Vortex

“I believe you should reject his request, Mr. President. Beneath that toothy smile of his, Gideon Mantizima’s as much a troublemaker as any other black leader. I fear that he could make even more trouble for us in

Washington if you allow him out of the country.” He stopped, aware that he’d probably overplayed his hand. The President seemed to be in a deliberately contrary mood.

Vorster waggled a finger at him.

“That is nonsense, Muller. I know this man. This Zulu has cooperated with us in the past when all the other blacks toed the communist line. He’s even opposed sanctions by the Western powers.

Why, I can almost respect him. After all, he descends from a warrior tribe, not from wandering trash like the rest of the kaffirs. “

He sat back in his chair, hands folded across his stomach.

“No, Muller.

Mantizima and his followers hate the ANC almost as much as we do. They’ve been rivals for decades. And we rarely interfere in the way the Zulus handle affairs within their own tribe land The chief has no reason to make trouble for us. “

Vorster rocked forward, pen in hand.

“Let him visit America. His testimony will only confuse our enemies in their Congress and show the world that we have nothing to fear. “

Muller watched in silence as his leader signed the travel permit.

Vorster’s growing tendency to see only what he wished to see disturbed him. In the past, Mantizima. had publicly opposed economic sanctions on

South Africa because he believed they hurt his people more than they hurt whites -not as a favor to Pretoria. And the wily Zulu chief’s struggle with the ANC was a battle for future political power in a black-majority government-not the signpost of a permanent alliance with the forces of apartheid.

He took the signed permit from Vorster’s outstretched hand and left quietly. Further argument would only endanger his own position.

Gideon Mantizima might continue to cooperate with Pretoria, but Muller doubted it. The Zulu chief was shrewd enough to recognize a dead end when he saw one. South Africa’s director of military intelligence suspected that Vorster would regret allowing Mantizima the freedom to choose a new course.

SEPTEMBER I -JOHANNESBURG

The doorbell buzzed, waking Ian Sherfietd from a fitful, dream-ridden sleep. Another buzz, louder and longer this time. He opened his eyes reluctantly, fumbling for the bedside lamp switch. Two in the flipping morning, for God’s sake. Who the hell could that be? Johannesburg, like all of South Africa’s major cities, was under a midnight curfew.

Ian stumbled out of bed and struggled into a pair of jeans while hopping toward the front door. Pain flared briefly as he slammed a knee into a sofa. The tiny furnished flat he’d rented was reasonably priced and convenient, but he still hadn’t lived there long enough to navigate safely in the dark.

Three short, sharp obscenities helped dispel most of the pain, but he was still hobbling when he got to the door. He yanked it open, ready to vent some well-earned anger on the idiot who’d disturbed him.

It was Emily.

Even bundled in a long winter overcoat against the chill

night air, she was beautiful. A single suitcase rested on the floor behind her. She smiled shyly, looked down at herself, and then up at him, her eyes shining.

“Do I look like a ghost, maybe?”

Ian realized he was standing slack jawed, mouth open Re a drooling village idiot. He hastily closed it and pulled her into his arms.

Emily responded eagerly to his kiss.

When they came up for air, she stepped back slightly, a mock-serious look on her face.

“Well, Mr. Reporter, may I come in? Or shall I sleep here in your hallway?”

” Hmmm. ” Ian stroked his chin, as if pondering the question.

“I guess I could loan you some blankets and a pillow. Might get kinda cold out here, though. My neighbors might complain, too. I guess you’ll have to come inside. “

Laughing, he dodged her kick and led her into the flat.

Emily wrinkled her nose at the decor, a failed mix of cheap framed posters, plastic flowers, dark-colored carpeting, and imitation Scandinavian-design furniture. Knowles had best characterized the place as a study in Twentieth

Century Bad Taste. Ian wished he’d thought to wash the dishes stacked in his small sink. His bachelor habits were often embarrassing.

She wagged a finger in his face.

“Clearly you are not fit to live alone,

Ian Sheffield. You need a good woman to look after you.”

That was too perfect an opening to pass up. He smiled.

“I’ve tried finding one, but I guess I’m stuck with you.”

She smiled back.

“Yes, perhaps that is so.”

Which raised an interesting question.

“What about your father? Does he know you’re here?”

Sorrow briefly touched her eyes as she shook her head.

“But Emily, he’ll…”

“Sshh.” She laid a soft, sweet-smelling finger across his lips.

“My father has not been home for these two weeks and more. He spends A his days in

Pretoria, organizing this … this butchery. ” Her words were clipped, angry, and he remembered that she’d been a student at the University of