Then he spoke curtly, 'Our jobs are in danger,' he said, and Shasa went very still. 'Ja." Manfred nodded heavily. 'Verwoerd is thinking of reshuffling the cabinet. You and I will be sacked." 'You have done a difficult job,' Shasa said softly. 'And you have done it as well as was humanly possible. The storm is over, the country is calm and stable." Manfred sighed. 'Ja, you also. In a few short years since Sharpeville, you have helped rally the economy. Foreign investment is pouring in, thanks to your efforts. The value of property is higher than it was before the crisis. You have done an excellent job building up the armaments industry. Very soon our own atomic bomb - but we are going to be sacked. Myinformation is always reliable." 'Why?" Shasa asked, and Manfred shrugged.
'Verwoerd took two bullets in the head. Who knows what damage that caused." 'He shows no signs of any permanent damage. He is just as logical, rational and decisive after the operation to remove the bullets." 'Do you think so?" Manfred asked. 'Do you think his obsession with race is logical and rational?" 'Verwoerd was always obsessed with racial matters." 'No, my friend, that is not so,' Manfred contradicted him. 'He didn't want the ministry of Bantu affairs when Malan first offered it to him. Race meant nothing to him. He was concerned only with the growth and survival of Afrikaner nationalism." 'He certainly threw himself into it body and soul, when he did take the job,' Shasa smiled.
'Ja, that's true, but then he saw apartheM as uplifting to the blacks, a chance to conduct their own affairs, and become masters of their own destiny. He saw it as exactly similar to the partition of India and Pakistan. He was concerned with racial differences, but he was not a racist. Not in the beginning." 'Perhaps." Shasa was dubious.
'Since those bullets in the head he has changed,' Manfred said.
'Before that he was strong-willed and certain of his own infallibility, but since then he will brook not the slightest criticism or even a hint that anything he says or does might be wrong. Race has become an obsession, to the point of lunacy - this business with the coloured English cricketer, what is his name again?" 'Basil D'Oliveira - and he is South African. He plays for England because he can't play for South Africa." 'Ja, it's madness. Now Verwoerd even refuses to have a black servant to tend him. He would not attend the film version of Othello because Laurence Olivier had painted his face black. He has lost all sense of proportion. He is going to undo all the hard painstaking work we have done to restore calm and prosperity. He is going to destroy this country - and he is going to destroy us personally, you and me, because we have stood up to some of his wilder excesses in cabinet. You even suggested he permanently abolish the pass laws he has never forgiven you for that. He calls you a liberal." 'All right, but I can't believe he would take the ministry of police away from you." 'That is what he plans. He wants to give it all to John Vorster combine justice and police into a single portfolio and call it "Law and Order", or some such other title." Shasa stood up and went to the cabinet at the end of the room.
He poured two large cognacs and Manfred did not protest when he placed one of them on the table at his elbow.
'You know, Shasa, for a long time now I have had a dream. I've never told anybody about it, not even Heidi, but I will tell you. I dreamed that one day I would be the prime minister, and that 'you, Shasa Courtney, would be the state president of this country of ours.
The two of us, Englishman and Afrikaner, side by side as South Africans." They sat quietly and thought about it, and Shasa found himself becoming angry at being cheated of that honour. Then Manfred went off at another tangent.
'Do you know that even though the Americans are refusing to sell us arms, we still cooperate very closely with their CIA on all matters of intelligence that affect our mutual interests in southern Africa?" Manfred asked, and although Shasa could not fathom this new change of direction, he nodded.
'Yes, of course, I know that." 'The Americans have just interrogated a Russian defector in west Berlin. They passed on some of the intelligence to us. There is a Manchurian Candidate in place, and his target is Verwoerd." Shasa gaped at him. 'Who is the assassin?" 'No." Manfred held up his hands. 'They don't know. Even though the Russian was highly placed, he did not know. All he could tell the Americans was that the assassin has access to the prime minister, and he will be used soon, very soon." He picked up the cognac glass, and swirled the oily brown liquid around the crystal bowl. 'There was one other small clue. The assassin has a history of mental illness, and he is a foreigner, not born in this country." 'With that information it should be possible to identify him,' Shasa mused. 'You could check every single person who has access to the P.M." 'Perhaps,' Manfred agreed. 'But what we must decide - here in secret, just the two of us - is do we really want to find the Manchurian Candidate and stop him. Would it be in the best interest of our country to prevent the assassination?" Shasa spilled the cognac down the lapels of his morning jacket, but he did not seem to notice. Aghast, he was staring at Manfred.
After a long pause, he set down his glass, drew a silk handkerchief from his inner pocket and began to mop the spilled liquor.
'Who else knows about this?" he asked, concentrating on his cleaning, not looking up.
'One of my senior officers. He is the liaison with the military attach at the American embassy, who is the CIA man here." 'No one else?" 'Only me - and now you." 'Your officer is trustworthy?" 'Completely." At last Shasa looked up. 'Yes, now I see why I should cancel my trip to London. If something should happen to Verwoerd, it would be essential for me to be here when his successor is chosen." He lifted his glass in a salute, and after a moment Manfred returned the gesture. They drank the silent toast, watching each other's eyes over the rims of the crystal glasses.
There were only two couples left on the dance floor, and except for the band and the servants who were cleaning up and stacking the chairs, the marquee was empty.
At last the coloured band-master descended from the stand and approached Sean diffidently. 'Master, it's after two o'clock already." Sean glared at him over the head of the girl he was dancing with, and the man quailed. 'Please, Master, we've been playing since lunchtime, nearly fourteen hours." Sean's thunderous expression changed dramatically into that radiant boyish smile of his. 'Off you go then! You have been just great - and this is for you and your boys." He tucked a crumpled wad of banknotes into the band-leader's top pocket, and called to the other couple.
'Come on, gang. We are off to Navvies." Isabella had her face pressed to Lothar's shirt front, but she looked up brightly.
'Oh goody!" she cried. 'I've never been there. Nana says it's sordid and disreputable. Let's go!" Sean had borrowed Garry's MG and Isabella raced him in her new Alfa Romeo, and managed to keep up with him through the curves of the mountain drive. They were neck and neck as they tore down Buitenkant Street to the notorious Navigator's Den in the Bo-kaap area near the docks.
Sean had purloined two bottles of whisky from the bar in the marquee, and his partner was draped around his neck.
'Let's carouse,' he suggested, and pushed his way through the cluster of seamen and prostitutes who crowded the entrance to the nightclub.
The interior was so dark that they could only barely make out the band, and the music was so loud that they had to sit close and yell at each other.