In early years his likeness fooled everyone. His fathers son, they said. But the son grew and the truth emerged. His father was the first to know, because he was brother to Senzeni. He knew the signs and he prayed for mercy, because he feared the consequences. He enveloped the boy with love, to create a cocoon to wrap him safely in, but that was not the Lords will. Too late he came to realize this was his test, this child, too late, because he failed, his wisdom and compassion failed him, his deep love for his son made him blind.
The strife began insignificantly domestic differences between father and son, and from there, as the years advanced, expanded like the ripples from a pebble dropped in a still pool.
And Senzeni came home to verify the rumors and their fierce hearts recognized each other, Thobela and his uncle, their mouths spoke the same language, their bodies thirsted for the same battlefields, their heads rejected the way of peace and love. And Lawrence Mpayipheli lost his only son.
In 1976 with the Soweto riots, Thobela was fourteen years old. Senzeni came for him in the night. My brother was forbidden to enter the house because of his influence but he crept in like a thief and took the child and phoned later to say he would bring Thobela home when he had become a man. He had him initiated somewhere, and then took him to every place where Xhosa blood was shed. He filled his head with hate. They were away a long time, three months, and when they returned I did not know my son and he did not know me. Two years we lived like this in the rectory, strangers. He walked his own paths, quiet and secretive, as if tolerating me, waiting.
In 1979 he was gone. The evening before, he said good night a rare occurrence and in the morning his room was empty.
The bed unslept in, some clothes missing from the wardrobe. Senzeni came and said my son had gone to the war. There was a terrible row that day. Hard words were spoken. I forgot myself. I was wounded because I could not be a father, because my brother had stolen my son. My words were to Senzeni, but I raged with God. The Lord had let my son leave me. He had drawn the dividing lines of this land and this family in strange places. He made me a man of peace and love, called me to be a shepherd, and then He placed a wolf in the fold so that I was ridiculed, so that the apostate could scorn Him, and that I could not understand.
Only later did I see it was my test. It was the Lords way to humble me, to strip me of the illusion that I was more holy than others, to show me my feet of clay. But by then it was too late to save my son, too late to bring him home. Sometimes we had news, sometimes Senzeni would send a message about Thobela, how well he was, that he had been noticed, that the leaders of the Struggle recognized his character, that he had gone to foreign parts to learn to fight for his country.
Then one evening the message came. The Security Police had taken Senzeni to Grahamstown. For eight days they beat the life out of him and left his body as rubbish beside the road. And we never heard of our son again.
Beyond Touws River the road shrugged off its bends, and for the first time Thobelas thoughts drifted from the motorbike. He took stock of his position the implications and what alternatives were available to him. The LCD stripes of the petrol gauge indicated he must refuel. At Laingsburg. After that it was 200 kilometers to Beaufort West, a deadly stretch of highway through the Great Karoo, wide and straight, oppressively hot in daytime, soul-destroying at night. Expected time of arrival: approximately midnight.
From Beaufort West it was another 500 or 550 to Bloemfontein too far to reach before sunrise? Maybe not, if he pushed on, if he could manage the refueling stops quickly.
He would have to sleep in Bloemfontein, ride into the black township and rest somewhere while the sun shone.
The big question remained: Did they know yet he had taken the bike? Had his error of not turning off the alarm already resulted in consequences? If the answer was no, he had until eight, nine oclock tomorrow morning before the message went out. And they would have to guess his route.
But if they already knew
He knew the game. He knew how fast the variables multiplied for the hunters and the prey. He knew how they would reason if they already knew. Put their money on the main route, the fastest, shortest road, use resources there because that is where the highest-percentage probability lay, even if it was no more than 50 percent. There were too many longer, lesser routes; the possibilities would drive you out of your mind.
If they knew, the Ni would be their candidate. Thats why he needed to use the darkness and the lead he had on them.
He switched the beam of the lights on high, the black ribbon strung out before him, opened the throttle, the needle crept past 140, up the long gradients, 150, his eyes measuring the lit course in front of him. How fast could he safely go at night?
Just over the crest of the next rise a valley opened up before him and the GS moved past the 160 mark. He saw the blue and red revolving lights of the law far ahead in the distance.
He grabbed the front brakes, kicked the back brake, and the ABS shuddered, intense pressure crushing his arms, but he kept the clutch in, for a moment he thought he would lose control, and then he had stopped, in the middle of the road, and there was something he still had to do what was it? the lights, turn off the lights searching for the switch in panic, got it, switched it off with his right thumb and suddenly he was night blind, all dark, just himself and the knowledge that they knew, that they were waiting for him, that everything had changed.
Again.
12.
T
he crime reporter of the
Cape Times
didnt know that the call would be a turning point in her life.
She would never know whether the loss of life would have been less and the outcome very different if she had taken her bag and left for home one minute earlier.
She was by nature a plump woman, cheerful, with wide soft curves and a broad quick smile and a hearty laugh, jolly dimples in her cheeks. If she had been more introspective, she might have wondered if she got on with people so easily because she presented no threat.
Her name was Allison Healy and when the phone rang on her desk late on a Sunday night, she answered with her usual cheery voice.
Times,
she said.
Allison, this is Erasmus from Laingsburg. Slightly muffled, as if he didnt want his colleagues to hear. I dont know if you remember me.
