Iron Gate

  IRON GATE

  Richard Herman Jnr

  © Richard Herman., Jnr. Inc. 1995

  Richard Herman, Jnr. has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1995 by Hodder and Stoughton. A division of Hodder Headline PLC

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This book is dedicated to the eight brave men who died in the attempt to rescue fifty-three American hostages out of Iran on April 25, 1980.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary

  ‘Our forefathers purified the soil with their blood when they fought the savage forces that held this land in bondage. These forces of darkness were never defeated and now they are attacking the gate of our civilization. But it is a great gate, a gate forged with the strength of iron and the blood of our fathers. When you think of this Iron Gate, think with your blood! Blood and Soil! Blut und Boden!’

  Hans Beckmann, Blood and Soil: My Struggle for the Afrikaner Nation

  Prologue

  Wednesday, July 30

  Soweto, South Africa

  *

  The two teenaged boys stood at the taxi stand under the black township’s only overpass, patiently scanning the passengers in each minivan arriving from Johannesburg. They were in no hurry as this was their first job, one with no deadline to meet, and sooner or later, they would find a man who matched the description they had been given.

  And if they killed the wrong man, it was of little consequence. They would simply wait for another. Such was the way of the tsotsi, the frightening and vicious township thugs who specialized in street crime.

  A minibus packed with black workers from Johannesburg hurtled under the bridge, its driver oblivious to the mass of humanity milling in the street. The crowd parted and formed a narrow lane for the sixteen-passenger van to shoot through as the driver rode the squealing brakes, dragging the minibus to a halt.

  The tsotsis’ lean and smooth faces were impassive when a well-dressed man with lighter than normal skin stepped out of the minibus. They had a target. Without a word, they fell in behind their intended victim as he walked away. They never saw the tall man who was also waiting for the taxi.

  John Author MacKay’s height of six feet four inches let him see over the crowd and for once, his dark scarred face did not draw attention as he followed the tsotsis. He frowned — they were a complication he didn’t need. He moved in and closed the gap when he saw the young thug on the left pull a long thin blade out of his sleeve. It was an assassin’s weapon, sharpened on both edges. The teenager on the right took five quick steps, brushed past their victim, stepped in front, and abruptly stopped.

  It looked like a harmless incident, typical of life in the crowded township where privacy and solitude were only found around the homes of the rich and powerful. The two tsotsis intended to sandwich the man and so shield their attack. Only a crumpled body left on the ground would mark their work.

  Before the boy with the knife could bump into the man and shove the blade into his spine, MacKay grabbed his wrist from behind. He twisted and jerked hard, straightened the boy’s arm out behind him, and hammered his left hand into the back of the rigid elbow. There was a sharp, sickening snap as the elbow came apart and the knife fell to the ground. The boy gasped, pain taking his breath away.

  The would-be victim turned at the sound, took it all in a quick glance, and pushed at the teenager blocking his path. The boy fell back as the man kicked at his knee. But he missed and the toe of his shoe caught the teenager’s shin.

  The teenager howled in pain, hobbled around, and bumped into MacKay. He looked up and froze at the apparition looming over him. MacKay’s high forehead, jug-handled ears, misshapen nose, receding chin, and bad case of pseudofolliculitis barbae created a harsh image that smiling only made worse. MacKay smiled at him.

  He pounded the heel of his palm into the teenager’s forehead, repeatedly snapping the boy’s head back.

  ‘This way,’ the man said and led the way through the maze of shanties behind the taxi rank. MacKay followed, surprised by the man’s cool reaction and lack of panic. They turned down a side street, and when the man was certain they were not being followed, walked through the gate in a low wire fence. They halted behind one of the miserable two-room homes that made up most of Soweto.

  The man took a deep breath before speaking. ‘Are you John Arthur?’ MacKay nodded. ‘I understand you are interested in Prime.’ Again MacKay nodded. ‘So are we,’ the man continued. ‘But there are problems.’

  ‘Financial?’ MacKay asked. Now it was the other’s turn to nod. MacKay handed him a thick envelope. The man opened it and quickly counted the money. His face glistened with sweat and MacKay was certain the payment was more than adequate.

  ‘We can help,’ the man said.

  ‘Are you Inkatha?’ MacKay asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No questions, please.’

  MacKay pointed at the envelope. ‘There’s more.’ The man smiled an answer. MacKay had finally made contact.

  *

  Thursday, July 31

  Voortrekker Monument, Pretoria, South Africa

  *

  The men emerged out of the shadows of the parking lot and passed through the wall that circled the hilltop. On the wall, sixty-four granite wagons in bas-relief formed a laager, the symbol of their defiance. In the valley below, the lights of Pretoria still glowed in the early-morning dark. Silently, they climbed the steps leading to the monument. It loomed large above them, a square granite structure blocking the sky, an undefined mass, heavy in the dark. Suddenly, floodlights came on, illuminating the bronze figures of a voortrekker woman and two children that guarded the entrance.

