The ambassador shifted his weight in the seat and flipped through the file he had been given
earlier in the day. “Francis Vanderveen was promoted to major general in the spring of 1975,
four months before Madeline’s death. Up until this time, South Africa’s white population was
protected from hostile African lands by a ring of buffer states that fell under Afrikaner control.
Two of those states were Mozambique and Angola, both of which were governed in the early
1970s by Portugal.
“In 1974, economic instability led to a military coup in Lisbon. This effectively cut off all funds
to Portugal’s foreign interests, including the army. When the Portuguese commanders in both
colonies realized that they were about to lose control of the coastal territories, they agreed to set
dates for independence: June of 1975 for Mozambique and November of that same year for
Angola.”
“Sir, what does this have to do with Francis Vanderveen?” Kealey asked.
“Hold on, I’m getting to that. Some level of authority over these two states was deemed
necessary at the top levels of the South African government. After all, their very vision of a white
South Africa was at stake. An agreement was quickly reached between the prime minister, John
Vorster, and Samora Machel, the rebel leader in Mozambique. Angola was less receptive to the
South African proposals, so the land was up for grabs. There were three main parties vying for
control of the territory: the rebel-led MPLA, which was backed by the Soviet Union and the
Cubans; the FNLA, headed by Holden Roberto and supported primarily by the United States;
and UNITA, a centrist organization under the control of a Swiss-educated lawyer named
Savimbi.”
Naomi was visibly surprised. “I thought the U.S. government was pretty adamant in its criticism
of apartheid. Why would Washington intervene?”
“From our point of view, the South Africans were the lesser of two evils,” the ambassador
explained. “The MPLA was well funded by two Communist governments, and there was a good
chance they were going to come out on top. We wanted to limit Communist exposure on the
African continent, and to do that, we were forced to deal. But it wasn’t actually Washington that
stepped in. I’ll explain in a moment.
“Anyway, once Vorster decided to invade, he was offered support by both the French and the
Americans. In late 1974, the French government organized a meeting between Savimbi’s
UNITA and the South African Bureau for State Security. Francis Vanderveen was one of the
first officials invited. Once in Paris, he accused the French foreign minister of trying to ride his
army’s coattails into Cabinda, which is an oil-rich enclave of Angola. He was right, of course,
but he ruined any potential alliance with the French.”
“So he was stuck with us,” Ryan offered.
“Exactly,” Martins agreed. “And it didn’t seem like such a bad deal at first. The CIA had
purchased radio stations and newspapers to run propaganda against the MPLA. The Agency
certainly seemed to be doing its part. Vanderveen was selected to lead the invasion force. The
prize, of course, was the capital, Luanda. His armored column crossed into Angola on the 23rd
of October 1975, and he easily won the first battles at Sa da Bandiera and Namibe, encountering
almost no resistance at all. As his forces pushed north toward Benguela, though, things began to
change.”
Ambassador Martins stood up and moved to his desk. Unlocking one of the drawers, he came
back to the seating area with a small tin box in his hands. Placing it gently on the coffee table, he
took his seat once again.
“After our meeting this morning, my people began tracking down William Vanderveen’s
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surviving relatives. Only one could be found on his father’s side: Deborah Poole, neé
Vanderveen, the general’s sister. She’s well on in years now, but she was more than willing to talk
with the young man who came out to interview her. And she gave him this.”
The ambassador produced a small silver key and unlocked the box. Then he turned it so that
Naomi and Ryan could see the contents.
Kealey leaned forward and picked up the first document. After unfolding the stained, torn
paper, he began to read.
My Dearest Julienne,
We are now entrenched in a muddy field outside Novo Redondo. What you would see, if you
were here, would not resemble much of an army at all. We have almost no ammunition or fuel
due to our waffling politicians. The men are down to one meal a day, and lucky to get that. In all
my years as a soldier, I have never felt as unappreciated as I do now.
A man from the American CIA came to look at our maps and give us his educated opinion. I
told him that we needed supplies more than anything else, and he laughed in my face. I was told
that it is a lost cause, that reclaiming Angola is no longer “politically expedient.” I said that he
would feel differently if he had fought over hundreds of kilometers to protect his country.
