‘Not surprised. Rumblings are getting louder all over.’
‘The sound of people ass-covering. Just hope we’ve enough to put on the table.’
‘Early days, baby.’
‘That’s what worries me. A broad-based campaign is on the way, full-scale escalation is anticipated – a certain Mr Josh Kemp of London, England, confirms there are distinct parallels with the British situation – and we’re at the stage of licking a forefinger and poking it in the air.’
‘Neatly put.’
‘It’s as it is.’
‘As it should be. Are the Brits any closer to wrapping things up?’
‘They’re about as confused as the rest of us.’
‘So, nothing to be ashamed of.’ He put his arm around her shoulder. ‘We’re on the ground, pursuing inquiries, tracing suspects who have yet to show complicity or guilt.’
‘Be nice if they showed their hand.’ Be nice if the Forresters came out of the undergrowth, laid down their weaponry.
‘They will overreach themselves.’
He was right. The Bureau was expecting a spectacular, anticipating a response to the mass eradication of white extremists. It was why security on the Peace Walk was tight, why the National Guard stayed close, why the police rode shotgun. An Army Aviation helicopter clattered in formation with two others hired by the press and media; a banner-towing aircraft won temporary admission into local airspace and droned overhead with a message of support. Below it, the procession stretched out in the oppressive heat, a crawling mass herded and hemmed in by creeping pursuit vehicles.
Krista wiped the sweat from her eyes and unscrewed the cap of a water-bottle. She offered it to Wood. He declined, an oasis of cool in the sweating multitude. Five more miles, and they would peel off, hitch a ride with law enforcement for an accelerated arrival in Montgomery. The banner-tug approached again, lower than in its initial pass, head on, the pilot plainly wishing to impress. The military helicopter swung wide and high, the press craft following in an untidy skein. Panic manoeuvre. Something was wrong; an idiot was messing with the ground rules, fucking with the air rules. There was a faltering in the ranks, a stumbling halt in momentum. The aircraft had dropped further. Must be a wise or dumb ass from Maxwell Air Force base, an enthusiast reliving the glory days of the famed black Tuskegee Airmen of the Second World War. Seemed unlikely; seemed like a downright death-wish. Whatever, the gatecrasher was unscripted, unwelcome. A secondary noise, a distant chatter and uncertainty changed to pandemonium. The stampede went nowhere, tried to spread, folded in on itself in a collapsing, screaming mêlée of flailing limbs and falling bodies. Smoke, flame, the brute shrapnel eruption of cannon shells, and the aircraft was over them as the effects of its first strafe took hold. One strike. The animal was paralysed, writhing, ringed by the puff explosions of burning vehicles, spewing populated tentacles to find safety beyond. There was no safety. The aircraft looped for the next shrieking run-in. Second strike. Blood showered, carnage carried and spilled for two hundred yards in a scything ripple. An escaping family group had crawled haphazardly below the chassis of a police support truck. It ignited and slumped on them. Wood was kneeling, his jacket smouldering and torn, taking aim with an automatic. A response as useless as any, driven by reflex and shock, by mute horror and deafened madness. Beside him, Krista tried to place a man in recovery position; there was little chance of recovery. Around them, the ground was churned and red, clouded by acrid smoke. Third strike. The howling turbine swept in, kept straight. Fletcher Wood was firing. Outgunned, seriously so. The military helicopter had moved to intercept, its chain gun rattle-burping from a chin-turret, and the sequence changed. A bomb dropped, bounced and went off; people died, people disintegrated, people disappeared. Krista mused distractedly that whether on the Pacific Coast Highway, California, or Highway 80, Alabama, she did not much like improvised explosive devices. Opening shot of the black offensive, opening shot of the white: she was present each time. Should have stayed in England with Josh, should have stayed on the Maria Johanna. The aircraft wheeled, and its wing connected with the rotors of a press helicopter.