  As one, the men stopped. They were not a large crowd, maybe four hundred at the most. Fifty years before, they would have numbered in the tens of thousands. But these were the last, the true elders and leaders of their tribe, the ones who would not yield to the future. They were all dressed in dark suits appropriate for a state function or a funeral, as this was. Many were big men, heavyset, and wore beards as befitted their heritage. All carried bibles, some big and leather bound, cracked with age, others smaller and more portable. The bibles were worn with use and the lineage of their families: births, baptisms, marriages, and deaths were inscribed inside.

  It was a solemn occasion, for they had come to this shrine of their civilization to burn the bibles and break the covenant they had with the nation and their God. A single man stepped forward to set his bible down.

  A man was watching from the entrance to the main chamber, hidden by the deep shadow cast by the bronze statue. He stepped into the light and picked up the bible. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked. The words were spoken in Afrikaans, the language born out of the Dutch vernacular of medieval Flanders. But Afrikaans had taken on a new hue, changed by the infusion of other languages from Europe, Asia, and Africa.
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  A low murmur of ‘Hans Beckmann’ worked its way through the crowd. They knew who he was.

  The eldest of the men answered. ‘Because the covenant is broken. God no longer delivers the enemy into our hands so we may triumph over him. We have lost our land, our nation.’

  ‘Only part of it,’ Beckmann said, returning the bible to its owner. He was not dressed like the others but wore military battle dress and boots. His beret was folded and stuffed under an epaulet and he was unarmed. A webbed canvas belt cinched his waist. He was clean-shaven and his blond hair was cropped short. Being of average height and build, there was nothing outward to distinguish him from most men, but his bearing and voice demanded obedience. He was a man used to command.

  ‘We have lost South Africa, but not our homeland,’ Beckmann said.

  ‘We are outnumbered no matter where we go,’ a voice answered, ‘and the world rules against us.’

  Beckmann folded his arms across his chest and looked toward Pretoria. ‘We created this country and we gave it wealth. We brought civilization to this land.’ The men listened as he repeated the litany at the heart of their beliefs. ‘I cannot change what has happened but I can restore our heartland.’

  ‘How?’ a single voice challenged from the rear.

  ‘Give me Prime,’ Beckmann answered, ‘and I will carve out the Boerstaat and give you a home, a nation.’ He waited for those who understood Prime to explain it to the others. It was a long discussion and the first light of dawn was breaking the eastern horizon.

  ‘But Prime is not a weapon,’ a voice said.

  Beckmann stared over their heads. ‘I can turn it into a powerful weapon.’

  ‘But the world is against us,’ the same voice said. ‘We will never have a homeland.’

  ‘The world understands power. With Prime they will honor our existence and the Boerstaat will be a reality.’

  ‘It is a dream,’ another voice said. ‘A hopeless dream.’

  ‘Apartheid is dead,’ Beckmann said. ‘Now we must create the politics of survival. Give me Prime and the Boerstaat will not be a dream. You will have a country to raise your children in.’

  The sun rose further over the eastern horizon as the men formed a new covenant.

  *

  Thursday, July 31

  Fredericksburg, Virginia

  *

  The old man was standing in the rose garden and addressed the bush in front of him with the same solemnity as he would a prime minister or foreign head of state. After serving in the State Department for twenty-five years, then as ambassador to the former Soviet Union and Japan, and finally as Secretary of State to the late President Pontowski, the tall and elderly statesman wasn’t about to change his habits. Besides, the rose bush deserved the respect he was paying it.

  His wife, working nearby on an equally beautiful and prized rose, shook her head and snipped a dying blossom, letting it fall to the ground. ‘Cyrus!’ she fumed, determined to get on with deadheading their roses. ‘Quit daydreaming about smooth-legged, young girls. You are past it, you know.’

  Cyrus Piccard arched one of his bushy white eyebrows at Jessica. After forty-one years of marriage his wife still surprised him. He hadn’t been thinking about girls in the least. He was thinking about Matthew Zachary Pontowski III, the grandson of the late President.

  Retirement in the elegant colonial house on the outskirts of Fredericksburg was wearing for the old man, and his head, with its heavy mane of gray hair, seemed more bent lately. He needed something to do before he drove Jessica crazy. Again, his wife surprised him. ‘You want to make one more king, don’t you?’

  She’s right, Piccard admitted to himself. He did want to create another President of the United States.

  ‘Then you had better get on with it,’ Jessica continued, not needing an answer. ‘You haven’t got much time left.’

  Piccard’s blue eyes came alive and his lanky, slightly potbellied body straightened. Suddenly, his left hand flashed out and with a decisive clip of his small pruning shears, he decapitated the rose. The cut was at exactly the proper angle and height. The blossom tumbled to the ground. Now a new flower would bud and bloom before the end of the season. ‘Long live the king,’ he announced.

  ‘Is it Matt?’ his wife asked.

  ‘Who else is there?’ he replied.

