The Queen v. Karl Mullen (2 page)

In charge of broadcasting and maintaining links with the African National Congress in Lusaka was Govan Kabaka, who had been called to the Bar at Lincoln’s Inn, but had never practised. He also supplied a budget of carefully slanted material to the Radio Freedom Station in Addis Ababa. Raymond Masangi produced the movement’s own monthly sheet,
Black Voices,
and arranged for its infiltration into South Africa via Mozambique and its distribution by COSATU, the Trades Union Congress, and Black Sash, the anti-apartheid women’s group. ‘Boyo’ Sesolo, ex-athlete and world class weight-lifter, organised the boycott of individual athletes and sportsmen with South African connections. He ran the action section, the storm-troopers of the movement. Most of these were students or ex-students. Not from Oxford and Cambridge (‘upper-class talking shops,’ said Boyo) but from the robust and down-to-earth universities and polytechnics of London, Reading and Bristol. They acted as stewards for their own meetings and disrupters of their opponents’ meetings, a function which they carried out with enthusiasm. A speaker from Andries Treurnich’s Conservative Party, who had been billed to address the London School of Economics, had been lucky to escape serious injury. Certainly nothing had been heard of his speech after his opening words.

Last, and by no means least, was Hartshorn’s second-in-command, Andrew Mkeba. A thirty-year-old Xhosa from Johannesburg, he had been one of the leaders of the 1976 students’ revolt in Soweto. He had been betrayed for his part in it and sent to the Robben Island Prison. He was one of the very few people who had succeeded in escaping from that establishment and, subsequently, from the country. He carried with him the stigmata of his preliminary examination: a fractured cheekbone, a damaged right eye and a broken and imperfectly reset jaw. The ruin of his face was compensated for by a smile which his crooked chin made uncommonly attractive.

Rosemary knew, of course, about all this activity. Her own hatred of the South African regime, though second-hand and founded on written reports in newspapers and books, was fervent and selfless. At that moment one idea was mastering all others. She was extremely hungry. Fortunately her father’s thoughts seemed to be moving in the same direction. He said, “I thought we might eat out tonight. I’ve booked a table at the Chinese restaurant in Crawford Street. Are you ready?”

“Am I just. There’s something I was going to tell you, but we can talk as we go.”

“If it’s something to do with your work, better not talk about it outside.”

Rosemary sighed and reseated herself. She sometimes thought that her father’s notions of security were unnecessarily rigorous. “It’s just that we had a visitor this afternoon. Someone I hadn’t seen before and obviously important.”

“How was that obvious? You mean Yule deferred to him?”

This made Rosemary laugh. “Yule’s an arrogant pig and he never defers to anyone. It was just that he gave him a ticket.”

“Explain.”

“There are these two passages opposite our front door. Harnham Court and Deanery Passage. They’re both dead ends. They just run up to the back entrance of two large office blocks. Yule has made some arrangement with them. Their commissionaires allow a few of our people – they’re all named and identified – to go through the building and out by the front door into Amchurch Lane. It’s called being on the ticket.”

Hartshorn, who had been following this on a street map said, “So then they can go either into St. Martin’s-le-Grand or Newgate Street.”

“That’s right. It’s meant to be a terrific privilege. I could never see the point of it myself.”

“Can’t you? Well, I think perhaps I can.”

“Anyway, this new man was taken straightaway and introduced to the two commissionaires. Therefore we all assumed he was a big wheel.”

Hartshorn thought about this. He had considerable confidence in his daughter. If he had not had this confidence he would not have taken the risk – a risk not only for her, but for his own organisation – of inserting her into the centre of his opponent’s machine. He said, “We’d better bring Andrew in on this.” Noticing the look on her face he added, “After we’ve eaten.”

It was nearly ten o’clock and Rosemary was feeling a lot happier and rather sleepy, when they knocked at the door of Andrew Mkeba’s apartment, which was on the floor immediately below theirs. The room was more office than sitting-room and Andrew was at his desk, writing.

“Didn’t want to interrupt you,” said Hartshorn, “but I thought you ought to know about this at once.”

