‘I see you’re examining my photographs,’ said Himmelfarber. ‘These pictures, you know what they are? They’re photographs of my workers and show the full extent of their employment. The dangers of mining are not disguised. Accidents at the rock face, drilling accidents, men hurt in rockfalls, or ramming, that is to say when loading the trucks with gold-bearing rock. I wonder if you have any idea what a mine looks like underground? Imagine a buried Christmas tree, the trunk is the mine shaft plunging down hundreds of meters. Off the shaft the stopes radiate like branches. At the far tips of these branches is the thread of gold. Think of it rather like tinsel that you drape over the branches of your Christmas tree. Gold mining is deep, dark, hot, dangerous work. You must break a great deal of rock to claim a little of the glitter, a couple of tons of ore give you little more than twenty grammes of gold. I keep these pictures on my wall to remind me where I come from, how I live and what it costs.’ Himmelfarber brought their drinks across. ‘This is a good light punch. I hope you’ll enjoy it. Fruit juice spiked with rum and lemon, mixed with a little pomegranate, satsuma segments, some passion fruit and thin shavings of watermelon. Shall we drink to the health of our President? I believe he needs our good wishes,’ Himmelfarber smiled, and raised his glass. ‘But that’s another story. I haven’t got you here to talk about poor Bubé.’
‘Why are we here?’ Blanchaille demanded.
Himmelfarber looked surprised. ‘To listen to a few stories of my own. Such as the story of Popov.’
‘Do you really mean that?’ Kipsel demanded incredulously. ‘Do you know the true story of Popov?’
This is where Blanchaille waded in. ‘Now just a moment,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this straight before you start swallowing everything he tells you. Himmelfarber here and his firm, Consolidated Holdings, have propped up successive governments for as long as anyone can remember. Himmelfarber buys defence bonds, sits on armaments boards, advises the Regime on its business deals, he even plays golf with Bubé.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it. I also fund the Democratic People’s Party, I’m a public supporter of racial freedom and Consolidated Holdings is one of the most enlightened employers in the country. It has more black personnel managers than any other, it was the first to employ Indian salesmen, our coloured cost accountants are internationally known and bright young Liberals join us in the sure knowledge that their ideas will be welcomed and acted upon.’
‘For God’s sake, Ronnie, you’re not going to stand there and swallow that stuff, are you? Why don’t you ask him about Popov?’
Kipsel’s eyes widened. ‘You knew Popov?’
‘Knew him! Himmelfarber ran him!’ Blanchaille shouted.
‘I asked Mr Himmelfarber, Blanchie, let him answer for himself.’
Himmelfarber placed four fingers over the rim of his glass and put his mouth to the liquid and laughed softly, a frothy resonance. ‘Now you see the trouble with our holy friend here. He’s very much the obsessive South African type. He’s more of a danger to our country than the entire Total Onslaught. And d’you know why? It’s because he combines this horrible puritanical streak on the one hand with an absolutely crusading ignorance on the other. Your friend Blanchaille suffers from the characteristic South African disease. He wishes to blame people. No, Mr Kipsel, I can’t promise you the true story of Popov. But I can give you my version.’
‘That will do,’ said Kipsel, and he helped himself to more punch.
‘But before you can understand the importance of Popov, you must listen to my story of why we love the Russians.’
‘Do we love the Russians?’ Kipsel asked.
