Gold Page 17

  Cyril had brought them camouflage green fatigues, light and comfortable in the evening cool. They climbed into a Range Rover while Myeti opened the gate for them.

  Soweto was dark and quiet. There had been no passing gangs this evening; there was no sign of life in any of the houses. Cyril did not turn on the vehicle’s lights but drove guided by the faint starlight.

  They avoided the national roads, which often had roadblocks after curfew. Instead, they took to the patchwork of unpaved streets linking the black townships together. The going was slow, but Cyril had taken the route often in the weeks since he had gone into hiding.

  They were headed to Orville township, where Cyril had grown up and where he still had cousins. The township was located ten miles from the Kampfontein mining complex, one of the older and smaller mines along the Rand.

  There were several paths through the bush between the township and the mine that Cyril and his cousins had frequented when they were children. He reckoned that the older mine, which was near depletion, might be less carefully guarded than some of the bigger, better known ones.

  If indeed there was anything to guard. Although Drew’s instincts told him du Plessis was lying, and the evidence in the markets did not exclude the possibility that South Africa was still producing, the journalist wanted to be careful about jumping to conclusions.

  Cyril eased the four-wheel-drive vehicle over a section where the road had virtually disappeared in the wake of rains earlier in the spring. The three of them were silent, although small grunts escaped Van der Merwe whenever the jeep bounced sharply.

  The Afrikaner was not pleased about having to come along, but Drew had insisted, because of the stringer’s role in breaking the sabotage story, that he be a witness if they found evidence it was a hoax.

  The moon rose eventually, enabling Cyril to move faster over the dirt road. Once he pulled aside and stopped in a clump of trees because he thought he saw headlights glimmering through the bush ahead. They waited fifteen minutes, but when there was no further evidence of another vehicle, they regained the road.

  The landscape was desolate. Occasional thickets of trees punctuated the stretch of bush on all sides. Game had long since deserted the region. The roads were not straight but zigzagged to connect the small townships dotting the area. The three men passed through several dark, still settlements, some no better than shantytowns.

  Drew had the eerie feeling that they were the only creatures alive in the bush. He had visited a game reserve during his earlier trip, and a highlight of the stay had been the jeep ride at night with its searchlight suddenly revealing a herd of zebra or wildebeest. But tonight there was no sign of life.

  Cyril drove the Range Rover into a large thicket, picking his way through it until the vehicle was shielded on all sides. “End of the line,” he whispered. They gathered dead branches to cover the jeep, so it would not be visible if a helicopter passed over during the day.

  They emerged from the thicket as the moon was settling on the horizon. It was still about an hour until dawn. Their plan was to reach the perimeter before daylight. Cyril pointed out the low silhouette of Orville township behind them as they set out through the bush, following the barest rudiments of a path.

  Cyril kept up a fast pace, virtually a trot. Drew was winded quickly but then found a gait that enabled him to keep up. He looked around occasionally to check on Van der Merwe, who was breathing heavily.

  Once Cyril allowed them to stop and rest, their backs up against a tree. The night was still. They resumed their trek just as the first glimmers of light appeared to the east.

  Drew blanked out his mind and focused only on the bouncing figure of the black man ahead of him. He did not hold back, because he knew they would have all day to recover their strength. They planned to hide near the mine and wait for night to fall again before penetrating the perimeter.

  They arrived at last. Cyril gestured to the hill that blocked the rising sun from their view. The bush had been cleared one hundred yards in front of a high chain-link fence. Rolls of barbed wire followed the contour of the fence. More barbed wire stretched tautly between struts on top of the fence, to a height of eight feet.

  Cyril darted rapid glances around the perimeter for any signs of a patrol and then motioned to a small, low thicket to their left.

  Drew felt a great sense of relief as they crawled deep into the loose bush and remained huddled there. His ears pounded with the effort of the trek; he took a sparing drink from his canteen. Cyril was already stretched out, using his rucksack as a pillow, his eyes closed, his face impassive.