Rosemary repeated her story. There was no need to explain about the ‘ticket’ system. Mkeba knew about this, as he knew every detail of the arrangement of Yule’s office and its occupants.

He said, “Could you describe this man?”

“I’m not very good at describing people. He was about forty-five I’d guess. A powerful-looking brute, with one of those silly little beards under his lower lip.”

“Would you recognise him if you saw him again?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Let’s try.” He went to one of the row of filing cabinets which lined two walls and took out an album of photographs. “See if you can find him here.”

This was quickly done. There were a number of photographs which had been cut from newspapers. The clearest was a group at the opening of the new Pretoria race-track. There was also a candid-camera shot which had been enlarged.

“You’re sure?”

“Certain, yes. When I saw him the second time, in Yule’s office, he had put on a pair of glasses, which made him look a bit different, but yes – I’m quite sure.”

“Well, well, well,” said Mkeba softly, “we are honoured.”

“You know him?”

“Very well. Karl Mullen. The pencil man himself. A colonel from the military police headquarters at Daniel Malan Barracks in Pretoria. What can have brought
him
to England?”

“That is exactly what you must find out.”

“Not easy,” said Rosemary. “Mostly they speak in Afrikaans. From what you have taught me” – this was to Mkeba, who smiled encouragingly – “I can catch a few words. Fortunately, Yule sometimes likes to air his English. He is really very fluent. When his legal man’s there he always speaks in English.”

Her father said, “From the anteroom where you sit, how much can you actually hear?”

“If the door is open, everything. If it is shut, very little.”

“And if anything of importance is being discussed,” said Mkeba, “then, of course, the door will be shut. These are not the sort of people who shout their secrets from the housetops.”

The two men looked at each other. It was clear that they had some project in mind, something they had discussed before, something which they were hesitating to put into words. To encourage them Rosemary said, “I suppose it might be possible to use some sort of device—”

Mkeba opened one of the desk drawers and got out a small box, about the size of a pack of playing cards. He said, “This is one of the latest transmitters. It is very sensitive. It operates to this pick-up.” He laid on the desk beside it a tiny golden plug. “You wear it in your ear, like a deaf-aid. It will be quite invisible, particularly if you comb your hair forward a little. Would you like to try it?”

Rosemary slipped it into her ear. It fitted very comfortably and was easy enough to put in and take out.

“It’s very odd,” she said, “I can hear myself breathing.”

“Everyone who uses a deaf-aid finds that to start with. I am assured that it is something you soon get used to. Now, I suggest you go out into the passage and up the stairs.”

He opened the door for her, shut it behind her and listened to her footsteps as she climbed the stairs. When he judged that she was far enough away he returned to the box and placed it on top of one of the filing cabinets behind a pile of books.

Then he came back, sat down and said in conversational tones, “Three blind mice. See how they run.”

“They all ran after the farmer’s wife,” said Hartshorn. “She cut off their tails with a carving knife, or so I’ve been told.”

“Did ever you see such a thing in your life,” shouted Rosemary from the stairhead. She came clattering down, clearly intrigued and excited. “It was all beautifully clear. I could even hear you pushing those books aside on the cabinet.”

“
If
we’re going to use it,” said her father, who sounded less enthusiastic than Mkeba, “you’ll have to think of some place to put it.”

“That’s not too difficult. We all go in and out collecting papers and so on. Just a matter of waiting for the right moment.”

“You’ll have to hide it. That might take time.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Don’t take any chances. It’s not a game. These men are dangerous.”

“Don’t fuss, Daddy. Suppose they did happen to find the box, how are they going to know who put it there? It might have been any of us three girls, or his secretary, Mrs. Portland, or one of the cleaning women, or the commissionaire, or the girl who comes to disinfect the telephones, or a man who turned up unexpectedly last week to clean the windows. He’d be a very likely candidate.”

“All right,” growled her father. “All I’m saying is, watch your step.”

“Certainly. And
my
next steps are going to be up to bed.”