Julie, I would say this only to you, but I think that we must have them if we are to reach Luanda.
It is more than physical supplies: Vorster needs the U.S. after the war as well, and he can’t afford
for this campaign to go on. If the Americans were to give him their full support, we would have
victory and I would be back at home, where I belong.
That they would abandon us now is unspeakably treacherous to me.
I miss you and William very much. I’ll see you both soon.
Love always,
Francis
Ryan finished the letter and handed it over to Naomi. Selecting another from the box, he read
through it quickly. The content was much the same.
“My God,” Naomi murmured after a moment. The ambassador cleared his throat gently,
causing both his guests to look up.
“Needless to say, the American support never arrived. It was an Agency operation from the
start, black on black. Washington was never involved. Of course, once Congress found out
about it, they quickly put an end to things. Officially, the Senate voted to stop all U.S. aid to
anti-MPLA forces on the 18th of December 1975. In truth, however, the damage was already
done. Once Vanderveen’s column reached Benguela, the MPLA launched a massive
counterattack. The rebels had Cuban troop reinforcements and Soviet artillery on their side,
whereas Vanderveen was struggling with unreliable supply lines and political indecision in
Pretoria. He was forced to pull back his army on the 10th of November. During this time, his
letters to Julienne became increasingly bitter, particularly with respect to the Americans.
“Five days later, the general’s helicopter was hit by small-arms fire as it left a camp just south of
Cubal. Francis Vanderveen and twelve other soldiers died in the ensuing crash.”
“Unbelievable,” Naomi said softly. Ryan said nothing. He could guess what was coming next.
The ambassador paused for a moment to let the information sink in. Finally, he said, “There
were some communication issues that made notification impossible. It wasn’t until two weeks
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later that the widow was informed. The defense minister broke the news himself, I’m told, in
light of Vanderveen’s rank and stature. I suppose it turned out to be too much for Julienne. As I
said, she was already devastated over her daughter’s death. Losing her husband must have been
the final straw. She committed suicide that same night. According to Mrs. Poole, it was also the
last time anyone saw young William in Piet Retief.”
Naomi shook her head slowly. Ryan remained silent. He was beginning to put the pieces
together in his mind, but he wanted to hear the ambassador say it first.
Martins studied them each in turn. “Unfortunately, this is where the facts end. Anything else is
pure speculation, but I have an opinion, if you’d like to hear it.”
Naomi nodded once. “Please, Ambassador.”
“I think there’s a good chance that William Vanderveen saw these letters,” Martins said, gently
resting a hand on the small tin box. “I also think that he probably had something to do with his
sister’s death, not to mention what happened to the young man she was seeing. I believe William
may have taken what he wanted from his father’s words, because doing so would have been a
good deal easier than shouldering the blame himself. In my opinion, Will Vanderveen found
exactly what he was looking for in the United States: an outlet for his rage. And he’s not going to
stop until everyone knows how he feels.”
CHAPTER 21
PRETORIA ? TAJIKISTAN ? LANGLEY
For Ryan Kealey and Naomi Kharmai, South Africa had yielded its secrets, and had nothing left
to offer. As their meeting with the ambassador drew to a close, Gillian Farris began to make the
arrangements for their return to Washington. When the embassy car was ready to depart for
Johannesburg International late that afternoon, her hand rested in Ryan’s for a very long time.
Gillian was sorry to see him go.
Naomi fell into a deep sleep on the short ride south, leaving Ryan alone with his troubled
thoughts. He wasn’t sure how to proceed. As his mind struggled for answers, Naomi’s words
came back to him, but with a taunting edge that had been absent in her spoken voice: “What do
we really know now that we didn’t know before? His real name? It’s not like that’ll be the one
he’s using…”
The name was important to Kealey because it offered some small measure of relief from the
feeling of impotence that had plagued him for years. Now that he had the truth, though, he
wasn’t sure what to do with it.