  Chapter 1

  Friday, August 8

  Johannesburg, South Africa

  *

  Colonel John Author MacKay, United States Army, stood at the curb and waited for the minibus taxi that would take him to Katlehong, the embattled black township southeast of Johannesburg. As expected, the metered cabs that served mostly whites ignored him and sped by. But as it was early-afternoon, the empty minibuses were aggressively trolling the streets in a vain attempt to hook riders. The drivers honked and jammed up traffic as they searched for fares, while the pirate cabs boldly challenged the licensed, legal taxis. It was unregulated competition gone mad.

  He split his attention while he waited. One half of his mind worked the current problem — making contact with the right taxi — while the other half roamed elsewhere. Equal opportunity with a vengeance got me here, he decided.

  MacKay had come a long way out of the ghetto of Washington D.C., where he had been another black teenager caught in the cycle of poverty, crime, and hopelessness that defined his neighborhood. But he had been blessed with a strong-willed mother who held her family together after his father had disappeared. His harsh, scarred looks had caused him untold grief until high school. Then one day, he realized that along with his large size, he was well-coordinated and smart. To be more accurate, a teacher had him tested and discovered that he possessed an I.Q. of 140. He was brilliant. He still recalled her words, ‘Use what you got. Don’t waste it.’

  When a cousin came home on leave from the Army, MacKay had listened to his stories and found his own way out of the ghetto. With the help of the same teacher, he had transferred to another high school, excelled in sports, and made the honor roll. In his junior year, he had applied for West Point and wasn’t surprised when the Army offered him an appointment — if he could qualify for admission. He did.

  That was over twenty years ago, he thought, one part of his attention still on the traffic. Where did the time go? Now he was standing on a street corner in Johannesburg with the alias John Arthur. The choice of name was deliberate because agents had been known to forget their cover names at the most inopportune times. By using a name close to his own, John Author, and since it would take a sharp ear to key on the difference should he fumble, he sidestepped a common occupational hazard that often got agents killed.

  An approaching light-blue minibus brought his mind back to the present. A quick glance at the license plate confirmed it was the taxi he had been waiting for. It stopped and he climbed in, ducking to clear his head. There were times when his height was a disadvantage.

  ‘Eight rand, man,’ the black driver said, demanding the fare be paid up front. In the crazy taxi wars that often resulted in a shoot-out and dead passengers, paying in advance was considered a prudent, if not essential, business practice. But eight rand was twice the normal fare.

  ‘That’s inflation for you,’ MacKay replied. The driver took the fare and nodded. They had successfully exchanged recognition signals. The taxi shot out into traffic as the driver shoved a small pistol back into his waistband. MacKay’s bona fides were correct, which was fortunate for the driver because in the close confines of the minivan MacKay could easily have taken the automatic and killed him. MacKay was relieved it hadn’t come to that.

  The driver turned, now very friendly once the formalities were out of the way, and flashed a smile at MacKay. ‘Baas, you not African. Where you from?’

  MacKay fell into his cover story of businessman from the United States. ‘Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,’ he answered.

  ‘I didn’t know they had niggers there,’ the driver said.

  The old anger flashed through MacKay a
t the hated word. How often had it been hurled at him by racist whites and the bros? Then he realized the word didn’t carry the same power for the driver. ‘Nigger is a bad word in the States,’ he explained. ‘We call ourselves African-Americans.’

  The driver roared with laughter. ‘That’s dumb, baas. A man can only live in one place.’ He fell silent, thinking. Finally, he said, ‘I feel sorry for you. You don’t know where you from. I got to know where I from to be happy. You American.’

  That caught MacKay’s attention since he had always thought of himself as an African-American. Yet on the continent of his ancestors, he was only the latter half. MacKay had never spent much time agonizing over questions of identity, but the driver’s words had upset him. Then it came to him. The driver was fixed in the present, anchored to his family, clan, and tribe. He had a place he knew as home. MacKay was still searching for his.

  The taxi stopped and picked up another passenger. The well-dressed man MacKay had saved from the tsotsis in Soweto climbed in and the driver stomped the accelerator. He overtook another minibus as they hurtled down the street. MacKay held on. ‘Do they all drive like this, Charles?’ he asked the newcomer.

  ‘Mr Arthur doesn’t like our Zola Budds,’ Charles told the driver. The minibuses drove at breakneck speed and were nicknamed Zola Budds after the barefoot woman Olympic runner from South Africa. The two men laughed. ‘All must appear normal,’ Charles explained. ‘We are two passengers riding together. We can talk until we reach Katlehong. BOSS is still a problem.’

  Charles used the old name for the Directorate of National Intelligence when it had been called BOSS, the Bureau of State Security. MacKay understood the fear blacks still carried of South Africa’s intelligence organization. BOSS had been very efficient at identifying politically active Africans and turning them over to the SAP, the South African Police. Once in the hands of the SAP, an African could expect very rough treatment. While the reports of torture and death had ended with the defeat of apartheid, the fear had lingered on.