‘Matches with what our Commonwealth friends are holding. It would have led us to your commander-in-chief eventually.’
‘Then I’m saving you the effort.’
‘Making an offer?’
‘Extending an invitation.’
‘There’s a catch.’ Had to be. Exit routes and get-out clauses were integral to agent tradecraft and longevity, implicit in espionage deals – unless it was a trap, the biggest catch of all. He listened for traces, subtle inflection, but would not find them here.
The South African maintained the opaqueness of informality. He could have been talking of a braai, but was speaking of a showdown. ‘You British forgot the rules, so the rules caught up and bit you, man. Even your city trauma units have to come to Soweto for training in gunshot wounds and gangland injuries. It all originates in Africa, with the black.’
‘Cut the philosophy. Where’s the gathering?’
‘Outside Cape Town. You get there, we contact you.’ No acceptance of guilt, no contrition or plea of mitigation. Merely a message delivered, defiance as the initiative slipped away.
Kemp inhaled, the tobacco-burn of the Colonel’s cigarette acrid present in the air. The German was content to observe, to leave decisions to others, match-refereeing to anyone who cared. Few volunteers. An enemy was cornered, more untrustworthy for it. He nodded. There was a flight to book, a date with the devil.
CHAPTER 18
The USA
Atmospheric change. There was a restlessness around Azania, an uncertainty that travelled like influenza among the disciples. Contagious, unless anticipated, tracked, rubbed out. He sat at the head of the boardroom table, his Tiger captains and Union League chiefs stationed down its length. Potential challengers, possible traitors. Weaklings. Wall-mounted, the television projected a montage of conflict, flitting from close-up to panning shot, scrolling, rolling, through the Forrester defeat. Airbrushed anchormen spoke to blow-dried reporters who in turn held microphones to red-eyed and stubble-smeared witnesses. From the earnest to the excitable, everyone had an anecdote, a point of view; no one was making sense. I was lookin’ out my window, when … So, I got the kids indoors … The rocket landed just there, see … Downtown appeared, the backdrop to every news report, unresolved, the crisis of five towers and 3,000 hostages crowding the skyline, intruding into the national psyche. Wide-screen, real-time.
‘That’s us.’ Azania pointed from the depth of his high-back chair. ‘That’s who it comes down to, who they defer to. We have the initiative, their attention, we hold America in thrall, in the palm of our clenched fist.’
‘So, why, Reverend, are more people demonstrating against us than for us?’
The chair swivelled gently, turning Azania in the direction of the dissident. Conscious gesture, implicit threat. ‘Why do they demonstrate? Because they’re frightened. They should be.’
‘And why have our brothers and sisters returned to their homes? Because they’ve looted the stores and car lots, taken the liquor and the refrigerators. There’s nothing left. The only presence remaining is the National Guard. What happened to politicization?’ Insolence, dumb.
It was joined by another. ‘What happened to polarization?’
Azania settled his arms, hands limp on the padded rests. An image of unconcern, of mellow meditation. Lion-sly, big cat-docile. He spoke softly, addressing the doubters. ‘We have built a fire in the fissures between black and white. The heat will spread, the heat will split the rock.’
‘Riddles ain’t the solution, Reverend.’
‘Action is,’ the second complainant ventured. ‘And how do we generate heat when the Forresters are destroyed before they even meet us on the battlefield?’
Azania’s lidded eyes opened, their energy traversing from face to face. ‘Who said we needed the white man for inspiration or direction?’ The fingers splayed. ‘Every second we are here brings us converts, air-time, reinforces our message.’
‘Ninety per cent of those polled see us as terrorists.’ A third tentative voice of heresy.
‘It’s how each liberation movement began; how each African leader was treated before independence.’
Collective sombreness that resonated scepticism, irresolution, sinking morale. Conflagration had not occurred. Instead of the high ground, a focal point and rallying stage, a vista across an American landscape changed forever in their favour, there was the prospect of conclusion without conclusion, of dragging, interminable drift and decline. Downtown might be sidelined; Downtown might shift from strategic and societal imperative to tactical military sideshow. Thus would the American powerbrokers make their move. They had demonstrated as much, shown how they dealt with armed freaks, had deep-fried the vanguard of the Forresters without compassion or compunction. It was a time for the country to pull together, for colour-blindness, even-handedness. Downtown could be incinerated. White House press officers were working overtime, spinning the lines and the lies, tossing the coin. The Tigers might be next. How each liberation movement began, was first seen. They were a long way from the political rallies, the polemic, the promises, far from the messianic fervour of the training camps. Commitment could wilt in the soil of reality; a demagogue could grow into one more indistinct African or American despot. Azania’s hands were tightening. The Tigers were either with him, or dead. A question was raised by a senior commander.