She remembered. The policeman had worked at the Sea Point office. They called him Rassie. Burned out at twenty-eight in the fight against a declining suburb, he had transferred to more restful pastures. She greeted him happily, asking how he was. As well, he replied, as you could be in a place where the sweet blow all grew a meter high. She laughed her throaty laugh. Then the voice on the line became serious.
Do you know about the Xhosa on the BMW?
No, she said.
Then Ive got a story for you.
CLASSIFIED GRADE ONE
MEMORANDUM
17 NOVEMBER 1984 19:32
STATUS:
Urgent
FROM:
Derek Lategan, legal attaché, Embassy, Washington
TO:
Quartus Naudé
Urgent request from CIA, Langley, Virginia: Any possible information and/or photographic material:
Thobela Mpayipheli, alias Tiny, alias Umzingeli. Suspected previously Umkhonto we Sizwe, probably current operator, Stasi/KGB. Probably operational in UK/Europe. Black male, 2.1 m, 100-120 kg. No further intelligence available.
End
Janina Mentz looked at the fax, the poor reproduction, the handwritten note in the upper right corner barely legible: Our help with this matter could open doors. Regards, Derek.
She checked the cover page. Attachments: 1.
Is this all? she asked.
Yes, maam, thats all, said Radebe.
Wheres the follow-up? Wheres the answer?
They say thats the only reference on the microfiche, maam. Just that.
Theyre lying. Send a request for the follow-up correspondence. And contact details for the sender and addressee of the memorandum: Lategan and Naudé.
Why did they have to struggle for cooperation? Why the endless rivalry and politicking? She was angry and frustrated. She knew the real source was the new information, the caliber of their fugitive and their underestimation of him. This meant escalation. It meant trouble. For her and the project. And if the NIA wanted to play games, she had to get a bigger stick.
She reached for the phone and dialed an internal number. The director answered.
Sir, she said, we need help with the NIA. They are not playing ball. Can you use NICoC influence?
The director, together with the director-general of the National Intelligence Agency, the head of Military Intelligence, the head of the Police National Investigation Service, and the director-general of the Secret Service, was a member of the National Intelligence Coordinating Committee, under the chairmanship of the minister.
Let me phone the DG direct, said the director.
Thank you, sir.
I am happy to help, Janina.
She took up the fax again. In 1984 the CIA suspected that Mpayipheli was working for the KGB? In Europe?
The CIA?
Urgent request
Our help with this matter could open doors.
This man? This middle-aged gofer? The coward from the airport?
She pulled the transcript of the Orlando Arendse interview from the pile in front of her.
So let me give you some advice: Start ordering the body bags now.
She took a deep breath. No reason to worry. It meant Johnny Kleintjes knew what he was doing. He would not put his safety in amateur hands. They had underestimated Mpayipheli. She would not make that mistake again.
She used the new intelligence, ran through her strategy. More sure than ever that he would use the Ni. A cool cat, this one, self-assured: his display at the airport calculated to mislead, the smooth disarming of the agents explained, the choice of motorbike, in retrospect, very clever.
But still they had the upper hand. Mpayipheli did not know that they knew.
And if things went wrong, there was always the leverage of Miriam Nzululwazi. And the child.
* * *
He knew he had to get off the road. He couldnt stay where he was in the dark. Or he must turn back, find another route; but he was unwilling, his entire being rejected retreat; he must move on, to the north.
Gradually his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He switched the motorbike on, slowly rode to the side of the highway, looked at the moonlit veld, the wire fence straight as an arrow parallel with the Ni. He was looking for a farm gate or a wash under the wire, kept glancing back, unwilling to be caught in the glare of oncoming headlights. He wanted to get off and have a stretch and think.
How far ahead was that roadblock? Four or five kilometers. Closer. Three?
Thank God the GSs exhaust noise was soft. He kept the revs low, scanning the fences, saw promise on the opposite side of the road, a gate and a two-track road into the veld. He rode over, tires crunching on the gravel, stopped, put the bike on the stand, pulled off his gloves, checked the fastening of the gate. No padlock. He pulled the gate open, rode the bike in, and closed the gate behind him.
He must get far off the road, but close enough to still see the lights.
He realized his good fortune: the GS was dual-purpose, made for blacktop and dirt road, the so-called adventure touring bike, spoke wheels, high and well sprung. He turned in the veld so the nose faced the highway, stopped, got off. He pulled the helmet off his head, stuffed the gloves inside, placed it on the saddle, stretched his arms and legs, felt the night breeze on his face, heard the noises of the Karoo in the night.
Blue and red and orange lights.
He heard an oncoming vehicle, from the Cape side, saw the lights, counted the seconds from when it flashed past, watching the red taillights, trying to estimate the distance to the roadblock, but it got lost in the distance, melting into the hazard lights.
He would have to turn back. Take another route.
He needed a road map. Where did his other choices lie? Somewhere there was a turnoff to Sutherland, but where? He did not know that region well. It was on the road to nowhere. A long detour? Tried to recall what lay behind him. A road sign on the left had called out Ceres before Touws River even, but it would take him almost back to Cape Town.
He breathed in deeply. If he must, he would go back, whether he wanted to or not. Rather a step backward than wasting his time here.
Stretched, bent his back, touched toes, stretched his long arms skyward, cracked his shoulder joints backward, and took up the helmet. Time to go.
