Читать книгу Roots of Outrage - John Davis Gordon - Страница 32

It was unreal. The joy of walking back down the long corridor, his car keys in his hand, Colonel Krombrink escorting him to the security grille, shaking his hand … It was unreal that he even felt grateful to the man – he even almost liked Colonel Krombrink, for Christ’s sake … Then walking out of that dread-filled building into God’s own sweet fresh sunset – and, oh, he loved the world with his whole heart. Driving away up the empty streets was a wonderful feeling. Look at those shop windows, look at the lights …

And it was unreal that he could now drive to her shop without worrying about being seen, could spend the whole night with her now without being arrested: Krombrink had ordered him to get back together with her – Krombrink would be expecting him to go to her immediately. No car was following him. He drove down Pritchard Street, turned left into Diagonal Street. Carmel Building, the row of Indian shops underneath, the apartments above – it seemed a long, long time since he had been here. And, yes, there were lights in her window! He parked. He went through the big front archway, for all the world to see. He entered the yard, then climbed the staircase onto the access verandah. He rang her bell.

The door opened. She stared at him, amazed.

He put his finger to her lips, then took her in his arms. And, oh, the wonderful feel of her again! He was trembling. And, oh God, he could not bear to believe what Krombrink had told him about her.

It was likely that her apartment was bugged with a listening device. As he told her his story, they sat in the courtyard, outside the back door of her shop. She listened without interruption, her face grim.

‘And you signed those statements? So they’ve got you nailed down. If you don’t cooperate they charge you on those confessions.’

‘If I didn’t agree to cooperate they’d have pulled you in and put you through the wringer.’ He looked at her shakily. ‘How did those traces of explosives get in my car, Patti?’

She closed her eyes. ‘There never were any explosives in your car, don’t you see? They’re framing you.’

‘Then why not make a good job of it and plant a whole bag?’

She held her face. ‘For credibility. It sounds so convincing, mere traces, whereas a whole bag may sound like a plant.’

‘But they’re after you; you’re the ANC member. If they were going to frame somebody, why didn’t they plant explosives in your car?’

‘Because they don’t want to arrest me yet – they want you to find out what I’m up to, what the ANC cells are doing.’

He took her hands from her face. He looked into her beautiful brown eyes. ‘Patti, the time for need-to-know crap is passed. We’re both in very big shit and I do need to know. The truth! Now, did you or did you not ever smuggle explosives?’

She stared at him, eyes gaunt. ‘You’ve swallowed their poison, haven’t you? You think I really might have hidden explosives in your car, so that you would take the risk instead of me!’

Mahoney closed his eyes. Oh God, he wanted her to say the right thing, to stop their poison working. ‘Did you?’

She hissed: ‘I swear to God I didn’t do that! I would never expose you to that risk – I love you!’ She glared, then sighed feverishly. ‘Oh, what’s the use – you need to know … ’ She looked at him. ‘Yes, I smuggled explosives. But I never did so in your car, always in my own. But on one occasion the fools in Swaziland put the stuff in your car instead of mine – the guy got his instructions mixed up. I discovered the mistake – I looked under my back seat, they weren’t there. I guessed what had happened, looked under the back seat of your car and there they were. I transferred them to my car. That’s how the traces got into yours.’

Mahoney sighed in relief. Thank God she admitted it. Or the poison may have worked. But Jesus, smuggling explosives …

‘And did you know what they were going to be used for?’

‘Yes.’ She jabbed her finger at him. ‘Military targets. Not blowing up women and children on Johannesburg Station.’

‘How could you be sure of that?’

‘Because that was ANC policy! Military targets only.’

He said: ‘Krombrink told me that when they raided the farm the ANC boys were sitting around a table covered with documents about hitting soft targets.’

She glared at him. She said slowly: ‘If that is true, I know nothing about it. I am not a member of the executive. I simply did as I was told. And I was told that only military targets were legitimate.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you believe me?’

