The Blockade Runners Page 2

  ‘I’m going to be working for the Rhodesians?’ His voice rose in inflection.

  The first hint of irritation appeared on Muller’s face.

  ‘Yes and no. Primarily, you will still be working for us. Anything to do with Rhodesia will be handled by your special department. However, the interaction necessary between you and the Rhodesians, in particular the Rhodesian Central Intelligence Organisation, requires that you be given some military status. I’m told that you are to be seconded to the Rhodesian Air Force as a Flight Lieutenant. There is no intention that you should fly their aircraft or participate in any military manœuvres. This is merely to facilitate interaction with their various undercover divisions, which are run on military lines, as is their police force.’

  David was astounded. ‘But I don’t know any of these people. I’m not even a Rhodesian. I’ve never even been there.’

  This did not seem to perturb the MD.

  ‘You will be introduced to those that I’ve mentioned. You’re an essential part of a team that Butler is assembling, but more of that later.’ He paused. ‘This will entail a good deal of travel on both of your passports. We know that besides your South African passport, you hold a German passport as well. You will halt all your activities with the South African Air Force. Don’t concern yourself; we have already been in touch with them. I might add that the Air Force has sanctioned this ‘somewhat unorthodox transfer’, as they put it, and they will accept your resignation and confirm that on application at some later stage you will be accepted back with your previous rank at least. The South African government considers Rhodesia an ally and what you will be doing is indirectly of strategic importance to South Africa. Do you accept?’

  He was stuck dumb. The entire room looked at him and waited for his reply.

  Finally, he spoke.

  ‘Just a question or two, if I may. Why’s this being done through the bank and not directly by the government? And why my resignation?’

  ‘The government intends to keep a very low profile. They wish to create the impression that they have no knowledge of this and that you are acting on your own initiative. It would be embarrassing if it were to be discovered that a South African military officer was in any way involved in a sanctions-busting exercise. They will also add a Rhodesian passport to your collection.’

  ‘Acting on my own initiative?’

  Muller sighed. ‘Calm down, Tusk. Sometime in the future, this will stand you in good stead. We just want to know whether you are prepared to accept.’

  Good God, he was well aware that were he to refuse, he would be shooting himself in the foot and throwing his career out the window. This sounded like a Mafia option. They weren’t asking him. They were telling him. But then, why not? He wasn’t married. He had no real relationships. It was all a bit of a Hobson’s choice, wasn’t it?

  ‘It sounds attractive, but it won’t harm my banking career if the British get to know of me?’

  Hell, had he actually said it sounded attractive?

  ‘Tusk, let me personally assure you – how do I put it? It will definitely lend your career tremendous impetus.’ Robert Muller emphasised the last two words and leant over him with raised eyebrows and a smile revealing his top four incisors as well as both canines.

  David hesitated and then threw caution to the wind.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘Good man.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ was murmured around the table.

  ‘I need not say you appreciate the need for utmost secrecy. Not a word to anyone. This is serious. The British will not take kindly to what you will be doing. We don’t quite know yet how we will go about things, but meanwhile just carry on with what you have been doing. You do have an understudy, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir, a Mr Hartman.’

  ‘Good. A capable man, I presume?’

  ‘Yes, very capable, in fact.’

  ‘Rest assured that should your new duties take you elsewhere, your position will not be given to another, and Hartman will merely stand in for you. Thank you. You may go now.’ Muller rose from his chair. ‘Not a word.’ He came round the table to shake David’s hand. ‘Oh, by the way, others will want to know why you were here. Just say that we are investigating a foreign exchange fraud at one of our branches and that, at this stage, you are not allowed to disclose any details.’

  It was well after six when he left the bank.

  The usual late-afternoon thundershower for which Johannesburg is renowned had come and gone. The streets were still wet, the gutters washed clean, the smog gone. He hardly noticed what was going on around him, his thought absorbed by the afternoon’s developments.

  He realised that the bank had a predicament. Whilst he was a South African, many of the newly recruited bankers were British. It seemed unwise to inform them that the bank proposed to assist the Rhodesians. Surely, their allegiances would lie with Great Britain.

  The board obviously considered that he spoke perfect English with the right upper-class accent, a consequence of the private schools he had attended. His stepfather had been a student at Oxford and was a stickler for the proper use of the Queen’s English. Even family correspondence was duly corrected in red ink and returned if it contained errors. You chose your words and pronunciation carefully in his presence as he would interrupt any misuse of the mother tongue. This was just one of his stepfather’s many idiosyncrasies.

  Years before, being only twenty-two and just out of university after four gruelling years, he needed to let his hair down and decided to travel Europe. His sojourn was brief and it ended on his mother’s Parisian doorstep with nary a sou.

