and your type, Jordaan, you've learnt none of the lessons of Africa." Something of its usual control had returned to his voice. “You're a fool. You could have been with us."
Yudel reached out a hand as if to restrain Freek. “Don't answer. There's nothing to say."
“Listen to the little Jew. This time he is right. For once he's right."
Freek took the automatic from Yudel and went to an open window. With a long sweep of his arm he threw the gun, its high looping trajectory ending in one of the fish ponds. “Let's go and report, Yudel." He slipped Wheelwright's resignation into one of his inside pockets. “This belongs on file. I’ll be back with a warrant."
In the doorway Yudel paused to look back. The former security policeman seemed to have forgotten about them. He was staring at the point on his desk where his letter of resignation had lain. The hard, dissolute face looked curiously pensive. For the moment the violence that was part of his personality was hidden. By the time Yudel reached the broad stairs in front of the house Freek was already at the car and a second vehicle was stopping in the drive. Two men, in plain clothes, whom Yudel recognized as being special branch operatives, got out. They took a few suspicious, bewildered steps towards Freek and stopped.
“Colonel Jordaan," one said, “what are you doing here?"
“My job," Freek said. He gestured towards the house. “You can forget about him. He's not your boss anymore."
Epilogue
After leaving the house on Waterkloof Ridge, Freek drove directly to the building in which Brigadier Momberg had his office. The Pretoria head of the special branch received Wheelwright's resignation without comment and without looking at Freek.
On the next day, Tuesday 29th April, a further meeting was held with the attorney-general of the Transvaal who said that, while Yudel's story gave grounds for concern, he doubted that it would stand up in court. He agreed to accept the charge of common assault for the incident at the Attic, to treat the rest as a priority and to make a decision before the week was over.
On the Thursday the attorney-general's office opened a murder docket against the former security policeman. By that time Wheelwright had been appointed to a leadership position in the Afrikaner Revival Movement in the northern Transvaal and himself became the subject of a security police file.
Friday saw the deputy minister, a tall man with a friendly, self-deprecating manner, fly in from Cape Town, where parliament was in session, to deal with the matter personally. After reviewing the evidence he instructed the attorney-general to halt proceedings. “Consider the position he now holds," he told a small meeting to which Yudel was invited. “Suppose we compel him to undergo testing and we find that it was not his sperm in the black youth, do we want to give these people that sort of propaganda weapon? The case, in any event, hangs on the semen. The rest is speculation. And, if he is found guilty, think how our enemies overseas will use it."
The men who had been with Wheelwright at the Attic turned out all to be security policemen and all filed affidavits disputing Yudel's version of events. After further consideration the attorney-general declined to prosecute the assault charge either. The authorization to detain Yudel that the minister had signed on the Monday was never put into effect.
Milan Varrevich's presence with Wheelwright at the Attic, six hundred kilometres from his own sphere of jurisdiction, was the subject of a separate departmental investigation. He was warned for acting without the knowledge of his seniors and a report entered in his personal file.
The Du Plessis brothers slipped across the border into Botswana shortly after Yudel last questioned Robin. Ralph went on to London where he joined the staff of a famous university. Robin crossed into Zambia and made his way to the offices of the ANC in Lusaka. He was given a clerical job and contracted AIDS from a typist.
Reverend Dladla was elected a community councillor, a government-sponsored position. The authorities, not realizing that Fred One-night Tuwani had been an activist, decided to employ his death for propaganda purposes. On the morning when they asked the security police to check on Tuwani the computer was down and a junior operator told them that they had nothing on a man by that name. As a result the name of the library where Dladla works was changed to the Frederick Tuwani Public Library. Dladla's wife, Flora, divorced him and became a Jehovah's Witness.
Blythe Stevens also left the country to settle in London where he became an active member of the Anti-Apartheid Movement. He wrote a Master’s thesis entitled, "The Myth of Terrorism." The Reverend Markus Mbelo was elected to the executive of the National Forum, a political body that excludes whites. During the winter of 1987 he suffered a stroke while having intercourse with his sullen, obese receptionist, leaving the left side of his face paralysed. On a visit to London he was given a standing ovation at a meeting of expatriate South Africans. Blythe Stevens, who had introduced him, told them the damage had been caused by a police baton.
Phineas, the cleaner, did not get his house. He died of tuberculosis the same year.
Lionel Bensch and his family slowly gained control of the fear that had been thrust into their lives. Bensch found a special peace of his own on many trips with his son, Willie, among the great ramparts of the Drakensberg mountains. He did not long remain the only former member of the ANC's military wing to be living freely in the country. In 1989 a new State President released many of Bensch's former colleagues who had been serving jail sentences for their activities.
As the years passed, Professor Marius van Deventer discovered that he was not a leper among all Afrikaners and Afrikaner organizations. He has responded to many invitations to address gatherings, but it took his prestige some time to recover from the humiliation of being tarred and feathered by good Afrikaner boys.
Poena van der Merwe, head clerk in the transport section, received a commendation for vigilance, a special increment to his salary and the use of his own departmental car on weekdays.
Dahlia left South Africa a year after the last time she saw Yudel. She phoned him and gave him the time when she would be passing through Jan Smuts Airport. He had intended to go, but was distracted by an emergency in Pretoria Central. By the time he was free he had forgotten about her flight. That evening in his study he remembered and felt guilty intermittently for a week. She settled in Manchester and became secretary to the local branch of a large trade union, where she played a role in the dissolution of the branch chairman's marriage.
Freek had been wrong about the killings ending. The assassinations continued. In the years that followed, black activists disappeared off the street never to be seen again, while others died in shootings, stabbings and beatings. In some cases the bodies of the victims were burnt. Black political figures who favoured cooperation with the government also died in assassinations and mob killings, the pendulum of violence continuing to swing back and forth between the extremes of left and right, leaving few immune to its depredations. Freek's part in Yudel's investigation was rewarded by his being passed over for promotion for the fifth time. The reason given to him was that he had assaulted a member of the force. He dismissed the lost promotion by telling Yudel, "It's all right. Colonel is not a bad rank."
