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Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Rage
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M
oses went to the guest bedroom which Molly had allocated to him, and as he washed his face in the basin Marcus Archer slipped into the room without knocking, closed the door and leaned against it, watching Moses in the mirror.
‘Well?' he asked at last, as though he was reluctant to hear the answer.
‘Just as we planned it.' Moses dried his face on a clean towel.
‘I hate the silly little bitch,' Marcus said softly.
‘We agreed it was necessary.' Moses selected a fresh shirt from the valise on his bed.
‘I know we agreed,' Marcus said. ‘It was my suggestion, if you remember, but I do not have to like her for it.'
‘She is an instrument. It is folly to let your personal feelings intrude.'
Marcus Archer nodded. In the end he hoped he could act like a true revolutionary, one of the steely hard men which the struggle needed, but his feelings for this man, Moses Gama, were stronger than all his political convictions.
He knew that it was completely one-sided. Over the years Moses Gama had used him as cynically and as calculatingly as he now planned to use the Courtney woman. His vast sexual appeal was to Moses Gama merely another weapon in his arsenal, another means of manipulating people. He could use it on men or women, young or old, no matter how attractive or unappealing, and Marcus admired him for the ability, and at the same time was devastated by it.
‘We leave for the Witwatersrand tomorrow,' he said, as he pushed himself away from the door, for the moment controlling his jealousy. ‘I have made the arrangements.'
‘So soon?' Moses asked.
‘I have made the arrangements. We will travel by car.'
It was one of the problems which dogged their work. It was difficult for a black man to travel about the huge subcontinent, liable as he was at any time to demands to show his
dompas
and to interrogation when the authority realized that he was far from the domicile shown on the pass without apparent reason, or that the pass had not been stamped by an employer.
Moses' association with Marcus and the nominal employment he provided with the Chamber of Mines gave
him valuable cover when it was necessary to travel, but they always needed couriers. That was one of the functions that Tara Courtney would perform. In addition she was by birth and by marriage highly placed, and the information she could provide would be of the greatest value in the planning. Later, after she had proved herself, there would be other, more dangerous work.
I
n the end, Shasa Courtney realized, it was his mother's advice which would tip the fine balance and decide whether he accepted or rejected the offer that had been made to him during the springbok hunt on the open plains of the Orange Free State.
Shasa would have been the first to despise any other man of his age who was still firmly enmeshed in the maternal apron strings, but he never considered that this applied to him. The fact that Centaine Courtney-Malcomess was his mother was merely incidental. What influenced him was that she was the shrewdest financial and political brain he had access to; she was also his business partner and his only true confidante. To make such an important decision without consulting her never even occurred to him.
He waited a week after his return to Cape Town to let his own feelings distil out, and for an opportunity to have Centaine alone, for he was in no doubt as to what his stepfather's reaction would be to the proposal. Blaine Malcomess was the Opposition representative on the parliamentary sub-committee examining the proposed establishment of an oil-from-coal project, part of the government's long-term plan to reduce the country's reliance on imported crude oil. The committee was going to take evidence on site, and for once Centaine was not accompanying her husband. That was the opportunity Shasa needed.
It was less than half an hour's drive from Weltevreden, across the Constantia Nek pass and down the other side of the mountains to the Atlantic seaboard where the home that Centaine had made for Blaine stood on five hundred acres of wild protea-covered mountainside that dropped steeply down to rocky headlands and white beaches. The original house, Rhodes Hill, had been built during Queen Victoria's reign by one of the old mining magnates from the Rand, but Centaine had stripped the interior and refurbished it completely.
She was waiting for Shasa on the verandah when he parked the Jaguar, and ran up the steps to embrace her.
‘You're getting too thin,' she scolded him fondly. She had guessed from his telephone call that he wanted a serious discussion, and they had their own traditions. Centaine was dressed in an open-neck cotton blouse and slacks with comfortable hiking boots, and without discussing it she took his arm and they set out along the path that skirted her rose gardens and climbed the untended hillside.
The last part of the ascent was steep and the path rough, but Centaine took it without pause and came out on the summit ahead of him. Her breathing was hardly altered, and within a minute had returned to normal. ‘She keeps herself in wonderful condition, Heaven alone knows what she spends on health cures and potions, and she exercises like a professional athlete,' Shasa thought as he grinned down at her proudly. He placed an arm around her small firm waist.
‘Isn't it beautiful?' Centaine leaned lightly against him and looked out over the cold green Benguela current, as it swirled, decked in lacy foam, around Africa's heel, which like a medieval knight was spurred and armoured with black rock. ‘This is one of my favourite places.'
‘Whoever would have guessed it,' Shasa murmured, and led her to the flat lichen-covered rock that was her seat.
She perched up on it, hugging her knees and he sprawled on the bed of moss below her. They were both silent for a
few moments, and Shasa wondered how often they had sat like this at this special place of hers, and how many heavy decisions they had taken here.
‘Do you remember Manfred De La Rey?' he asked suddenly, but he was unprepared for her reaction. She started and looked down at him, colour draining from her cheeks, with an expression he could not fathom.
‘Is something wrong, Mater?' He began to rise, but she gestured at him to remain seated.
‘Why do you ask about him?' she demanded, but he did not reply directly.
‘Isn't it strange how our paths seem to cross with his family? Ever since his father rescued us, when I was an infant and we were castaways living with the Bushmen in the Kalahari.'