  His relationship with his stepfather had always been untenable and, finally ignoring his mother’s pleas to stay, he left. Other than the little money his mother had surreptitiously slipped him, he arrived in London nearly destitute. Without a work permit, he was fortunate enough to find illegal employment as a bookkeeper with a firm of leather merchants who paid him the princely sum of £14/10/- per week. Being an illegal employee, they deducted no tax from his earnings.

  The owner of the company, Lionel Harris, was a kind, compassionate man who treated David as his own, even inviting him to his home in Hampstead for the festive season. The Harris family were distinguished members of North London’s Jewish community, originally from Germany, and still able to speak Yiddish. Lionel had lost many of his family to the Holocaust, leaving David with an undeserved sense of guilt brought on by his German origins. They certainly did not celebrate Christmas, which he did not miss, but made up for it with sumptuous meals. They doted upon him and went out of their way to make his stay pleasant.

  There he had met Joanna, Lionel’s eldest daughter, a twenty-year-old dark-haired beauty. At the time, she was besotted with an Israeli she met when spending a year on a kibbutz, adamant that she would return permanently to Tel Aviv. Her father, afraid that she would be caught up in the ever-threatening Arab-Israeli conflicts, was desperately trying to stop her.

  Out of courtesy, David invited her to a Saturday night party he and his flatmates in Hampstead had organised. To his surprise, she arrived. His good sense diluted by too many beers, he recklessly made a play for her and she responded. This led to greater things and, initially, Lionel encouraged what he saw as a romance, hoping she would decide that she no longer had any interest in Israel or the chap she had met there. As their relationship intensified however, religion began to rear its head. It all came to a boil when her mother demanded outright whether they were sleeping together. Her parents’ support evaporated overnight and when the relationship continued, they shipped her off to an uncle in Manila in desperation. They even phoned David’s mother, an ardent Catholic, in Paris, who was equally opposed to his relationship with a Jewess.

  One day, in the Evening Standard, he noticed the Republic Bank in South Africa was advertising for staff.

  His banking experience and language skills, which included fluent Afrikaans, his possession of a South Africa
n passport, and a full head of steam, found him on a plane to Bloemfontein, South Africa, with two months’ salary in his pocket, paid as a settling-in allowance.

  He and Joanna had had a close and vibrant relationship. With her no longer there and he unable to communicate with her left him lonely and frustrated. Also, as he was ever so often reminded that at stage, if he were to return to South Africa, a two-year military stint was in the cards. When a bout of homesickness added to his feelings of misery, he decided it was time to go home.

  A month later he arrived in Johannesburg. The military authorities would soon seek him out, so he reported to the South African Air Force recruitment authorities at Waterkloof, Pretoria.

  CHAPTER 2

  The few months after the boardroom meeting saw dramatic changes. Rhodesia still dominated the headlines. Ian Smith unilaterally declared independence, quickly dubbed ‘UDI’ by the newspapers.

  This had not surprised David.

  The British government, pressurised by the black African countries becoming newly independent, did not hesitate to rope in the support of the United Nations, which imposed a worldwide embargo on Rhodesia. The Rhodesian dollar was a banned currency and could no longer find any takers in the financial world. South African was to play an important role here. With her positive balance of payments, including her gold sales, she could support Rhodesia by converting the Rhodesian currency necessary to pay for imports. It was a foregone conclusion that the South African Nationalist government, with its apartheid policy, would support Rhodesia. What was surprising was that South Africa failed to recognise the new state officially, yet openly resisted the embargo.

  David realised that were he on British soil, he would be breaking the law; but as a South African, he felt a kinship with his neighbours.

  The extraordinary fact of his being singled out imbued him with a degree of importance. This was what he wanted to do. Once the furore was over, his future was guaranteed.

  If he could pull this off.

  Like most, he believed the Rhodesian problem would soon be resolved. It was the Labour government and Harold Wilson who were the problem.

  David handed his department over to Hartman, a Dutch national also recruited abroad, who would be working closely with him. They had an excellent rapport, strengthened by the fact that Hartman knew his advancement was due to David’s support. David, in turn, moved to the sixth floor, to an executive office, with a private secretary and two assistants. The true symbol of his ascent was his own underground parking spot in the executive section. Now a member of the inner circle, senior colleagues embraced him as one of their own.

  Over a few beers after work, a friend and former colleague said, ‘Your eyes have suddenly become very blue. Better watch out you don’t get too infatuated with your own importance.’

  David soon learnt that the business world did not care for embargoes. They impacted negatively on their ability to make money. Embargoes are the work of politicians who are reliant on the vote of the man on the street; yet, they bow to pressure from their electorate simply to mollify their supporters and gain additional support.

