Chapter 36

October 2019

‘We have no choice now. None. We have to move to Plan Z.’

Otto pronounced it the American way – zee. Marie assumed the habit had come from his six months’ FBI training at Quantico in the seventies when he was still a young, and perhaps impressionable, security police officer, part of the intelligence collaboration between the Americans and the old services in the good old days; collaboration that continued into the new regime – the old Scorpions were trained at Quantico. When he wrote too, in English, he occasionally used American spelling, lots of zees.

Marie looked around at the motley and aged gathering, sitting on camp chairs in a semicircle on the deep wooden stoep Otto had built along the entire front façade of the farmhouse, surprisingly in the old colonial style, his last great DIY project. The views through the wooden railings extended across the farmland that rolled from the house to fields of grazing, mealie and potato plantations and citrus orchards against the hill near the dam. Otto was old now, his features still handsome, but more sag in the face; his blond curls now gone, grey strands struggling to cover a tanned pate. But the rest of him belied his sixty-seven years – still sculpted and straight-limbed, weather-beaten, although more hairy.

The others too showed signs of the years, most just short of retirement, which seemed to impose a kind of desperation as they discussed what to do next. Of the old crowd there was Kline, Oberholzer, Booysens, the younger ones including blond twins from the Afrikaner Vryheidsbeweging, as well as Johan van Deventer, still in his fifties, and Tertius Botes from the provincial office of the Service. The only black there: Brixton Mthembu.

They all held cans of beer in one hand and the boerewors rolls she had prepared in the other, just like the ones you used to get on a weekend outside the butcher in the Castle Walk shopping centre in Pretoria in the old days – her perfectly grilled boerewors, fried onions, bright yellow mustard, tomato sauce and the long white bread roll. No servants to help her this Sunday, all given the day off, unusual, perhaps suspicious, she thought, when they were expecting ‘guests’.

‘Plan Z, Otto? You sure? So drastic?’ Kline looked pained, the lines on his face puckering together.

Otto sneezed, white handkerchief to nose, then wiped the residue with long, exaggerated movements. He tucked the hanky back into the pocket of his shorts. They all waited. ‘Yes. Drastic, but necessary. These Moloi Bolsheviks are going to undo everything. Everything ... all we’ve achieved over decades, in fact, since the last millennium.’ He waited for a laugh. None came. ‘And I’m afraid his old commie spooks are getting closer.’

This was news to Marie. Otto let her sit in on these meetings, at least this one, because it was in their home, but he never shared anything with her when they were alone. She looked at him. ‘How so, Otto?’

Otto’s lips tightened, his eyes narrowed. ‘How so? Well, for one, old man Dlamini came to see me. He was visited by two people – a man and a woman.’ Otto took a small notebook out of the breast pocket of his safari jacket. He thumbed through the pages. ‘Yes, a Dr Thando Nkambule and a Professor Manzini. They said they were from Wits, doing research.’

Marie paused in the bite she was taking from her boerewors roll. ‘And so? What’s the significance of that?’

‘The significance, Mrs Bester, is that they asked about me and about the project.’

‘They asked or the old man blurted?’

‘Well, not sure about that. He might have. But he said, to use his words, “they showed an interest”.’

Marie heard a creaking from the camp chair Mthembu was sitting in. ‘Did he describe them, Mr Bester?’ he asked.

‘Who, DG?’

‘This Dlamini ... Did he describe the two visitors?’

Otto looked at his notebook again. ‘Both blacks.’ Mthembu’s chair creaked again. ‘Both in their sixties, maybe late fifties. The man, short, stocky, clean-shaven head. The woman, grey hair, a bit plump, but quite pretty, according to Dlamini.’

Mthembu stood, walked over to the railing, stared out at the farm for a moment, then turned to face them. ‘Sounds like ... Could be ...’ He paused.

Otto stood up too. ‘Could be who, DG?’

‘It could be ... The man could be Masilela. And the woman—’

‘For God’s sake, DG! Which Masilela?’

‘My predecessor. Vladimir Masilela.’

Otto’s face contorted. ‘You sure? Sure-sure?’

‘I can’t be sure, of course. I can’t. But ...’ He turned to face the farm again. ‘But the description fits, and, in June – June this year – I got information that Masilela had visited the new minister in Cape Town, had a meeting with him.’ He turned back to the assembly. ‘The Minister has been in office six months and he’s still not met me, still not visited the Service. I don’t know what he’s doing, but it’s certainly not supervising us. I suspect – no, I’m sure – he’ll replace me soon. Masilela denied he was being asked to come back, but I have my suspicions. Not good. Wouldn’t be good.’