‘We needn't go over all that again,' Centaine stopped him, and her tone was brusque. Shasa realized he had been tactless. Manfred's father had robbed the H'ani Mine of almost a million pounds' worth of diamonds, an act of vengeance for fancied wrongs that he had convinced himself Centaine had inflicted on him. For that crime he had served almost fifteen years of a life sentence for robbery, and he had been pardoned only when the Nationalist government had come to power in 1948. At the same time the Nationalists had pardoned many other Afrikaners serving sentences for treason and sabotage and armed robbery, convicted by the Smuts' government when they had attempted to disrupt the country's war effort against Nazi Germany. However, the stolen diamonds had never been recovered, and their loss had almost destroyed the fortune that Centaine Courtney had built up with so much labour, sacrifice and heartache.
‘Why do you mention Manfred De La Rey?' she repeated her question.
‘I had an invitation from him to a meeting. A clandestine meeting – all very cloak and dagger.'
‘Did you go?'
He nodded slowly. ‘We met at a farm in the Free State, and there were two other cabinet ministers present.'
‘Did you speak to Manfred alone?' she asked, and the tone of the question, the fact that she used his Christian name, caught Shasa's attention. Then he remembered the unexpected question that Manfred De La Rey had put to him.
‘Has your mother ever spoken about me?' he had asked, and faced by Centaine's present reaction to his name, the question took on a new significance.
‘Yes, Mater, I spoke to him alone.'
‘Did he mention me?' Centaine demanded, and Shasa gave a little chuckle of puzzlement.
‘He asked the same question – whether you ever spoke about him. Why are the two of you so interested in each other?'
Centaine's expression turned bleak, and he saw her close her mind to him. It was a mystery he would not solve by pursuing it openly, he would have to stalk it.
‘They made me a proposition.' And he saw her interest reawaken.
‘Manfred? A proposition? Tell me.'
‘They want me to cross the floor.'
She nodded slowly, showing little surprise and not immediately rejecting the idea. He knew that if Blaine were here it would have been different. Blaine's sense of honour, his rigid principles, would have left no room for manoeuvre. Blaine was a Smuts man, heart and blood, and even though the old field-marshal had died of a broken heart soon after the Nationalists unseated him and took over the reins of power, still Blaine was for ever true to the old man's memory.
‘I can guess why they want you,' Centaine said slowly. ‘They need a top financial brain, an organizer and a businessman. It's the one thing they lack in their cabinet.'
He nodded. She had seen it instantly, and his enormous respect for her was confirmed yet again.
‘What price are they willing to pay?' she demanded.
‘A cabinet appointment – Minister of Mines and Industry.'
He saw her eyes go out of focus, and cross in a myopic stare as she gazed out to sea. He knew what that expression meant. Centaine was calculating, juggling with the future, and he waited patiently until her eyes snapped back into focus.
‘Can you see any reason for refusing?' she asked.
‘How about my political principles?'
‘How do they differ from theirs?'
‘I am not an Afrikaner.'
‘That might be to your advantage. You will be their token Englishman. That will give you a special status. You will have a freer rein. They will be more reluctant to fire you than if you were one of their own.'
‘I don't agree with their native policy, this
apartheid
thing of theirs, it's just financially unsound.'
‘Good Lord, Shasa. You don't believe in equal political rights for blacks, do you? Not even Jannie Smuts wanted that. You don't want another Chaka ruling us, black judges and a black police force working for a black dictator?' She shuddered. ‘We'd get pretty short shrift from them.'
‘No, Mater, of course not. But this
apartheid
thing is merely a device for grabbing the whole pie. We have to give them a slice of it, we can't hog it all. That's a certain recipe for eventual bloody revolution.'
‘Very well,
chéri
. If you are in the cabinet, you can see to it that they get a fair crack of the whip.'
He looked dubious, and made a side-show of selecting a cigarette from his gold case and lighting it.
‘You have a special talent, Shasa,' Centaine went on persuasively. ‘It's your duty to use it for the good of all.'
Still he hesitated, he wanted her to declare herself
fully. He had to know if she wanted this as much as he did.
‘We can be honest with each other,
chéri
. This is what we have worked towards since you were a child. Take this job and do it well. After that who knows what else may follow?'
They were both silent then, they knew what they hoped would follow. They could not help themselves, it was their nature always to strive towards the highest pinnacle.
‘What about Blaine?' Shasa said at last. ‘How will he take it? I don't look forward to telling him.'
‘I'll do that,' she promised. ‘But you will have to tell Tara.'
‘Tara,' he sighed. ‘Now that will be a problem.'
They were silent again, until Centaine asked, ‘How will you do it? If you cross the floor it will expose you to a blaze of hostile publicity.'
So it was agreed without further words, only the means remained to be discussed.
‘At the next general election I will simply campaign in different colours,' Shasa said. ‘They will give me a safe seat.'
‘So we have a little time to arrange the details, then.'
They discussed them for another hour, planning with all the meticulous attention that had made them such a formidably successful team over the years, until Shasa looked up at her.
‘Thank you,' he said simply. ‘What would I ever do without you! You are tougher and cleverer than any man I know.'
‘Get away with you,' she smiled. ‘You know how I hate praise.' They both laughed at that absurdity.
‘I'll walk you down, Mater.' But she shook her head.
‘I've still got some thinking to do. Leave me here.'
She watched him go down the hill and her love and pride was so intense as to almost suffocate her.
‘He is everything I ever wanted in a son, and he has fulfilled all my expectations, a thousand times over. Thank you, my son, thank you for the joy you have always given me.'
Then abruptly the words ‘my son' triggered another reaction, and her mind darted back to the earlier part of their conversation.
‘Do you remember Manfred De La Rey?' Shasa had asked her, but he could never know what the answer to that must be.
‘Can a woman ever forget the child she bears?' she whispered the reply aloud, but her words were lost on the wind and on the sound of the green surf breaking on the rocky shore below the hill.

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