* * *
In a London hotel room, Reverend Al Azania had already forgotten about the call-girl. Easy come, easy go. She had been paid, ushered out by one of his bodyguards. Now he was alone, could concentrate, switch channels. He lounged on the bed in a towelling robe, post-coital mellow, tension worked off, relief handed out. Perfectly timed for the expected bulletin. He used the TV remote to find CNN and lay back against the pillows. There would be breaking news.
* * *
It was difficult to explain what had happened to the British people, to the national psyche. Sociologists tried, psychologists gave their best, political scientists added their perspective – but all provided only partial answers. The obvious was too painful, explosive. Some put the reasons down to group schizophrenia, others to the unhealthy effects of residual patriotism and the tides of intolerance washing from Europe. Reasons had to be found, re-education and citizenship training accelerated. Hysteria reigned. African refugees had been butchered, immigrants firebombed, West Indian crack addicts cut down and mutilated in their den. Racially motivated violence grew daily and every opinion poll, each snapshot survey, indicated that a majority of the British people approved. A shock, and there it was. Atavistic views on race, the sedimentary layers of prejudice and exclusion banished by decades of proselytizing liberal initiatives, legislation and correctness, had surfaced in the mainstream. It was immovable and unmistakable, the soundings registering a larger and more critical mass beneath the tip of bigotry that had finally shown itself among the recent turbulence.
Understanding was slipping away, the mild gripes of the indigenous population turning sour, oxidizing to pervasive bitterness. A chain-reaction, fed by many sources. Foreigners were not appreciated. Their ways and customs jarred, their children populated schools and filled playgrounds with indecipherable tongues and tinted faces, their womenfolk blocked maternity wards, their elderly rapaciously consumed geriatric resources. Received opinion; a widespread view. Even market towns, the heart of England, had knife fights, job-seekers, beggars and TB transplanted from other nations. It was presumed by the power elite that the British would find accommodation with the newcomers, first in their housing stock and then in their hearts. Presumption denied. Without democratic debate, with the stifling of humour and comment, with the blanket constraint of sensitivity applied, the only outlet for frustration lay in unconditional hostility. Attempts to inculcate race awareness merely exacerbated difference, encouraged comparison, competition and rage. A sense of belonging was replaced by a sense of malaise, confidence by alienation, community by community politics. A number felt excluded, disenfranchised, as marginalized as the smallest minority; restlessness prevailed. Feeling was everything, and the feeling was that the British had been screwed.
So the vigilantism and directed aggression, the descent to street violence, won support behind net curtains, over pots of tea and pints of stout. It was seen as just desserts, for the wanton murder of police officers and slaying of whites in their homes, for hospital waiting lists and welfare budgets, for low pensions, high taxes, for exponential crime figures, gun deaths and lost identity. Blame was apportioned, scapegoats found. A complex mix. And, above it all, the statistics demonstrating that the tactics of hatred worked, that the number of asylum applications had fallen dramatically. Soft-touch to hard-line in a few weeks, and the ideal of cosmopolitanism was dead. The message was out – you are not welcome, you will be deported, hurt or killed. There could be no denying the result, one that was unattainable using standard government procedure. Immigrants were voluntarily quitting, queuing to leap to the departure column of the national balance sheet, clamouring for sanctuary in the very camps from which they once absconded, or choosing to stay poised on the far side of the Channel. There was no protection, little restraint. Methods were copied, their effect applauded; calls for a calming of the situation were ignored. Tension mounted, the poison spread, action breeding reaction, attack sparking counter-attack. An elderly white man was kicked to death in Catford as he walked to the dog track, three black youths from the same estate were cornered and bullwhipped; a march by neo-Nazis in Eltham turned into a running battle with police and black demonstrators; a black gang raped and killed a white girl in Stockwell, an Afro-Caribbean boy had his throat slit in apparent retaliation. Acceleration, escalation. In Oldham, Asians threw acid in the face of a local white businessman; in Bradford, Muslims bundled a Hindu couple from the window of their third-storey apartment. In being banned from the agenda, the race issue had created one of a different kind.
