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Authors: Wilbur Smith

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As soon as they were alone in his office, Solomon told him excitedly, ‘Nelson Mandela has read your piece and he wants to meet you.'
‘But he is wanted by the police – he's on the run.'
‘After what you wrote, he trusts you,' Solomon said, ‘and so does Robert Sobukwe. He also wants to see you again.' Then he noticed Michael's expression, and the excitement went out of him as he asked quietly, ‘Unless you think it's too dangerous for you.'
Michael hesitated for only a moment. ‘No, of course not. I want to meet them both. Very much.'
Solomon Nduli said nothing. He simply reached across the desk and clasped Michael's shoulder. It was strange what a pleasurable sensation that grip gave Michael, the
first comradely gesture he had ever received from a black man.
S
hasa banked the HS125 twin-engined jet to give himself a better view of the Silver River Mine a thousand feet below.
The headgear was of modern design, not the traditional scaffolding of steel girders with the great steel wheels of the haulage exposed. It was instead a graceful unbroken tower of concrete, tall as a ten-storey building, and around it the other buildings of the mine complex, the crushing works and uranium extraction plant and the gold refinery, had been laid out with equal aesthetic consideration. The administration block was surrounded by green lawns and flowering gardens, and beyond that there was an eighteen-hole golf course, a cricket pitch and a rugby field for the white miners. An Olympic-size swimming-pool adjoined the mine club and single quarters. On the opposite side of the property stood the compound for the black mineworkers. Here again Shasa had ordered that the traditional rows of barracks be replaced by neat cottages for the senior black staff and the bachelor quarters were spacious and pleasant, more like motels than institutions to house and feed the five thousand tribesmen who had been recruited from as far afield as Nyasaland in the north and Portuguese Mozambique in the east. There were also soccer fields and cinemas and a shopping complex for the black employees, and between the buildings were green lawns and trees.
The Silver River was a wet mine and each day millions of gallons of water were pumped out of the deep workings and these were used to beautify the property. Shasa had reason to be proud.
Although the main shaft had intersected the gold-bearing reef at great depth – more than a mile below the
surface – still the ore was so rich that it could be brought to the surface for enormous profit. What's more, the price could not be pegged at $35 per ounce for much longer. Shasa was convinced that it would double and even treble.
‘Our guardian angel,' Shasa smiled to himself as he levelled the wings of the HS125, and began his preparations for the landing.
‘Of all the blessings that have been heaped upon this land, gold is the greatest. It has stood us through the bad times, and made the good times glorious. It is our treasure and more, for when all else fails, when our enemies and the fates conspire to bring us down, gold glows with its bright particular lustre to protect us. A guardian angel indeed.'
Although the company pilot in the right-hand seat watched critically, for Shasa had only converted to jets within the last twelve months, Shasa brought the swift machine in to the long blue tarmac strip with casual ease. The HS125 was painted in silver and blue with the stylized diamond logo on the fuselage, just as the old Mosquito had been. It was a magnificent machine. With its seating for eight passengers and its blazing speed, it was infinitely more practical than the Mosquito, but Shasa still occasionally mourned her loss. He had flown over five thousand hours in the old Mosquito before at last donating her to the airforce museum, where, restored to her combat camouflage and armaments, she was one of the prime exhibits.
Shasa rolled the glistening new jet down to the hangar at the far end of the strip, and a reception committee was out to meet him headed by the general manager of the Silver River, all of them holding their ears against the shrill wail of the engines.
The general manager shook Shasa's hand and said immediately, ‘Your son asked me to apologize that he wasn't able to meet you, Mr Courtney. He is underground at the moment, but asked me to tell you he will come up
to the guest house as soon as he gets off shift.' The general manager, emboldened by Shasa's smile of paternal approval, risked a pleasantry. ‘It must run in the family, but it's difficult to get the little blighter to stop working, we almost have to tie him down.'
There were two guest houses, one for other important visitors to the mine, and this one set aside exclusively for Shasa and Centaine. It was so sybaritic and had cost so much that embarrassing questions had been put to Shasa at the annual general meeting of the company by a group of dissident shareholders. Shasa was totally unrepentant. ‘How can I work properly if I'm not allowed at least some basic comforts? A roof over my head – is that too much to ask?'