It had become clear to Ryan during the ambassador’s recitation that William Vanderveen
blamed the West — or more specifically, the United States — for what had happened to his
family. It was also clear that Vanderveen had joined the army of a country he hated for only one
reason: to learn the skills that he would ultimately twist to use against his unsuspecting
benefactors.
With this thought, Ryan found his thoughts drifting back to Vanderveen’s intentions in
Washington. Needless to say, it was a huge risk for the man to return to the city, so whatever he
had planned would have to be worth that risk. Stephen Gray’s final words echoed in his ears
with the steady rhythm of a dripping tap: The shipment has landed in Washington… He already
has what he needs. The last shipment to arrive in Washington was an unspecified amount of
explosives. Would he be arrogant enough to try the same thing, perhaps sneaking it ahead of the
increased security at the ports?
Could it have come in on the same shipment as the first explosives that were used?
In his former life, Vanderveen had been a highly skilled Special Forces engineer. As such, he had
the patience and the specialized knowledge to carry off a successful attempt on the president’s
life. Ryan thought the man would fall back on what he knew, despite his sniper training at
Benning. He decided that he could only trust his instincts, since he had no proof either way.
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He tried not to think about what might happen if he was wrong, or if he was right but not fast
enough in putting it together.
As he leaned back in the comfortable seat and tried to follow Naomi’s example, Ryan decided
that it was time to pay Thomas Elgin another visit.
As the Boeing 747 carrying the two CIA officers lifted into the clear night sky above the lights of
Johannesburg, Will Vanderveen emerged from the depths of the Tian Shan mountains, following
Ayman al-Zawahiri into the quiet hollows of the surface caves. The ground was littered with cots
and sleeping men. The stench from their unwashed bodies filled the air, despite the cold and the
open space.
“You will get 45,000 U.S. dollars for expenses, then,” al-Zawahiri said in a low voice. “In five
installments of 9,000 dollars each, all to the same account.” A small frown moved over his face.
“We will need Mazaheri to move it.”
Vanderveen continued as though he hadn’t heard. “Make sure that the funds are routed through
Western Europe, preferably England or France. American banks are required to report lump
sum deposits of 10,000 dollars or more to the government. By keeping the deposits under that
amount, we remove some of the risk, but there is still some danger in using the one account.
Unfortunately, I have very few complete identities. Creating a full legend takes time, which is the
one thing we don’t have. In less than a month’s time, the itinerary will be useless.”
They moved out of the caves and into the clearing, walking quickly through the cold night air
toward the massive canvas tent and the steady hum of the generators.
“Will he keep to the schedule?”
“He has so far.”
“And you think it can be done?”
“There are no guarantees, but we will never have a better opportunity. I believe it can be done.”
The Egyptian did not respond as they moved gratefully into the stale warmth of the tent. The
radio operator pulled back the curtain and waved for his commander’s attention. A moment
later, al-Zawahiri was calling for the American.
Vanderveen walked into the cramped room and took the proffered sheet of paper. He scanned
it quickly, but one name stood out from the rest. He stared at it in disbelief.
“Kealey.”
“You recognize this name?”
“Yes,” was the strained response. “Where did this come from?”
“The information came out of South Africa. We have somebody in the embassy there.”
“Is he reliable?” Vanderveen asked.
“Completely. He works for money… They are usually the best,” al-Zawahiri said. A brief pause.
“Does this present a problem?”
Vanderveen did not respond for a long time. “No… no problem.”
“Perhaps it would be better for us to remain in contact, so that we can inform you of his
movements.” This was said with some insistence.
“No, he won’t be staying in Africa. Besides, it’s too dangerous. We can’t risk everything on a
phone call — I can’t even begin to guess at the NSA’s capabilities, especially in the D.C. area.
You won’t be hearing from me until it’s over.”
Al-Zawahiri did not respond. Instead, he turned to stare at the radio operator, who quickly
stood up and stepped outside. Only then did the physician turn his attention back to
Vanderveen. “That is unacceptable. We need Mazaheri’s people to move the funds. He will want
assurances.”
“There are no assurances.” Vanderveen was growing impatient. “We’ve been over this
already—”
The other man held up a placating hand. “You will be given a number to call. The minister has