Ethnic populations were under siege – under sentence – they felt the discomfort of public scrutiny, the sharp backlash of public sentiment. One in ten Britons were from minorities; nine in ten Britons had a view on it. Families might have been established, put down roots, raised several generations, seen their sons and daughters educated and assimilated, but their gods, their beliefs, came from elsewhere. Blood was up, running high; moderates were running for cover. The situation was more dangerous for its lack of focus, its suddenness, the dearth of obvious leadership. This was discontent, eruption; this was a scenario for which few in authority were prepared. Had they the inclination, they might have consoled themselves that in the United States potential for catastrophe was even greater. But it was of scant interest. Containment anywhere seemed unlikely. Britain, sump tank of Third World grievance, diverse allegiance. The race card was in play, the dealer unknown.
CHAPTER 9
The USA
Something was going down on the Westside. Two girls, one coloured, the other Caucasian, worked on him, their mouths and fingers busy, their professional concentration, concentrated professionalism, one-tracked and single-minded. Black magic, white mischief. Totally creative, the best of both cultures. Al Azania sat, comfortable and unzipped, ran his hands through their hair, directed their efforts with casual detachment. He appreciated quality, enjoyed crossing the racial divide. Coming together had its merits. Heads dipped, tongues flicked. No matter the skin colour, they were all pink inside. He pinched the nape of the white whore’s neck, felt her respond to the pressure, himself react to the piston pull. A command performance, and she was giving her all. He grunted, kneaded her flesh, needed her bad, thanked God for authority, money and fellatio. There were several ways to reach a higher spiritual plane; he could recommend exploration of this particular route. Talk about vocation, a calling; talk about passion. The girls were grateful for his ministry, stayed occupied, kept their faces full. The white harlot moaned. He could break her back across his knee, paralyse her, beat and strangle, finish her off, and the courts could not touch him. That was power and influence, the black art of black politics, the sensitivities, legal dream-teams and populist fervour conjured by his cause; that was a white population running scared. They had every reason to be troubled.
Climax would soon come. He moved his hips, stared at the ceiling. Al Azania: icon. He had returned to the United States, a saviour hurrying home to a nation rent by the trauma of air attack on the Selma–Montgomery Peace Walk. Thousands mobbed his arrival at LAX, hailed him as their leader in a time of woe, in a season of dread, looked to him for guidance, for answers. Fools. They did not ask the correct questions. The black girl had shifted up to feather-kiss his nipples. He pushed her back, did not want her close, let her nip and pinch playfully around his groin and pelvis. Perhaps three was a fucking crowd. He wanted to think, to evaluate progress. Hard to do when your head was some place else. So far, so good. A country in uproar, cleared for chaos, primed for butchery, sporadic flash riots flaring from Atlanta to Cincinnati, from Boston to Seattle. Everyone enraged, everything ready. And he would be the sole voice remaining, the channel to which they were tuned, the oracle, the prophet, the chieftain. In Africa, they revered him as their champion, embraced his vision of the continent’s new dawn, welcomed him to the bankrupt despots’ club of the African Union; in America, they sought his blessing, his friendship, his mark of approval and legitimacy. None could afford to fall from his favour, risk giving offence. To do so was suicidal, to be anti-black; to do so was to suffer boycotts, fire-bombings, a savaging in the liberal press. Screw the Teamsters. His was the real position of strength.