The guest house had its own squash court and heated indoor pool, cinema, conference room, kitchens and wine cellar. The design was by one of Frank Lloyd Wright's most brilliant pupils and Hicks had come out from London to do the interior. It housed the overflow of Shasa's art collection and Persian carpets from Weltevreden, and the mature trees in the landscaped garden had been selected from all over the country to be replanted here. Shasa felt very much at home in this little
pied-à-terre.
The underground engineer and the chief electrical engineer were already waiting in the conference room and Shasa went straight in and was at work within ten minutes of landing the jet. By eight o'clock that evening he had exhausted his engineers and he let them go.
Garry was waiting next door in Shasa's private study, filling in the time playing with the computer terminal, but he leapt up as Shasa walked in.
‘Dad, I'm so glad I've found you. I've been trying to catch up with you for days – I'm running out of time.' He was stuttering again. These days he only did that when he was wildly over-excited.
‘Slow down, Garry. Take a deep breath,' Shasa advised
him, but the words kept tumbling out, and Garry seized his father's hand and led him to the computer to illustrate what he was trying to put across.
‘You know what Nana has always said, and what you are always telling me about land being the only lasting asset, well—' Garry's powerful spatulate fingers rippled over the computer keys. Shasa watched with curiosity as Garry presented his case, but when he realized what the boy was driving at, he quickly lost interest and concentration.
However, he listened to it all before he asked quietly, ‘So you have paid for the option with your own money?'
‘I have it signed, here!' Garry brandished the document. ‘It cost me all my savings, over two thousand pounds just for a one-week option.'
‘Let me recap, then,' Shasa suggested. ‘You have spent two thousand pounds to acquire a one-week option on a section of agricultural ground on the northern outskirts of Johannesburg which you intend to develop as a residential township, complete with a shopping complex, theatres, cinemas and all the trimmings—'
‘There is at least twenty million pounds of profit in the development – at the very least.' Garry manipulated the computer keyboard and pointed to the rippling green figures. ‘Just look at that, Dad!'
‘Garry! Garry!' Shasa sighed. ‘I think you have just lost your two thousand pounds, but the experience will be worth it in the long run. Of course there is twenty million profit in it the long run. Everybody knows that, and everybody wants a piece of that action. It's just for that reason that there is such strict control on township development. It takes at least five years to get government approval for a new township, and there are hundreds of pitfalls along the way. It's a highly complex and specialized field of investment, and the outlay is enormous – millions of pounds at risk. Don't you see, Garry? Your piece of land is probably not the best available, there will be a dozen
other projects ahead of yours and township development just isn't one of the areas which we deal in—' Shasa broke off and stared at his son. Garry was flapping his hands and stuttering so badly that Shasa had to warn him again, ‘Big breath.'
Garry gasped and his barrel chest expanded until his shirt buttons strained. It came out quite clearly.
‘I already have approval,' he said.
‘That takes years – I've explained.' Shasa was brusque. He began to rise. ‘We should change for dinner. Come on.'
‘Dad, you don't understand,' Garry insisted. ‘Approval has already been granted.'
Shasa sat down slowly. ‘What did you say?' he asked quietly.
‘Township approval was granted in 1891 by the
Volks-raad
of the old Transvaal Republic. It was signed by President Kruger himself, but it is still perfectly legal and binding. It was just forgotten, that is all.'
‘I don't believe it.' Shasa shook his head. ‘How on earth did you get on to this, Garry?'
‘I was reading a couple of old books about the early days of the Witwatersrand and the gold-mines. I thought that if I was going to learn mining, the very least I could do was bone up on the history of the industry,' Garry explained. ‘And in one of the books there was a mention of one of the old Rand lords and his grandiose idea of building a paradise city for the very rich away from the coarse and rowdy centre of Johannesburg. The author mentioned that he had actually bought a six-thousand-acre farm and had it surveyed and that approval had been granted by the Volksraad, and then the whole idea had been abandoned.'
‘What did you do then?'