  Van der Merwe continued to gulp and swallow. Drew admired the older man’s pluck. He was even more out of shape than the American, nor did he share Drew’s single-minded obsession for the truth, but he had his own sense of loyalty and integrity that kept him from complaining about their mission.

  Drew soon stretched out too. The sun was already bright, making the sky overhead a clear, lustrous blue. The thicket provided an adequate amount of shade. Despite the rising temperature, Drew quickly fell into a peaceful sleep.

  ~

  Drew peered through the twilight toward the perimeter. A gentle breeze in his face indicated they were upwind. A low hiss from Cyril directed Drew’s attention to three uniformed men and a sentry dog coming from the west. The setting sun silhouetted the patrol as it moved unhurriedly toward the hiding place of the three intruders.

  Drew felt sweaty and uncomfortable. The heat accumulated during the day emanated from the ground. The wind was strong enough to rustle the leaves of the low bushes concealing him, a further protection from the keen senses of the patrol dog.

  The soldiers themselves were silent but did not seem particularly alert. Perhaps it was near the end of their shift, or too many uneventful patrols had dulled their expectations. They paid more attention to the fence than to the empty countryside, scanning it in the failing light for any sign of tampering.

  Drew heard Van der Merwe’s heavy breathing beneath the rustling leaves. He realized that his own breathing was like a gentle grunt as they waited anxiously for the patrol to pass.

  By the time the patrol had disappeared over the horizon, the sky had deepened to a dark blue. The fence had vanished against the hulking hills that were outlined by the faint light of the departed sun.

  At least the darkness brought some relief from the heat. Cyril maintained a cautious crouch, listening for any sound of the patrol coming back. “Looks like this is it,” he said, picking up his light rucksack. He donned a pair of leather gloves and pulled out a heavy wire cutter from a pouch on the side. Drew followed suit.

  Listening again, Cyril took a tentative step from the thicket. Insects throbbed in the bush behind them; there were no sounds of men or machinery.

  “OK,” Cyril hissed, staring toward the perimeter at a gentle trot, keeping his head down.

  Drew followed as quietly as he could. The moon had not yet risen, but Drew’s eyes had adjusted to the glow of the stars. A stronger light in the east gave the ragged edge of the hill a faint halo.

  Van der Merwe followed Drew. The three men arrived at the barbed wire and began cutting through it, holding the heavy shears with both hands. Drew was quickly drenched in sweat.

  They cut a path just wide enough for them to step through sideways. Cyril began cutting through the chain link while Drew arranged the barbed wire behind them to make their passageway as inconspicuous as possible.

  By now, Cyril was swearing fiercely in a low, violent whisper. The thick link fence yielded grudgingly as the black man forced his body through the narrow three-foot slit he had cut. Drew helped Van der Merwe through and then followed him. They all collapsed on the hillside to rest.

  Cyril returned to the cut fence and tied a white handkerchief at the base, anchoring it and covering it with loose dirt. It was a calculated risk, and scarcely visible unless sought for, but it marked the spot of their entry in case they needed to exit in a hurry.

 
They started up the low hill in the direction of the Kampfontein mine. Although the government had never listed the mines actually closed down by the terrorist sabotage, most reports suggested that virtually all the Rand production had been affected.

  Cyril led the way without hesitation, as both white men concentrated on keeping their footing on the rocky ground. Twisted, dwarfed bushes covered the hillside; there was no evidence of any sort of footpath.

  They came over the first ridge. The glow in the east was stronger now, clearly emanating from powerful electric lights, like a city below the horizon.

  The intruders stopped periodically to rest and listen for any sign of patrols or other activity. Apparently, the fence and perimeter were considered sufficient protection. Drew wondered during one of these pauses how the ALF could have managed a coordinated bombing of so many mines.

  After slightly more than an hour of arduous passage in the dark, Cyril stopped Drew with a gentle pressure on his arm.

  “The minehead is just over the next ridge,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Do you hear what I hear?” Drew whispered back.

  “I sure do.” Cyril grunted.

