‘Why me?’

‘He telephoned you. That’s enough.’

‘He was raving. He talked of the City of God.’

Lynch laughed and poured himself more brandy. ‘Not God. It was a bad line, Blanchie. You had a lot of interference. What he said was not God but gold!’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘I’ve heard the tapes, a friend of mine obliged.’

‘Who killed him?’

Lynch shook his head. ‘There are two possibilities which the police are following up. There was something painted in the room where he was found, scrawled low down on the wall. Three letters: ASK followed by what might have been part of a B, or perhaps the number 3. The obvious organisations spring to mind. The Azanian Strike Kommando No. 3, the hit squad, I believe connected with the Azanian Liberation Front. The choice of the word Kommando being a deliberate gibe, a taking in vain of the name of the mobile fighting unit venerated by the Boers.’

‘Well, it makes a kind of sense, I suppose. Tony was in the Government.’

‘Not exactly. He was a Civil Servant. And besides, if you’re going to assassinate someone why pick on an accountant?’

‘Well, who then?’

‘There is another lot, home based, with the same initials — the Afrika Straf Kaffir Brigade. Both are mysterious outfits — the Strike Kommando claims to have infiltrated the country to carry out executions of enemies of the people. The Straf Kaffir Brigade is a group of right-wing maniacs who claim to protect the white man’s way of life, motherhood and freedom — whether all of those, or you take your pick, I don’t know. Despite their name it is not actually blacks they’re after, it’s white men who they believe are destroying the soul of the Afrikaner. The Regime, needless to say, denies the existence of both groups. The Brigade has claimed responsibility for shooting up the houses of liberal lawyers, painting swastikas on the houses of selected targets like the local rabbi, which incensed him no end as it turned out he is a fervent supporter of the Regime. They go about generally making a nuisance of themselves.’

‘I remember seeing the name,’ Blanchaille said. ‘Didn’t they release syphilis-infected mice in several of these new casinos these entrepreneurs are opening in all the Bantu homelands, in the hopes of spreading the pox among white gamblers?’

‘The same. They are demented. But why should even a bunch of madmen who ostensibly at least support the Regime, assassinate one of its officials? Equally, why should the Azanian lot murder Ferreira? He was no big noise, no minister, no target. It seems to me that the question we ought to ask is not which of these groups carried out the killing but why they should bother to remove a remote financial official who spent his time locked away with the ledgers poring over the figures?’

Blanchaille knew the old priest had to some extent at least answered his own questions. He suspected, as anyone would who knew Ferreira, that the answer lay in those figures.

‘Do you believe in these organisations?’

‘Believe? Of course I do! Whether they exist or not is another question. But certainly I believe, just as I believe in the Kruger millions.’

‘And the city of gold?’

‘Naturally. It is a question of faith which I cling to with Augustinian ferocity. May God help you with your unbelief, poor Blanchie. Sadly I do not have time to explain my allusion.’ He walked to the window and beckoned Blanchaille. ‘Those lights over there — the flashing red and yellow neon, do you see? That’s the Airport Palace Hotel. Ask to see the manager when you arrive. He’ll handle things. Leave here as soon as you can.’

‘What, now?’

‘Certainly. The very instant your watchers settle down for the night.’

‘But I’m not ready — not right now, anyway.’

‘What? Not ready? Your sainted mother gave you your wonderful French passport. Your dead friend has supplied you with funds. Your bags are packed, I take it?’

Blanchaille nodded and pointed to the three tartan suitcases.

‘What more do you want?’

He thought hard. ‘I have no air ticket.’

Lynch tapped his nose and winked. ‘Faith, my son.’ He drained his brandy and rose. ‘It will be taken care of. Now I’m on my way.’

‘But you haven’t said yet who you think killed Ferreira. Straf Kaffir Brigade, or Azanian Strike Kommando?’

Lynch regarded him unblinkingly. What he said next made Blanchaille’s head spin: ‘Or both?’ he said.

Blanchaille went over to his chair, the same blue plastic garden chair on which he must have sat many a night and on which he was sitting when I first saw him in my dream.

