Vortex

Sibena nodded convulsively and cautiously pulled out into traffic, threading his way south through a steady stream of ambulances, military trucks, and wheeled APCs. Helmeted policemen riding north toward the university stared down at the little car, but nobody made any move to stop them.

Not right away.

Not until they were within five minutes’ drive of the TV studio and relative safety.

Ian heard the wailing, high-pitched siren first. He swung round in the backseat and stared out through the Escort’s rear window. Damn. A police car racing fast up Market Street, blue light pulsing in time with the siren.

“Oh, God.” Sibena pulled off to the side and switched the engine off with shaking hands.

The squad car pulled in behind them.

Ian leaned forward again, trying to reassure the younger man.

“Don’t sweat it, Matt. You’re with us, right? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

He just wished his own voice sounded more in control.

Sibena gulped a quick breath and nodded.

The police car’s doors popped open and three blue-jacketed officers climbed out. They stood staring at the Escort’s rear bumper for a moment, then one leaned in through the car window, reaching for a radio mike.

“Checking our number plates,” Knowles muttered.

Ian nodded. One of the riot troops must have gotten suspicious and reported them. Now what? Could they bluff it out? Fast-talk their way past these creeps long enough to hide the film inside the studio?

Maybe. And maybe not. He grimaced. This was getting ridiculous. Every time they got close to a big story, South Africa’s security forces seemed ready and waiting to snatch it away from them.

The policeman with the mike thumbed it off and motioned in their direction. The other two moved forward, hands resting prominently on the pistols holstered at their hips. Pedestrians who’d gathered around the two parked cars, drawn by the flashing lights, scattered out of their way-curiosity suddenly quenched by a sensible desire not to get caught up in whatever was going on.

The older of the two policemen, glowering and gray haired, rapped impatiently on Ian’s window.

He rolled it down, reminding himself to be polite no matter how hard the

South African tried to provoke him. The tape locked in their trunk was too important to risk losing in a senseless run-in with the police.

“Yes?”

“You are Sheffield?” The policeman’s harsh, clipped accent marked him as an Afrikaner.

Ian nodded cautiously.

The policeman’s lips twitched into a thin, unpleasant smile.

“I ask that you all get out of the car. Now, please.” His tone made it clear he hoped they’d refuse.

Swell. Another South African cop out for journalistic blood. Ian caught

Knowles’s raised, questioning eyebrow and shrugged. What realistic choice did they have?

Ian popped the door and clambered awkwardly out of the Escort’s backseat.

Knowles and Sibena followed suit. Sweat beaded the young South African’s frightened face.

Ian folded his arms, trying to appear unconcerned.

“What seems to be the problem?”

The Afrikaner’s fixed smile thinned even further.

“You and your ‘colleagues’ —he stressed the word contemptuously—were seen filming a minor demonstration at the

University of the Witwatersrand. That is a serious violation of our law.”

Blast. Some of the riot police must have spotted them. Or somebody else had betrayed them. Maybe the landlord they’d bribed…

Ian shook his head.

“I’m afraid your information is inaccurate, Officer.

We’re on our way back from shooting a few background pictures of your city.

Nothing controversial or prohibited. Certainly nothing exciting.”

I ‘in that case, meneer, you won’t mind letting us take a look at them, eh?”

Ian hid a smile of his own and did his best to look upset.

“If you insist.

But I’ll protest this interference to the highest levels of your government.” He turned to Knowles.

“Please give these gentlemen the tape from your camera, Sam.”

His short, stocky cameraman looked sour as he unlocked the trunk and reluctantly handed over the wrong cassette. He started to slam the trunk shut.

“Halt! “

Knowles stopped in mid slam his back suddenly rigid.

The Afrikaner shouldered him aside and bent down for a closer look at the gear piled inside the trunk. He pawed through the stacks of equipment and muttered in satisfaction as he uncovered the carrying case full of unlabeled tapes.

“And what are these, Meneer Sheffield?”

Ian tried to keep his voice even.

“Blank cassettes.

“I see.” The policeman nodded slowly, his eyes cold.

“I think we shall confiscate these as well. If they really are blank, they will be returned to you.”

Damn it. Another story and hours of hard work down the drain. He tried to ignore Knowles’s quiet, steady swearing and said stiffly, “I insist on a receipt for the property you’ve illegally seized.”

“Certainly. ” The Afrikaner looked amused. He nodded toward his counterpart, a younger man who’d hung back from the whole scene as though reluctant to involve himself.