He sighed. ‘Yes. Thank God.’

‘If I was using you to smuggle my explosives, why did I tell you last week that I was never seeing you again?’

Right. Which brought him to the next bit of poison. And he desperately wanted to believe her on this one. ‘Do you know a man called Michael? And a black called Amos?’

She looked at him steadily. ‘What about them?’

He took a deep breath. ‘Krombrink says you’re screwing both of them.’

Her expression did not change. She looked at him a long moment, then said quietly: ‘That’s an absolute lie. To poison you against me.’

Oh God, he wanted to believe that. ‘But you do know them?’

‘Obviously,’ she said grimly.

‘You’ve never screwed either of them?’

‘No. On two occasions recently I have hidden them in my apartment for the night. That’s all. Obviously the police know about it.’

Oh, thank God. ‘And are they saboteurs?’

She said quietly, ‘No.’

He did not believe that. ‘Did they blow up Johannesburg Station and kill those people?’

She hissed: ‘No. I’ve told you – that was not an ANC bomb! It must have been a bloody Poqo bomb – or those African Resistance Movement guys! No loss of life is our policy!’

‘But lives have been lost, apart from Jo’burg Station. How do you know Michael and Amos didn’t plant that bomb?’

‘Because I would know what’s going on in my cell!’

‘They’re in your cell?’

She closed her eyes. ‘I’m not going to answer that.’

She already had. ‘But it’s possible they did it without your knowledge.’

Her hands were shaking. ‘Anything is possible.’

‘How do you know your smuggled explosives weren’t used in that station bomb? Who did you give them to?’

She looked at him fiercely, tremulously. ‘I wouldn’t answer that question if I knew. But I don’t know. The procedure is secret, so I can’t know, so I can’t tell the police if I’m caught. I simply park my car in an appointed place, and walk away. Somebody comes and collects the stuff.’ She added: ‘For use against military targets.’

Mahoney took a deep-breath, and massaged his eyes. Okay, he believed her. Thank God. He sighed. ‘Smuggling explosives … is that the reason you weren’t going to see me again?’

Her eyes moistened, and she wanted to cry, I’m pregnant, that’s why I can’t see you again! She blinked back the burn and told half of it: ‘The reason is that there’s no future in our relationship. Because I will not leave this country. And I don’t want to break my heart further. Or yours. And because it’s too dangerous now that Lilliesleaf’s been raided. On the day of the raid Krombrink put the screws on you to be an informer, and I refused to let you be a double-agent, expose you to those risks. And anyway you’re not the type.’ She tried to glare, to smother the tears. ‘And if you don’t believe that you can go to hell.’

Mahoney sighed. ‘Well, I was coming back to tell you, before I was so rudely interrupted by Krombrink, that I’d decided I am the type. If you can be, so can I. That you’re right, we can’t take this government lying down.’ He added: ‘And that’s the only way we can be together.’

She was staring at him. Taken aback. She began to argue but he continued grimly: ‘However, I didn’t know you were involved in bombs – even indirectly.’ He looked at her. ‘I’m not prepared to be involved – even indirectly – in things like that, Patti. In murder. Nor am I prepared to let you be.’

‘Are you saying you’re prepared to be a double – work for the ANC and feed Krombrink disinformation?’

He said quietly: ‘That’s what I was coming back to tell you; yes. But that’s before I learnt about the explosives. However, that’s all academic now. Because we’ve got to leave the country. Fast. And never come back until this government’s fallen.’

‘But are you still prepared to work for the ANC?’

He took a deep breath. ‘That very much depends. On a whole lot of things: where we are, what kind of work. Give them free legal advice when I’m qualified? Sure. Do some writing for them? Sure, as long as it’s not Marxist crap. Write about apartheid? I already do that. Do some administrative work? Yes, as long as it’s honest – and nothing to do with bombs. And that kind of thing –’ he jabbed a finger at her – ‘is the only sort of work you