‘I am as much in the dark as you are,’ Lynch said with a complete lack of sincerity. ‘Now I must go. I’m not long for this world.’

‘So you’ve said,’ Blanchaille remarked sceptically.

‘Can’t be said often enough. Only this time I say it in hope. This time before the shades come down I see a gleam of something that may be —’

‘Light?’ Blanchaille put in helpfully.

‘Gold!’ said Lynch, ‘and the deliriously exciting perception that history, or what passes for such in this dust-bin, may just be about to repeat itself. Remember, Theodore, red and yellow neon, Airport Palace — don’t delay.’ And with a grin the little priest stepped out into the darkness.

CHAPTER 3

Now in my dream I saw Blanchaille set off early in one of those typical highveld dawns, a sky of light blue plated steel arcing overhead. He wore old grey flannels and a white cotton jacket, grunting beneath the weight of his three bulky tartan suitcases well strapped, belted around their fat middles in thick-tongued fraying leather. He slipped quietly out of the house and set off down the dirt road. But Joyce, who was sleeping rolled in a blanket by the embers of the night fire, had sharp ears and shouted after him. This woke Makapan who was dozing behind the wheel of his motor car. Both came running after Blanchaille: ‘What’s this? Where are you going?’

‘Somewhere where you won’t be able to bother me.’

‘But are you going for good?’

‘For good.’

‘You’re running away then?’ There was a jeering note in Makapan’s voice. His eyelashes were crusted with sleep.

Blanchaille nodded. ‘As fast as I can.’

Joyce said; ‘Father won’t get very far, those cases are too heavy. He’ll have to walk slowly.’

‘I expected you to stand and fight at least,’ said Makapan.

‘Where are you going?’ Joyce asked.

‘I don’t know yet.’

Joyce became rather excited. Grasping one of the heavy suitcases Blanchaille held she tried to help him, half hobbling and half running alongside him. ‘Are you going overseas?’

Blanchaille nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

Makapan lumbered up. ‘That’s nonsense, man. You’re starting to talk politics again. We’re not that badly off. We’re not finished. Even the Americans think there’s life in us yet. I saw only yesterday in the paper how their Secretary for State for Political Affairs came all this way to tell us that it will come right in the end, that we’re getting better all the time, that we will give political rights to other groups when the time is right, that we will be saved. There is no threat, not outside nor in, that our armed forces cannot handle. Even at the time of the Total Onslaught we hold our own. I assure you myself, and I am a captain in the Signals Corps. You do your military duty — even if it does sometimes harm your career prospects. My fight with you is religious, not political…’

Blanchaille understood this qualification.

In the time of the Total Onslaught of course everyone was in the armed services. For many years a quarter of a million young men capable of bearing arms were on active service or on reserve or in training. All immigrants were called up. However, the Regime decided this base was not sufficient and announced a plan to push this figure to one million men, by drafting individuals, old and young, who for various reasons had been overlooked in the years of the huge defence build-up. In a total white population of little over five million, this force represented a great army, at least on paper, able surely to withstand the Total Onslaught. However, it was also a considerable drain on the available workforce. The army had an insatiable appetite for more men because even the best strategic planners could not predict where the attack would come from next. The chief problem lay in guarding the borders which were thousands of miles long and growing longer all the time. There were, besides the national borders, the borders around the new Homelands, the former reserves in the rural areas which the Government declared independent and sovereign, and guaranteed that sovereignty by fencing them off. New countries meant new borders. New borders meant new fences. Entire battalions spent their period of military service banging in fence poles. Of course the Total Onslaught might also show itself from within, and as a result the huge black townships had to be encircled with wire and the resettlement camps fortified with foot patrols and armoured cars. Then there were Government buildings, the railheads, the power stations, the factories. Since these were frequently the targets of incendiary bombs and limpet mines, they required the strictest protection and the young men on active training might spend months on end sweating in desolate railway sidings or freezing by night outside the oil refineries waiting for something to happen. It seldom did, but then Total Onslaught required total preparedness.