  The unmistakable sound of diesel motors, purring heavily in the night air, was rounded by a soft cacophony of clattering noises.

  “It sounds like a mine,” Van der Merwe said.

  The three men proceeded carefully up the hill, keeping low and crawling often on hands and knees. They neared the top and slid the last few yards on their bellies.

  Drew came even with Cyril and cautiously raised his head, using a low thornbush for cover. He nearly reeled backward from the sight, which hit him like a body blow. Floodlights transformed night into day below them, like an enormous football field. The light, blinding after the darkness, revealed hundreds of men, scurrying like so many ants amid an overwhelming confusion of dirt and machinery.

  “That’s orebody.” Cyril jabbed a finger at rail trucks emerging from one opening in the rock wall. “That’s a pithead.” He pointed to some grinding machinery next to the rail tracks. “And those are miners, those are tracks, those are soldiers, and this fucking operation is a gold mine that has never seen a terrorist bomb.”

  Cyril spat out the angry words. Drew could feel the big man next to him quivering in rage.

  Recovering from the stunning first view, Drew tried to concentrate on the scene in front of him. He realized that the figures scrambling on the surface were only a fraction of the crew that must be working the mine.

  Many of the figures, he noticed grimly, were carrying automatic rifles. They wore military fatigues and their faces gleamed white. The truck drivers and equipment operators also were white. Most of the other men milling purposefully around in the massive cavity were black. Soldiers surrounded the operation, carrying their guns with both hands, evidently ready to keep anyone from entering or leaving.

  Drew suddenly felt violently ill, as though he would retch. Nausea seized him, and he grew lightheaded. He gripped Van der Merwe’s shoulder fiercely, afraid he would fall over.

  None of them said anything further. The clatter and whir of shifting rock and the grunt of machinery mesmerized them for several moments.

  Damn, damn, damn! Drew’s head swam with sudden rage. The personal, crippling blow that came with the realization he had been duped gave way to seething anger at the perpetrators of the hoax.

  “Goddamn them to hell,” he said, louder than he intended.

  Neither Cyril nor Van der Merwe responded. Drew saw du Plessis’s mocking smile, mocking him, mocking the world. There had been no sabotage—only lies and murder to perpetuate a perverse regime.

  Cyril gestured to the two others to stay where they were. The black man backed slowly down the hill.

  Drew lost sight of him and waited and listened anxiously, unsure of what was happening.

  A branch snapped behind him and Drew whirled around. In the glow of the floodlights he saw a young South African soldier coming toward him, the stark light giving his intent expression a ghoulish contrast.

  Then Drew saw the rifle pointed at him. Time stopped, and the world was reduced to the tiny round hole that threatened to spew fire and lead into him. The journalist saw the eyes of his assailant juxtaposed with the rifle opening, a curious gleam lighting them with the quintessence of human mortality—the intent to kill another man.

  Even as he yelled to Van der Merwe and threw himself to the ground, Drew heard a sharp crack, a stifled grunt, and muffled sounds of struggle. He scrambled to his feet and saw two figures wrestling on the ground. Cyril had attacked the soldier from behind. A white arm raised up, holding a flashing blade. Drew lunged and caught the deadly wrist in both his hands. Cyril broke free from the soldier’s grip, wrested the knife from him, and, with only a split second’s hesitation, plunged it into the young man’s breast.

  Blood spattered both Drew and Cyril as they rolled free of the dying man. Drew glimpsed the wide eyes of the dead soldier, robbed of their curious gleam.

  The journalist turned to see what had become of Van der Merwe. At first he did not see the crumpled figure in the shadow of the ridge. He heard nothing over the clank and roar of the mine as he approached the huddled stringer. When Drew reached to grip Van der Merwe’s shoulder, the stringer fell back easily. Drew gasped. The Afrikaner’s face was covered with blood, and the place where his right eye should have been looked like raw meat.

  Drew felt Cyril’s hand on his elbow. “He’s dead,” the black man said. “They may have heard the shot.”