‘Enough!’ He had spun and vacated the chair; in a single bound he was up and working the room, working out rage. He wrenched the Tiger backwards, repeat-slapping the face. ‘Martin Luther King spoke of the red hills of Georgia. Well, I am talking of the red plains of Southern California. Not of peace, but of blood. Understand me? Understand? Understand?’ The fist balled, started to punch, the man’s torso rocking beneath it. Azania let him go, moved on, berating, whispering, stalking the shrinking forms, his hand punishing or playful, striking or ruffling. ‘You bitches, you whores. This is not Gethsemane, this is not the Last Supper. My agony will be your agony, my triumph will be your triumph. There will be no crucifixion, or there will be mass crucifixion.’ He had almost completed a circuit, reaching the position of one of his impi leaders, a scarred veteran in combat fatigues. Critic number three. The grip tightened on the man’s shoulders. ‘Dignity is found in courage. It is not found in defeatism, it is not found in abdication. Over three centuries, we should have learnt that lesson. You have forgotten. Let me reiterate.’ The head slammed into the table surface, blood and unconsciousness erupting with the rhythmic thuds. Azania was panting, and let the body slide untidily to the ground. ‘Mop it,’ he ordered.
He returned to his seat, oblivous to the hasty wipe-down and clean-up in progress. Session reconvened. He shot his cuffs, paused awhile for the impact and aftershock to subside, the bruising to swell. ‘I should inform you that your files, the records showing your identity, initiation, employment with the Tigers, the federal crimes you have committed, are currently residing with the FBI. The same goes for all the men under my command.’ He levelled his gaze. ‘There is no turning back. You stand by me, by our cause, or you volunteer to strap yourself in the chair. Anyone ready to take 8,000 volts? Any brother here want to see his eyeballs shoot out, flames discharge from his ears, smoke come out of his ass and fingertips?’ There were no takers. ‘Okay, we’ve cleared the air, had our debate. It’s time for a video conference.’
The set was readied, Azania shrugging on the leopard-skin cape and buckling the clasp, a make-up specialist dabbing at his forehead. Behind, the furled flags and calf-hide shields were adjusted. The government, the people, the world, had to see, had to be made to see. These negotiations, ruminations, would enter the archives, the libraries of state, reach out and touch generations. It was not vanity, but the record, that interested him. He ordered activation and cleared his throat. Link-up. The picture flickered and steadied, dropping a triumvirate of authority figures into the frame. They were political eunuchs, shorn of balls, detached from the realm beyond their perfumed cloisters and white men’s clubs. Creepers, climbers and suckers of the Ivy League. He would cut them further down to size.
‘The three stooges.’ He glowered inquiringly at them. They looked uncomfortable, constipated with responsibility. ‘I thought I asked for the President.’
‘President’s unavailable right now, Mr Azania.’ It was the Attorney-General who took the lead.
‘Is he?’
‘I can confirm that is the case,’ the Director of the FBI concurred. Barren bureaucratic language, authenticated bullshit. They must be real.
Azania knitted his fingers, his bulk contained and unmoving. ‘Torn from the pages of the Bureau handbook on hostage situations. Do not make concessions or compromise unless receiving more in return, do not provide proprietary information, do not lose the initiative.’
‘We are simply feeling our way, Mr Azania.’
‘You’re losing your way.’
The Attorney-General blinked. Grey suit, grey face. Electronics permitted communication devoid of communication, drained of intensity. Contrived, tension-dampening measures. Neutral shades everywhere. They could go feel their way off a cliff. Azania was enjoying the performance.
‘Reverend, we have a set of circumstances that are out of control.’
‘You speak for yourself.’
‘For America. No one wants this.’
‘Especially not the several thousand men, women and children we hold under guard.’
‘We were hoping for a humanitarian gesture.’