Yet he was concerned. He sensed the white girl tense as he dug his nails into her scalp, squeezed harder. England was a success, his Tigers would create a party to remember; he could barely fault the course of his itinerary, the opportunity provided by the forthcoming Million Clenched Fists rally in DC, the smooth-running descent of the United States into an abyss. But then the phone call, Professor Duncan Pitt requesting an urgent meeting, hinting at revelation. And now the Feds were due to visit, Special Agents Krista Althouse and Fletcher Wood, prying, probing, entering his comfort zone, his force-field. Coincidence, chance or a counter-strategy. It introduced doubt, unknowns, at the margin, interfered with developing hostilities, might compromise the entire project. He would have to be watchful, would have to collaborate closely with Ted Bell in meeting and defeating such threats. The real-estate tycoon had plainly misjudged, embraced the academic as one of his own, revealed too much, too soon. Bell’s doing – creating the possibility of undoing – Bell’s responsibility. The error would be corrected, the equation restored to balance. Professor Pitt was a hidden quantity, the x reflecting dangerous whys, that in itself was unacceptable, would detract from the task, the common purpose. Azania’s fingers clenched tight, drew blood and a protest-whimper from below. He was not listening. A day was close when the subjugated whites, paying homage and obeisance, would do more than lip service, would kiss his ass, buss his pecker, be grateful for his gift of life. Teeth gritted, he exhaled deep through his nostrils. Time to ride the tide, time to receive.
Krista and Wood had waited for over an hour in the Reverend’s library. Poor manners were a staple courtesy of the LA famous, tardiness part of the package. On the centre table were magazines and periodicals featuring interviews with Al Azania, on the walls were framed photographs of the man – the man – pacing the world stage, meeting heads of state and government leaders, accepting awards and honorary doctorates. A clutch of radical Arabs, two brace of African dictators, a couple of US presidents and assorted vignettes from a score of refugee camps. Same smile, same handshake.
‘Welcome to egomania-land,’ Krista muttered below her breath as she studied the illuminated text of a firebrand speech inscribed onto mock parchment scroll.
‘Tasteful,’ Wood murmured in her ear. ‘Seen this?’ He drew her across to a small exterior shot of the minister in academic robes surrounded by a gathering of black students. In the background, a group of patrician white liberals, other benefactors, looked on and smiled. ‘University of Cape Town. I recognize the buildings. He’s given money, supported its Africanization policies, funded basic skills teaching for disadvantaged township dwellers, provided scholarships.’
‘Looks as though he’s been rewarded with one himself.’
‘Told you they were dumbing down.’
‘Greenbacks talk, and so can he.’
‘Favourable exchange. You get a lot of friends and a lot of Rand to the dollar.’
‘Worth remembering.’
The door was opened, a bulked-out member of staff interrupting with a cursory announcement that the Reverend was ready in his morning room. They followed, past the portraits, the fresh flowers, the period French furniture, and through inlaid screens into a study dominated by an outsize teak desk at its far end. The High Priest was in residence, installed in a wing-backed leather chair, clad in black suit and mourning tie. He rose as they processed towards him, extending a hand and, with introductions made, gestured for them to sit. Krista scanned for the nuances, the vibe. He was difficult to read, had built a career, a lifetime, on obloquy and obfuscation, on issuing press statements and writs, on media stunts, shuttle diplomacy and crisis interference. The Lord and the lost tribe of African America gave him the mouth and the mandate. It said so in his brochure. He would not inherit the earth, but had accumulated greater wealth and influence than mere or average mortals. Consolation enough, Krista supposed. A publicist and lawyer would be close by, listening in. Their visible presence might indicate defensiveness, and Reverend Azania had little reason for that. He could afford the illusion of approachability, could buy almost anything. The grief and horror generated by the airborne attack on Highway 80 were all the armour he required, they could intimidate and pacify the most committed enemy.
Azania rested his hands on the desk. ‘Welcome to my kraal. I hear you were on the road from Selma to Montgomery.’
‘Reverend, you heard right.’ Wood had the lead in this interview.
‘Well, I thank God you survived.’
‘It was close.’
‘I’ve seen the aftermath.’ He had even travelled south to Alabama and scraped souvenir earth from the scene. Worthy of attention, if not respect. ‘Ever since returning from England, I’ve been conducting funeral services. Troubled times.’
‘And getting worse.’