‘I went to the archives and looked up the proceedings of the
Volksraad
for the years 1889 to 1891 and there it was – the approval. Then I researched the title deeds of the property at the deeds registry and went out to the farm
itself. It's called Baviaansfontein and it's owned by two brothers, both in their seventies. Nice old fellows, we got on well and they showed me their horses and cattle, and invited me to lunch. They thought the option was a big joke, but when I showed them my two thousand pounds, they had never seen so much money in one pile in their lives.' Garry grinned. ‘Here are copies of the title deeds and the original township approval.' Garry handed them to his father and Shasa read through slowly, even moving his lips like a semi-literate so as to savour every word of the ancient documents.
‘When does your option expire?' he asked at last, without looking up.
‘Noon on Thursday. We will have to act fast.'
‘Did you take out the option in the name of Courtney Mining?' Shasa asked.
‘No. In my own name, but of course, I did it for you and the company.'
‘You thought this out alone,' Shasa said carefully. ‘You researched it yourself, dug up the original approval, negotiated the option with the owners, paid for it with two thousand of your own hard-earned cash. You did all the work and took all the risks and now you want to hand it over to someone else. That isn't very bright, is it?'
‘I don't want to hand it over to just anybody – to you, Dad. Everything I do is for you, you know that.'
‘Well, that changes as of now,' said Shasa briskly. ‘I will personally lend you the two hundred thousand purchase price and we will fly up to Johannesburg first thing tomorrow to clinch the deal. Once you own the land, Courtney Mining will begin negotiating with you the terms of a joint venture to develop it.'
The negotiations started tough, and then as Garry got his first taste of blood, they grew tougher.
‘My God, I've sired a monster,' Shasa complained, to
hide his pride in his offspring's bargaining technique. ‘Come on, son, leave something in it for us.'
To mollify his father a little Garry announced a change in the name of the property. In future it would be known as Shasaville. When they at last signed the final agreement, Shasa opened a bottle of champagne and said, ‘Congratulations, my boy.'
That approbation was worth more to Garry than all the townships and every grain of gold on the Witwatersrand.
L
othar De La Rey was one of the youngest police captains on the force, and this was not entirely on account of his father's position and influence. From the time he had been awarded the sword of honour at police college he had distinguished himself in every field that was considered important by the higher command. He had studied for and passed all his promotion examinations with distinction. A great emphasis was placed on athletic endeavour and rugby football was the major sport in the police curriculum. It was now almost certain that Lothar would be chosen as an international during the forthcoming tour by the New Zealand All Blacks. He was well liked both by his senior officers and his peers, and his service record was embellished by an unbroken string of excellent ratings. Added to this he had shown an unusual aptitude for police work. Neither the plodding monotony of investigation nor the routine of patrol wearied him, and in those sudden eruptions of dangerous and violent action Lothar had displayed resourcefulness and courage.
He had four citations on his service record, all of them for successful confrontation with dangerous criminals. He was also the holder of the Police Medal for Gallantry, which he had been awarded after he had shot and killed
two notorious drug dealers during a foot-chase through the black township at night, and a single-handed shoot-out from which he had emerged unscathed.
Added to all this was the assessment by his superiors that while he was amenable to discipline, he also had the highly developed qualities of command and leadership. Both these were very much Afrikaner characteristics. During the North African campaign against Rommel, General Montgomery, when told that there was a shortage of officer material, had replied, ‘Nonsense, we've got thousands of South Africans. Each of them is a natural leader – from childhood they are accustomed to giving orders to the natives.'
Lothar had been stationed at the Sharpeville police station since graduating from Police College and had come to know the area intimately. Gradually he had built up his own network of informers, the basis of all good police work, and through these prostitutes and shebeen owners and petty criminals he was able to anticipate much of the serious crime and to identify the organizers and perpetrators even before the offence was committed.
The higher command of the police force was well aware that the young police captain with illustrious family connections was in a large measure responsible for the fact that the police in the Sharpeville location had over the past few years built up a reputation of being one of the most vigorous and active units in the heavily populated industrial triangle that lies between Johannesburg, Pretoria and Vereeniging.
In comparison to greater Soweto, Alexandra or even Drake's Farm, Sharpeville was a small black township. It housed a mere forty thousand or so of all ages, and yet the police raids for illicit liquor and pass offenders were almost daily routine, and the lists of arrests and convictions by which the efficiency of any station is judged were out of all proportion to its size. Much of this industry and dedication
to duty was quite correctly attributed to the energy of the young second-in-command.
