Vortex

With that in mind, he decided to press his luck a little further. He spun round sharply-stepping briskly aside as one of the guards treading close on his heels nearly blundered into him.

“Not so fast, Commandant. What about our camera and sound equipment? Who’s going to pick up the tab for the stuff your goon squad smashed?”

The Afrikaner’s head came up as fast as a striking snake’s. Despite the man’s earlier contemptuous words, Ian was shocked by the undisguised hatred apparent on his face.

“Get out of my office at once! And be thankful that only your verdomde equipment was broken. It can be repaired. Skulls and ribs are not so easily mended!”

The expression of open anger faded from the commandant’s face, replaced by a calmer, colder, infinitely more chilling look of calculated malice.

“Do not cross my path again, Meneer Sheffield. It would not be the action of a wise or healthy man. I trust I make myself clear?”

He glanced at the guards still standing to either side.

“Now take these

Uitlanders out of my sight before I change my mind and have them locked up again.”

The Afrikaner’s pale, hate-filled eyes followed them all the way out the door.

Neither man spoke until they were near the main gate leading out of the

Magistrates’ Court complex. Then, at last, Sam Knowles broke the tension-filled silence.

“Jesus Christ, Ian. Remind me to loan you my copy of How to Win Friends and Influence People before you get us both killed.”

Ian laughed softly, a somewhat forced, embarrassed laugh.

“Sorry, Sam.

I’ve learned not to eat with my hands in fancy restaurants, but I guess nobody ever taught me how to keep my big mouth shut around junior-grade gestapo wanna bees like that SOB. back there.”

“Yeah.” Knowles thumped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Well, the next time we’re looking down someone’s gun barrel, try to remember that discretion is always the best part of valor. Will you do that for me, huh?”

Ian nodded.

“Good.” The little cameraman shifted gears abruptly.

“Now just who the hell in Pretoria do you suppose likes you enough to spring us from the pokey?”

Ian didn’t answer him until they had passed a pair of armed sentries and stood blinking in the brilliant winter-afternoon sunshine. A taxicab sat parked along the curb.

“I don’t know anyone that high up in Vorster’s good graces, but I know someone who does,” Ian said.

The taxi’s rear door opened and a beautiful, auburn-haired woman got out.

Knowles pursed his lips in a silent, appreciative whistle.

“I see. I do believe I begin to sec.”

Through suddenly narrowed eyes, the short, stocky cameraman watched his friend and partner take the steps two at a time down to meet Emily van der Heijden..

JULY 20-D. F. MALAN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT,

NEAR CAPE TOWN

The announcement buzzed and crackled through the overhead loudspeakers in the same dry, garbled, and disinterested voice used in airports all the world over.

“South Africa Airways Flight one forty-eight to Johannesburg is now ready for boarding. All passengers with confirmed seating are requested to come to the Jetway at this time. “

Ian felt his pulse race as Emily kissed him hard one last time and pulled away.

He started to reach for her and stopped as she shook her head sadly.

“I

must leave.” She blinked away sudden tears.

“I’m afraid there’s no more time.”

Ian fumbled for the handkerchief in his jacket pocket and then gave it up as he saw Emily sling the traveling case over her shoulder.

“Look, if you don’t want to go, then don’t. Stay here with me.”

Another headshake, slightly more vehement.

“I cannot, no matter how much I would wish it. My father is a hard man, Ian. To him, a bargain is a bargain-no matter how forced it might be. So if I do not return home as I promised, he’ll have you rearrested and sent back to America. And I cannot let that happen.”

Ian looked down at the scuffed tile floor. What was happening to her was largely his fault. She’d learned of his arrest when he hadn’t shown up for a dinner date the day of the riot. Nearly out of her mind with worry, she’d done what she would ordinarily have regarded as unthinkable. She’d phoned her father, asking for his help.

As the new government’s deputy minister of law and order, Marius van der

Heijden had the clout needed to spring an unruly pair of American journalists. The man was also a scheming, blackmailing bastard, Ian thought angrily. His price for their release had been Emily’s surrender of her hard won independence-the independence she’d won only after years of stormy argument and outright shouting matches. In her father’s words, she was to be “obedient.”

Emily softly touched his arm.

“You understand?”

He swore in frustration.

“Jesus Christ, this isn’t the Middle Ages! What’s he expect you to do for him… cook, clean, and keep house like every other good little Afrikaner girl?”

The ghost of a smile appeared on Emily’s face.

“No, he knows me better than that. He just wants to keep me away from you and your ‘immoral’ influence.”

The faint smile disappeared.