Harker was impressed with her general knowledge. He said: ‘But that sort of thing happens all over the world when a state of emergency is declared. However, I doubt that parliament is irrelevant. I agree that in matters of security the State Security Council bypasses parliament, but I don’t believe that they are above the law.’
Josephine said: ‘You don’t think that the South African police has a hit-squad of two? Boys in dark sunglasses who knock off the odd enemy of the apartheid state?’
Harker shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Nor the army? The army hasn’t got Special Forces capable of hit-and-run skulduggery?’
Harker dearly wished to change the subject. ‘Of course, all armies have. Like the British SAS, the American Green Berets. But hit-squads? No.’
Josephine had her hands clasped beneath her chin, eyes bright. Then: ‘Not even with the policy of Total Onslaught, Total Strategy inaugurated by your President P.W. Botha ten years ago – in 1978 to be exact. The ends justify the means – any means?’
Harker shook his head, and took a sip of wine. ‘Not “any means”.’
Josephine looked at him, very polite. ‘But what about the bomb that exploded at the ANC headquarters in London in 1982? Who did that? And who blew up Cosatu House last year in downtown Johannesburg – the headquarters of the Congress of South African Trade Unions? The Boy Scouts? And who blew up Khotso House only last year, the headquarters of the South Africa Council of Churches – also alleged to be the underground headquarters of the ANC?’ She smiled at him. ‘President Botha blamed it on “the Godless communists”.’ She snorted. ‘What crap. As if the communists would blow up the ANC’s headquarters – their ally. And what about Khanya House, the united church’s building in Pretoria, a couple of months later? And what about Dulcie September? And what about the beautiful Jeanette Schoon, who worked for the British Volunteer Service in Angola, got blown to bits with her little daughter by a parcel bomb. You remember that case, only last year?’
Harker remembered reading about it. He had attributed it to rogue cops. ‘Yes.’
‘Who do you think sent the Schoons that nice parcel bomb? Father Christmas? And what about Albie Sachs, the ANC lawyer in Mozambique, somebody rigged a bomb to his car last year which blew his arm off when he opened the door. Who did that, d’you think?’ She frowned. ‘Albie Sachs was the sixth senior ANC official to be targeted in foreign countries.’ She looked at him. ‘Doesn’t that suggest to you that there is a department in the South African government that specializes in that sort of thing?’
Harker badly wanted to get off this subject. ‘That could all be the work of individual rogue cops acting on their own initiatives.’
Josephine smiled and sat back. ‘Come on. Taking all the evidence together, the irresistible conclusion seems to be that the Total Strategy means the police and army can do what they goddam like to combat the perceived enemy.’ Josephine took a sip of wine. ‘Anyway, what’s your opinion of the anti-apartheid movement?’
Harker was relieved to change the focus of the subject. ‘They do important work, raising public awareness.’
Josephine looked surprised. ‘Really? Would you be prepared to join us? Work with us?’
Harker could almost hear Dupont and the Chairman whooping in glee. He said, ‘Sure, though I don’t know how much practical work I could do.’
Her demeanour had changed. ‘Oh, your name as a publisher would help us a lot. We’ve got some famous companies and organizations supporting us. And seen being associated with a good organization like ours would surely do Harvest House some good.’
Harker inwardly sighed. ‘Quite possibly.’
She hesitated, then said, ‘And if a good anti-apartheid book were written, you would consider publishing it?’
Christ, what would the Chairman think about that? ‘If I considered it a commercially profitable book, yes. Indeed that –’ be indicated the folder containing her typescript – ‘is what I hoped this meeting today was about.’
Josephine evidently had decided suddenly that this South African was okay. ‘Oh yes, but I wasn’t sure it would be your kind of book, you being a heavy-duty battle-scarred war veteran and all that jazz.’ She grinned. ‘Thought maybe I was barking up the wrong tree.’ She leant forward earnestly. ‘I hope I didn’t offend you?’
‘Not at all.’ Harker smiled. Very relieved to be off the subject of South African hit-squads. He added, to ease his conscience about raising false hopes, ‘However, a bigger publisher may do better for you than Harvest House. But your literary agent will advise you on all that, of course.’
She said earnestly, ‘But I’d really like to give you first go at it, I mean, being a South African you know what I’m talking about, you’d be very helpful editorially.’
I’m a bastard, getting this woman’s hopes up, Harker thought. But he would be able to pass the buck to his editor. ‘Well, let’s drink to that prospect.’ He raised his glass.
‘Right!’ Josephine picked up hers and they clinked across the table. ‘Oh,’ she beamed, ‘this is exciting. I’m going to go home and work like hell on my revisions. Can we meet again next week, so I can show the first few chapters to you without dying of embarrassment?’
Harker grinned. ‘Same time, same place?’
‘Perfect. And I’ll be paying!’
‘You will not.’ The South African taxpayer was paying. Harker was very pleased she had relaxed. She’s a volatile one, he thought. He was pleased not because he was fulfilling Dupont’s orders so unexpectedly easily, but because he really wanted to meet her again next week. Even if, regrettably, he might never get laid now that their relationship had unfortunately degenerated into a potential one of publisher and author – Ms Josephine Franklin Valentine looked too smart to make the mistake of sleeping with her mentor. Authors like to keep their publishers on pedestals. But had she not screwed plenty of army officers for helicopter rides into battle-zones? He said: ‘So, shall we order?’
‘I feel like getting drunk first!’
Harker laughed. ‘So do I.’ He beckoned to their waiter and pointed at the wine bottle for a replacement. He turned to Josephine. ‘So,’ he said, not for duty’s sake, ‘tell me why you got deported from South Africa.’
‘The cops raided my hotel room, confiscated my writing and escorted me on to an aircraft to London.’
‘But what had you done to make them raid your hotel room?’
Josephine smiled. God, she was beautiful.
‘When the Soweto riots broke out in South Africa – turmoil. I flew down to Johannesburg to get some action. I had to tag along behind the press corps – not being a full-blooded journalist accredited to any newspaper I was vulnerable. Anyway, there I was, a hanger-on, and the police commander called a press conference to explain to the world why so many blacks had been killed in Soweto that day. And I had the audacity to say: “But Brigadier Swanepoel, couldn’t you have used rubber bullets instead of real ones?” And Brigadier Swanepoel looked at me with