Roots of Outrage. John Davis Gordon
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clean clothes to go home in.
‘Now come to the ablutions and wash your old clothes.’
‘When am I seeing Colonel Krombrink?’
No answer. Mahoney wanted to seize the man. Tuesday dragged by and darkness fell and he had to clutch his face to stop himself weeping. He knew what game Krombrink was playing – Krombrink was brain-beating him with fear, with the horror of indefinite incarceration, softening him up so that he would do anything to get out of here. And, oh God, it was working. When he shaved on Wednesday morning his hand trembled so much he cut himself. His eyes were gaunt, with dark shadows. He had to clench his fist to stop himself saying to the policeman, ‘Tell Colonel Krombrink I have a statement to make.’ No, that’s not the way to be cool. Give it one more day. He’ll send for you tomorrow.
But Colonel Krombrink did not send for him on Thursday. Or on Friday. On Saturday, listening to the midday traffic, Mahoney was ready to crack.
It was mid-afternoon when Colonel Krombrink sent for him.
He was bordering on euphoria, bordering on gratitude – as he was meant to feel. He tried to play it cool.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Mahoney, have you had a good rest?’
‘Sure. Not that I needed it.’ He sat and crossed his legs.
‘You look tired. Haven’t you been sleeping?’
‘Like a baby, Colonel. Maybe I’ve been overdoing it on the exercise. Jogging on the spot, press-ups.’
‘I hope you thought while you did it. That bullshit about Mac and the cottage and your briefcase being stolen.’
He managed a frown. ‘It’s the truth!’
The colonel opened a file and withdrew a typewritten sheet. He put on his spectacles and said: ‘Mr Mahoney, we have a new charge against you. The same charge the others face.’
‘What bullshit –’
‘Forensic tests were done on your car. And under the back seat –’ he consulted the report – ‘were found numerous particles of explosives, identical to those found on Lilliesleaf Farm.’ He sat back and took off his spectacles.
Mahoney stared at him, aghast, his heart pounding. Krombrink went on: ‘The evidence at your trial will be that these explosives from Russia usually come wrapped in cheap plastic which often cracks and small crumbs fall out, hey.’ He smiled. ‘The evidence against you now is: one, that you used the cottage on Lilliesleaf Farm; two, that you wrote a story to try to blackmail the police force on a typewriter found on the farm, three, that said story was found buried on the farm which was clearly the underground headquarters of the ANC; four, that Russian-made explosives were found in and around that farmhouse; five, that traces of identical explosives were found in your car.’ He raised his eyebrows, then spread his hands. ‘And, six, that you regularly went to Swaziland and Botswana where we know there are ANC bases with supplies of explosives.’
Mahoney stared, his mind fumbling, his heart white with fear. ‘You’re lying!’ He scrambled to his feet and smashed his fist down on the desk. ‘Ridiculous! You’re lying …’
Colonel Krombrink said quietly: ‘And point number seven: you’re the lover of the notorious Patti Gandhi.’ He raised his eyebrows again. ‘Who is well known to us as an ANC operative.’
Mahoney’s mouth was dry. He smashed his hand down on the desk again and cried: ‘You’re lying! You didn’t find explosives in my car! I’ve never touched explosives in my life!’
The colonel smirked: ‘The gallows, Mr Mahoney …
‘You bastards put the explosives in my car!’
The colonel had not moved. ‘Why would we want to hang an innocent man? That doesn’t suppress terrorism, does it?’ He sighed, then sat up. ‘Mr Mahoney, either you put those explosives in your car on one of your trips with Miss Gandhi, or she did.’ He added: ‘With or without your knowledge.’
Mahoney stared. And, Jesus Christ, the bastard was trying to make him pin the explosives on her, to hang her! He rasped: ‘Patti wouldn’t have anything to do with explosives!’
‘Then you put them in your car?’
‘No! You did!’
‘Why should we waste our time framing people when we’ve got our hands full catching real terrorists – like Miss Gandhi?’
‘To blackmail me into giving information about her! And she’s not a fucking terrorist!’
Krombrink smirked. ‘There’re easier ways of getting information without resorting to the dangerous crime of blackmail. Mr Mahoney, your car was never searched at the borders, was it?’ He tapped the file. ‘They keep records at the borders of cars searched.’
‘No! And if they had they’d have found nothing!’
‘But,’ Krombrink said significantly, ‘they usually search an Indian’s car. Because you know what bladdy crooks they are.’
‘And they never found anything in her car either! Or you’d have hanged her long ago!’
‘Right,’ the colonel said. ‘They only ever found merchandise samples.’ He spread his hands. ‘If we were going to frame somebody, surely we would frame Miss Gandhi, who we know is ANC.’
Mahoney stared, Ms mind fumbling, an awful thought dawning on him that perhaps the bastard was telling the truth. He looked so convincing.
The colonel said: ‘So, who put the explosives in your car? Miss Gandhi, who knew she was likely to be searched on the border? Or you? Or both?’
Mahoney rasped desperately: ‘Neither of us!’
The colonel sat back. Then he said thoughtfully: ‘When you went on these lovers’ jaunts, were both your cars parked in the same place?’
Lovers’ jaunts. ‘Yes.’
‘But Miss Gandhi wasn’t in your company the whole time?’
‘You’re suggesting that she sneaked out and put the explosives in my car? Bullshit. You put them in my car!’
‘But she had the opportunity to instruct her ANC friends to hide explosives in your car while your back was turned?’
Mahoney glared at him. The man was offering him an escape route. And, oh God, the cleverness of the swine, planting the doubt in his mind! All he wanted was to get out of there and find out the truth. Yes, he was prepared to make bargains. But play it cool … ‘I don’t believe she did it.’
‘You don’t believe she would expose you to the death penalty?’
The words struck dread in his breast. No, he did not believe Patti would do that, but they had planted the doubt and, oh God, he would do anything to get out of there, out of South Africa. ‘That’s right, I don’t.’
‘So you did it?’ He suddenly became angry: ‘Got, man, admit it!’
It shocked him all over again – the suspicion was suddenly back on him. ‘I deny it! You planted that stuff on me!’
The colonel sneered. ‘Why d’you think she wouldn’t do that? Because she loves you? And, are you in love with her?’
Relief that the suspicion was shifting back to her. What did they want to hear? Yes, so he wouldn’t betray her and hang himself. No, so he would betray her? He tried to think fast. ‘I don’t know now.’ Doubt was what the bastard wanted to hear.
Krombrink took a breath of satisfaction. And proceeded to poison the hook. ‘Do you know what Miss Gandhi does on the nights you don’t visit her for the purpose of contravening the Immorality Act?’ He studied a typewritten page.
Mahoney’s