When she had gone, the two men sat for some time without speaking. It was the Captain who broke the silence. He said, “I suppose it is all right, Andrew?”

“I don’t believe that eavesdropping is criminal,” said Mkeba. “Even if assisted by mechanical devices.”

“It might be some form of trespass.”

“Possibly. But not something that would be likely to be taken to court, would you say?”

“I shouldn’t think so. And as she said, unless she’s caught actually planting the receiver, no one would know that it was her. She might be suspected, of course. But one has to set against that the fact that by using it she might be able to provide us with most important information.”

“There you speak like a professional, Trevor. You weigh up the pros and cons. You think matters out.”

“It’s a good thing someone does.”

“Certainly. And the results of your thinking – I say this unreservedly – have been excellent. You have taken hold of our organisation – or should I say, of our disorganisation – and you have turned it into an effective machine. One which becomes daily more and more effective. Nevertheless, to you it is partly a business and partly, perhaps, a game. Yes?”

“A little more serious than that, I hope.”

“But to us, Trevor – I speak for all of us – it is neither a business nor a game. It is a religion. Not a contest against opponents, but a fight against evil. Against the devil. He is a very strong and crafty opponent. Therefore we have to use every weapon to our hands, legal or illegal. There are no rules in such a fight. No limits, no holding back. That is what our young warriors think when they fight the casspir armoured cars with pea-shooters and stones. When you are in the middle of it, when you can see what is happening, even death is immaterial.”

“And you’re implying,” said Hartshorn drily, “that since I’m
not
in the middle of it, since I can only read about it and see doctored television films, I can’t feel strongly about it.”

“Please don’t think that I’m criticising you. But was it not the same thing with some people in your country before the war? You know what our great satirist, Pieter Dirk Uys, called them – ‘Yes butters’. People who said, ‘I never knew it was so bad, but if I had—’ People who’d heard rumours of the sort of treatment the Nazis meted out to their opponents, but didn’t, or wouldn’t, believe it. It was only after the war, when they could see the dead and living skeletons, when they could smell the death camps for themselves, that they realised the truth.”

Hartshorn shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He was a post-war child, but he could still feel the sting of the years of appeasement.

“Can’t argue against that,” he said, “but I still think we’re on the right track here. Feeling our way forward, carefully.

Avoiding pointless publicity. We can leave that to the cordon in Trafalgar Square. And the way things are going now, I’ve a feeling that soon, if we play the cards which are given to us, we shall land an arrow plumb in the middle of the target.”

“Your metaphors are a little mixed, but I agree heartily with the sentiment.”

Both men laughed.

“Speaking of which, one step we must take. We must have this new man – Karl Mullen – discreetly followed.”

“City Detectives.” Mkeba made a note. “Their men are all ex-policemen. A bit expensive, but very reliable.”

“No shortage of cash,” said Hartshorn. “Particularly after that concert. By the way, why did you call him the pencil man?”

“It was a nickname.”

“Because he was always writing things down?”

“Not exactly. No. It was something else.”

“From the way you’re hedging, I guess it was something unpleasant.”

“Not very pleasant. Certainly not the sort of thing I could have discussed with your daughter here. The fact is that he was an expert interrogator. He liked to used methods that left no outward mark.”

“Electricity.”

“Sometimes. But electricity was not brutal enough to appeal to the animal in him. So he used this implement. It was something he had copied from the methods of one Gestapo chief in the South of France. It was made of polished wood and looked like a pencil, but thicker and much longer. It was sharpened at one end. His victim was stripped and fastened, face downwards, on a bench. The pencil was pushed into him, slowly and carefully, right up until the point was several inches into the intestine.”

“Obscene,” said Hartshorn. “And horribly painful.”

“Painful, yes. But that was not the worst of it. I told you it was a long piece of wood. There would be six inches or more protruding. This could be hit with a heavy ruler. The first time he tried this torture he hit too hard. The shock was so severe that the man died. After that he was more discreet. A few gentle taps. No one could stand up to the excruciating pain. They would tell him anything he wanted to know. Sometimes making things up. Anything, anything, to prevent him hitting again.”