Booysens grunted. Oberholzer cursed.

Mthembu held the beer can to his cheek, then rolled it against his forehead. He sat down again. ‘And the woman? I wonder ... The description could fit. She’s a director in the Service – Sibongile Whitehead. Could be. I don’t know. Her husband was Masilela’s deputy – also retired. But they are family friends, the Whiteheads and Masilelas.’

Van Deventer held his beer can up as if signalling a request to speak. No one noticed. He coughed. ‘Chief, there’s something ... I work in Mrs Whitehead’s directorate. She called me to her office one day, a few months ago, to ask me about any former Special Branch people who’d joined the NIS.’

Otto went to the fridge, took out a beer, and came to stand behind Marie. ‘This is adding up. This is all adding up.’ He paused. ‘Yes, Botes? You want to say something?’

Botes placed his half-eaten roll on the table and was tapping the beer can against its rim. ‘My wife, Mr Bester, you know ... Marlena. She works at the Service training campus here.’ He waved his arm over the stoep railing in the direction of the land beyond.

‘Yes, Tertius, we know.’

‘Well, sir, she told me this Masilela oke, he gives talks at the campus sometimes.’

Mthembu nodded. ‘Yes, he does. I bumped into him there.’

‘Well, sir, she mentioned she had dinner with him once, after a lecture. She says he was asking questions.’

‘About what?’ Otto put his hand on Marie’s head, an uncharacteristic show of affection in public.

‘Well, that’s it, sir. About you.’

‘About me? You sure?’

‘Well, sir, I don’t know the context, but your name came up.’

Otto removed his hand and went to sit down. ‘You see, gentlemen, as I said, it’s time for Plan Z. Plan Z or else we are in trouble.’

Kline had been quiet, sipping at his beer, taking bites of his roll, his eyes moving from speaker to speaker, expressionless. He spoke now, softly, but all turned to listen. ‘I still think that’s a bit drastic. We’re talking conjecture here. Nothing concrete. But I can say, if we go ahead, at least I know the Brits will support us. I had a meeting with Simmonds, their station chief in Pretoria. They are ready. And he thinks the Americans will support, and the French. They’re ready for a change.’

Otto stood up again. ‘Conjecture, hey? Big word, Kline. Conjecture. Wait here. I’ll show you conjecture.’ He went into the house and came out with a Spar plastic bag. He sat down and placed the bag on the floor next to him. Marie was talking, offering more boerewors rolls or coffee or rooibos. There were no takers. She relaxed back into her seat.

Otto put the bag on his lap and reached inside. ‘Here’s your conjecture!’ He retrieved something that looked like a miniature camera with a long tendril attached to it. ‘I found this in the tree opposite the farm gate.’

There was silence. He held it up. ‘I took my horse for a ride around the perimeter to check the fences. When I was near the gate I saw a ka— black man jump down from the tree and onto a bakkie that sped off. I suspect he was changing the batteries. So I checked the tree and I found this. It’s a surveillance camera. Looks like one of yours.’ He handed it to Mthembu.

‘Mmm, it does look like one of ours – digital, broadcast camera – no on-board memory. Broadcasts the images to a base station up to 10 kays away.’

‘So? The Service is doing surveillance on me?’

‘Of course not, Mr Bester. I would know. I have to approve all surveillance ops. Must be someone else. Someone who has access to our equipment. Or has stolen it.’

Oberholzer stood up. ‘Jesus, Otto, we’re under surveillance, everyone who’s come to the farm in – we don’t know how long – they know ... Whoever it is, they know. Fuck! Sorry, Marie. How about a brandy, Otto? Brandy and Coke?’

‘No, Willie, no hard stuff today. This is serious. Plan Z. We have to go to Plan Z. Our man – Duquesne – is well placed now. Very well placed. It’s time. It’s time to pull the bull by its horns. And, it’s got to be big, dramatic, in their face. After this, they must know that their time is once and for all over.’

Marie found herself taking deep breaths to dislodge the tightness in her solar plexus, while Otto dished out instructions, sotto voce. She both admired and feared the sudden gestures and intonations of purpose in Otto. She knew the years, the decades, had wound their way around to this, to this ending. The quiet life was over.