Sharpeville is an adjunct to the town of Vereeniging where in 1902 the British Commander Lord Kitchener and the leaders of the Boer commandos negotiated the peace treaty which brought to an end the long-drawn-out and tragic South African War. Vereeniging is situated on the Vaal River fifty miles south of Johannesburg and its reasons for existing are the coal and iron deposits which are exploited by ISCOR, the giant state-owned Iron and Steel Corporation.
At the turn of the century the black workers in the steel industry were originally housed in the Top Location, but as conditions there became totally inadequate and outmoded a new location was set aside for them in the early 1940s and named after John Sharpe, the mayor for the time being of the town of Vereeniging. As the new dwellings in Sharpeville became available, the population was moved down from Top Location, and although the rents were as high as £2 7s 6d per month, the translocations were effected gradually and peaceably.
Sharpeville was, in fact, a model township, and though the cottages were the usual box shape, they were all serviced with water-borne sewerage and electricity, and there were all the other amenities including a cinema, shopping areas and sports facilities, together with their very own police station.
In the midst of one of the most comprehensive pieces of social engineering of the twentieth century – which was the policy of
apartheid
in practice – Sharpeville was a remarkable area of calm. All around, hundreds of thousands of people were being moved and regimented and reclassified in accordance with those monumental slabs of legislation, the Group Areas Act and the Population Registration Act. All around the fledgling leaders of black consciousness
and liberation were preaching and exhorting and organizing, but Sharpeville seemed untouched by it all. The white city fathers of Vereeniging pointed out with quite justifiable satisfaction that the Communist agitators had been given short shrift in the Sharpeville location and that their black people were law-abiding and peaceful. The figures for serious crime were amongst the lowest in the industrialized section of the Transvaal, and offenders were taken care of with commendable expedition. Even the rent-defaulters were evicted from the location in summary fashion, and the local police force was always cooperative and conscientious.
When the law was extended to make it obligatory for black women to carry passes, as well as their menfolk, and when throughout most of the country this innovation was strenuously resisted, the ladies of Sharpeville presented themselves at the police station in such numbers and in such cooperative spirit that most of them had to be turned away with the injunction to ‘come back later'.
In early March of 1960 Lothar De La Rey drove his official Land-Rover through this stable and law-abiding community, following the wide road across the open space in front of the police station. The cluster of police buildings, in the same austere and utilitarian design as the others in the location, were surrounded by a wire mesh fence about eight feet high, but the main gates were standing open and unguarded.
Lothar drove through and parked the Land-Rover below the flagpole on which the orange, blue and white national flag floated on a breeze that carried the faint chemical stink of the blast furnaces at the ISCOR plant. In the charge office he was immediately the centre of attention as his men came to congratulate him on the kick that had won the Currie Cup.
‘Green and gold next,' the duty sergeant predicted as he
shook Lothar's hand, referring to the colours of the national rugby team jersey.
Lothar accepted their admiration with just the right degree of modesty, and then put an end to this breach of discipline and routine.
‘All right, back to work everybody,' he ordered, and went to check the charge book. Where a charge office in Soweto might expect to have three or four murders and a dozen or so rape cases, there had been a single ‘schedule one' crime committed in Sharpeville during the previous twenty-four hours and Lothar nodded with satisfaction and went through to report to his station commander.
In the doorway he came to attention and saluted, and the older man nodded and indicated the chair opposite him.
‘Come in, Lothie. Sit down!'
He rocked his chair on to its back legs and watched Lothar as he removed his uniform cap and gloves.
‘Bakgat game on Friday,' he congratulated him. ‘Thank you for the tickets. Hell, man, that last kick of yours!'
He felt a stab of envy as he examined his number two.
Liewe land!
Beloved Land, but he looked like a soldier, so tall and straight! The commander glanced down at his own slack guts, and then back at the way the lad wore his uniform on those wide shoulders. You had only to look at him to see his class. It had taken the commander until the age of forty to gain the rank of captain, and he was resigned to the fact that he would go on pension at the same rank – but this one. No what! He would probably be a general before he was forty.
‘Well, Lothie,' he said heavily. ‘I'm going to miss you.' He smiled at the gleam in those alert but strangely pale yellow eyes. ‘Ja, my young friend,' he nodded, ‘your transfer – you leave us at the end of May.'