  Drew looked helplessly at the corpse, still warm to the touch. Cyril tugged at him again, starting down the hill. Drew turned and followed him.

  They ran, tripping on the tangled brush and uneven stone, falling, scraping their clothes against the thorns and jagged rock. Cyril kept his orientation, and they covered the ground back to the fence in less than half an hour.

  Breathing hard, they crawled along the base, digging through the dirt, groping for their marker. They found the slit, and Cyril held back the chain link for Drew to scramble through.

  They had heard no sound of pursuit, but they never stopped long enough to pay attention. Nor did they hesitate now. Drew held back the fence as best he could while Cyril squeezed past him. They crawled through the barbed wire, paying no heed this time to its appearance.

  They dashed across the perimeter area. The hundred yards seemed a continent wide to Drew, who expected a helicopter searchlight and machine-gun fire at any moment. So fierce was the pounding in his head, there could have been a fleet of gunships overhead, waiting for the right moment to fire, and he would have been oblivious to their presence.

  The two men did not pause until they reached the protective thicket that had been their refuge before. They stopped, panting laboriously, drenched again in their own sweat. This time, Drew did retch, a soul-wrenching revulsion shaking his whole body. The nausea made him dizzy; he felt disembodied. The violence, the sheer physical stress paralyzed him. The stunning suddenness of Van der Merwe’s death revolted him, while the profound shock of the deception he had been part of numbed his brain. He gulped desperately for air. Cyril slapped him sharply on the back, forcing him to breathe.

  “Don’t go hysterical on me.” Cyril slapped him again on the back. “Come on, you’re tougher than that.”

  The words calmed Drew. He looked at Cyril in the dark, who returned his gaze steadily.

  “It’s hard, the first time, to look death in the face,” he said to Drew. “Thanks for saving my life.” Drew felt tears streaming down his cheeks, but he had stopped heaving and was able to breathe in deep gulps.

  They listened for several moments but still heard no sounds of soldiers or dogs. A luminous half-moon hung low in the sky.

  “Let’s go,” Cyril said. He clapped Drew on the arm and set off in a loping gait back toward the road.

  FOURTEEN

  It’s very dangerous,” the old man said to Halden, looking evenly at him from the cracked
leather armchair in front of the fire. “But I can’t argue with your analysis of the situation. It may be your solution is the only alternative you have.”

  Peter Wagner’s face looked troubled by the complexity of the problem and the responsibility the two men were taking on themselves.

  The two warmed themselves by the fireplace, holding snifters of brandy to restore warmth to their bodies after their short hike in the crisp Maine autumn.

  Wagner was a widower and lived in his Maine cabin alone with his Irish setter, Samson. Despite a distinguished head of white hair, Wagner, a tall and bony man, looked more at home in the flannel shirt and corduroy pants of the Maine backwoods than he had in his navy blue pinstripe testifying before Congress.

  One of the duties of the chairman of the Federal Reserve Board is to account to lawmakers for the Fed’s conduct of monetary policy, its view of the economy, its surveillance of the banking system. The explosive growth of banking and finance had elevated the Fed chairmanship into one of the most powerful positions in the country.

  Even the President had to defer to the Fed chairman. Once appointed, the chairman enjoyed an independence enforced by law. Of course the politics of reappointment had encouraged many a Fed chairman to heed the wishes of the chief executive, but Wagner had leveraged his statutory autonomy by never needing to use it.

  Halden admired Wagner without reserve. Wagner had brought Halden from his obscure post as president of the Federal Reserve Bank in Kansas City, one of twelve regional banks that together constituted the central bank of the United States, and had made him his confidant, his protegé. When Halden took his turn in the rotation to sit on the Open Market Committee, the panel composed of the seven governors of the Federal Reserve Board and five Federal Reserve Bank presidents, the two invariably steered the board to adopt the policy measures they had already decided upon. Shortly after the debt crisis broke in 1982, Wagner had encouraged the ineffectual president of the New York Fed to step down and installed Halden in the key position, which Wagner himself had filled before ascending to the chairmanship.