‘In our own way, yes we do. We have something in common which completely overrides our political differences — our gold sales. This is only natural since the Soviet Union and the Republic between them possess most of the gold in the world. It’s obviously in our mutual interest to regulate the supply of that gold to the world markets and thereby to control the price. Remember that every fluctuation of a few dollars up or down is a total gain or loss of millions to our economies. Let me give you an example of the sort of co-operation I have in mind. For years gold sales were handled in London. But we found that successive British governments were becoming too damn inquisitive about our sales. So we pulled out. London till then was the gold market, the next moment we were gone. On our side naturally it gave the Regime great pleasure to kick the Limeys in the teeth, it’s an extension of the Boer War, of course — I quote to you President Bubé’s choice remark: “We’ve got nothing against the British — it’s the English we hate.” The Russians also had their reasons for pulling out. They said they were concerned about security at Heathrow. But they weren’t really worried about the stuff being stolen, although it happens from time to time. What they really objected to was having people sniffing around their gold because word might get out about the amount they were selling. So off we went to Switzerland and there, with the price doubling and redoubling like crazy, we had a high old time in our Zurich years. In fact so much gold was sold that the Swiss threw caution to the winds for once, and seeing a chance of making even more money the Government slapped on a sales tax, something a little over five per cent I seem to recall. It’s a long time ago now. Well, that was a very bad mistake. It wasn’t that we objected to the Swiss becoming even richer but having that tax meant that the dealers had to show how much gold they were selling, from which could be calculated the amount that we were putting onto the market. We were right back where we were before. And the amounts of gold we were making available were in danger of being anticipated, even discounted. Even then we might have hung on, but the price crashed as it does every few years and the Swiss dealers, who had grown fat in the good years, dragged their feet over selling our newly mined metal at a much lower price than in the old good gilded days of yore. So back we went to London with some of our business. We and our friends. Not all our business. Never again all of it. What a welcome! Kisses on both cheeks from the Bank of England, no unseemly taxes, or too close a scrutiny of sales — our friends were most insistent about that — and everything looked like sweetness and light.’
Blanchaille turned to Kipsel. ‘You hear what he says? He admits to working with the Russians and he expects us to clap. And yet we know people who did the same thing and were hanged. Look at the first commandment of our country: the Regime kills people who help the Russians. That’s the rule. Everyone knows it. Everyone obeys it. Go up to the man in the street and ask what will happen if you help the Russians and he’ll draw his finger across his throat. He may even kill you himself. People live and die according to the rules the Regime makes — so how can they change them?’
‘Why not? If it suits them,’ Himmelfarber demanded brutally. ‘They’re their rules.’
‘But what about Popov, the spy?’ Kipsel asked. ‘You still haven’t said.’
‘He was no spy,’ said Blanchaille. ‘He was a Russian banker who got arrested by mistake. Van Vuuren showed me that.’
‘Correct,’ Himmelfarber acknowledged. ‘First inkling I had of it came in a call from Zurich, the Wozchod Handelsbank, and my contact Glotz on the line, screaming at me: “Just what the hell have you done? You stupid, fucking Boers! You morons! What in Christ’s name have you done with Popov? I’ve just had Vneshtorgbank on the line — that’s his headquarters, Bank for Foreign Trade in Moscow — absolutely frantic! They say their man has gone cold. Do something!” Well? What could I say? Nothing-at the time and just as well, too. Imagine his reaction if I told him — yes, look I’m sorry about this Ivan, but your man is at the moment languishing in a cell in Balthazar Buildings having been beaten within an inch of his life. Because he was, you know. The Security Police got so drunk when they realised they’d caught a live Russian that they didn’t refer the matter to the Bureau, as they should have done; instead they gave poor Popov the treatment. They strung him up by his toes, they tied him to a broomstick and gave him the Catherine wheel, they put an uncomfortable voltage through each testicle. Then they threw a party. They went to the press and issued self-congratulatory statements. Popov by this stage was past knowing or caring. He didn’t tell them much. He couldn’t tell them much! His English has never been any good and he was in a state of profound shock. Besides that he’d lost his false teeth which fell out when these buggers dangled him from an open window on the tenth floor. They frightened him to within an inch of his life and that put paid to any chance of communication. Fear and the lack of teeth ensured that Popov was talking to no one. But as far as the papers were concerned, as far as the rest of the country was concerned, our boys had caught a Russian and of course the Regime had to play along with it. They had to confirm that their brilliant Security Police had pulled off the most extraordinary capture of a Russian spy, they made him a full colonel in the KGB and they went round saying proudly how clever they’d been. Well they had to, hadn’t they? The Government had been warning for years that the Russians were working to destroy us, that they sent their spies into the country all the time, that they had armed and supported the black armies on the borders, that their agents had infiltrated the townships, and the resettlement camps, that their submarines cruised off our coasts and that they were working day and night for the destruction of our country. Now they’d gone and proved it! Well, I had to take some hard decisions. I started taking flack from both directions. The Regime wanted to know what I was going to do about smoothing relations with the Russians. The Russians were muttering darkly about treachery and threatening to end co-operation on gold sales. The Regime, while publicly ordering its ministers to dance in the street, was telling me that I was the only one who could sort out matters with Moscow. In the end I did what I had to.’