Lothar leaned back in his chair and smiled. He suspected
that his own father had been instrumental in keeping him so long on this station, but although it had been increasingly irksome to waste time in this little backwater, hfs father knew best and Lothar was grateful for the experience he had gained here. He knew that a policeman only really learns his job on the beat, and he had put in his time. He knew he was a good policeman, and he had proved it to them all. Anybody who might be tempted to attribute his future promotions to his father's influence had only to look at his service record. It was all there. He had paid his dues in full, but now it was time to move on.
‘Where are they sending me, sir?'
‘You lucky young dog.' The commander shook his head with mock envy. ‘You are going to CID headquarters at Marshall Square.'
It was the plum. The most sought-after, the most prestigious posting that any young officer could hope for. CID headquarters was right at the very nerve centre and heart of the entire force. Lothar knew that from there it would be swift and sure. He would have his general's stars while he was still a young man, and with them the maturity and reputation to make his entry into politics smooth and certain. He could retire from the force on the pension of a general, and devote the rest of his life to his country and his
Volk
. He had it all planned. Each step was clear to Lothar. When Dr Verwoerd went, he knew that his father would be a strong contender to take over the premiership. Perhaps one day there would be a second Minister of Police with the name of De La Rey, and after that another De La Rey at the head of the nation. He knew what he wanted, what road he had to follow, and he knew also that his feet were securely upon that road.
‘You are being given your chance, Lothie,' the commander echoed his own thoughts. ‘If you take it, you will go far – very far.'
‘However far it is, sir, I will always remember the help and encouragement you have given me here at Sharpeville.'
‘Enough of that. You have a couple of months before you go.' The commander was suddenly embarrassed. Neither of them were men who readily displayed their emotions. ‘Let's get down to work. What about the raid tonight? How many men are you going to use?'
Lothar had the headlights of the Land-Rover switched off, and he drove slowly for the four-cylinder petrol engine had a distinctive beat that his quarry would pick up at a distance if the vehicle was driven hard.
There was a sergeant beside him, and five constables in the rear of the Land-Rover, all of them armed with riot batons. In addition, the sergeant had an automatic twelve-gauge Greener shotgun and Lothar wore his sidearm on his Sam Browne belt. They were lightly armed, for this was merely a liquor raid.
Sale of alcohol to blacks was strictly controlled, and was restricted to the brewing of the traditional cereal-based beer by state-controlled beer-halls. The consumption of spirits and wines by blacks was forbidden, but this prohibition caused illicit shebeens to flourish. The profits were too high to be passed by. The liquor was either stolen or purchased from white bottle stores or manufactured by the shebeen owners themselves. These home brews were powerful concoctions known generally as
skokiaan
, and according to the recipe of the individual distiller could contain anything from methylated spirits to the corpses of poisonous snakes and aborted infants. It was not uncommon for the customers of the shebeens to end up permanently blinded, or demented, or occasionally dead.
Tonight Lothar's team was setting out to raid a newly established shebeen which had been in business for only a few weeks. Lothar's information was that it was controlled by a black gang called ‘The Buffaloes'.
Of course, Lothar was fully aware of the size and scope of the Buffaloes' operations. They were without doubt the largest and most powerful underworld association on the Witwatersrand. It was not known who headed the gang but there had been hints that it was connected to the African Mineworkers' Union and to one of the black political organizations. Certainly it was most active on the goldmining properties closer to Johannesburg, and in the large black townships such as Soweto and Drake's Farm.
Until now they had not been bothered by the Buffaloes here in Sharpeville, and for this reason the setting up of a controlled shebeen was alarming. It might herald a determined infiltration of the area which would almost certainly be followed by a campaign to politicize the local black population, with the resulting protest rallies and boycotts of the bus line and white-owned businesses, and all the other trouble whipped up by the agitators of the African National Congress and the newly formed Pan-Africanist Congress.
Lothar was determined to crush it before it spread like a bush fire through his whole area. Above the soft burble of the engine, out there in the darkness he heard a sharp double-fluted whistle and almost immediately it was repeated at a distance, down near the end of the avenue of quiet cottages.
‘Magtig!'
Lothar swore softly but bitterly. ‘They've spotted us!' The whistles were the warnings of the shebeen lookouts.

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