  There was any number of businesses still ready to sell their goods and even buy Rhodesia’s exports, provided there was a way to do it. Selling goods to these countries carried a premium. The pariah nations were prepared to pay handsomely, guaranteeing excellent profits.

  Individual Rhodesians lost no time setting up mechanisms enabling them to continue to do business with the world. Shippers with quickly registered South African shadow companies arranged finance for their Rhodesian clients. These companies acted as South African confirming houses and shippers and, with the full knowledge of the bank, applied for letters of credit, arranged for import bills of exchange, and dealt in foreign currencies. Goods were imported through South African ports, all the documentation indicating that these were intended for internal consumption within South Africa. Once unloaded in South African ports, these goods moved on to Rhodesia by train and road. Similarly, Rhodesian tobacco, chrome, platinum and other goods were issued with fictitious South African certificates of origin and shipped as South African exports from Durban and Cape Town, often on British-registered ships. Most goods still stemmed from the United Kingdom, where the industrialists were well aware of their final destination but provided documentation showed that these were destined for South Africa anyhow.

  In other words, business as usual.

  This attitude frustrated the British government no end. Their industrialists did not give a damn, ever-ready to earn a quick buck and to hell with sanctions. Many were Conservatives and unready to support a Labour government decree that they opposed. Money talked and anything could be bought, albeit at a price.

  Within a month, David’s department was humming like a well-oiled machine. His hand-picked staff supported Rhodesia and knew the importance of what they what they were doing.

  There were only three items that Rhodesians had difficulty acquiring: money, other than Rhodesian dollars; arms; and oil. As for the rest, their ingenuity knew no bounds.

  South Africa was itself still an importer of fuel and other petroleum products. Because of her apartheid policies, many oil-producing countries conformed to an international request that South Africa be embargoed, although the United Nations had yet to endorse this. The South African government lived in fear that if it were discovered they were passing on petroleum products to Rhodesia, she would also find herself a victim of a UN fuel embargo.

  A way around this problem had to be found, and rapidly.

  CHAPTER 3

  David’s arrival in Salisbury was anticipated and he was whisked through customs with no undue scrutiny. When the Rhodesians heard him speak, they became suspicious of him. He was not a resident, his Oxford accent was too British; there was no way he was South African. The rumour mills were rife with stories of British undercover agents and some mistook David for the same.

  ‘Mr Tusk, welcome to Rhodesia.’

  The young man who shook David’s hand was dressed in khaki shorts and shirt with long socks that reached to just below the knee, typical civilian attire of the Rhodesian police.

  ‘Please follow me.’

  A nondescript, grey Peugeot 404 waited at the main exit to the airport. David climbed into the rear seat, the young man sitting in beside him. The black driver drove off. Nobody spoke. The young man kept turning around to look through the rear window.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ David finally asked.

  ‘No, not really. Just checking whether we are being followed.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ David exclaimed.

  ‘Mr Tusk, these are strange times and while you may not realise it, you are rapidly becoming a man to be watched. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Brits haven’t started wondering who you are. There must be at least one individual in your bank who is passing information.’

  David was shocked. He had not thought of that.

  The car took them to the centre of a city bustling with activity. Cars filled the streets and people, predominantly black, thronged the pavements. There was no indication here that the country had been ostracised. Rhodesians, both black and white, were renowned for their friendliness and nothing appeared to have changed. The Peugeot came to a halt in front of an imperious building, obviously housing some governmental department since the new Rhodesian coat-of-arms already emblazoned the main entrance.

  They entered the lift after passing thought stringent security checks.

  ‘Where am I?’ David asked.

  ‘This is the Department of Trade and Industries.’

  A receptionist led them down a long carpeted corridor into a boardroom where three men were already seated. One was dressed in a dark suit and David realised that this had to be Mr Lionel Butler, the Rhodesian Minister of Trade and Industries. The other two were dressed in beige trousers with matching bush jackets.

  All rose when he entered.

  ‘Good to finally meet you, Mr Tusk. This i
s John Taylor and Michael Read,’ the minister said as he indicated them with a wave of his hand.

  They shook hands.

  ‘Please make yourself comfortable and use Christian names. We don’t stand on formality here,’ the minister said and chuckled, ‘This is Africa. John is an officer in the British South Africa Police and attached to our Central Intelligence Organisation, and Michael is the Coordinator for Petroleum Products, a new section within my department.’

  After some small talk centring on sport, they got down to business.

  ‘Oil. That’s our problem and you chaps don’t appear to want to help. By that, I mean your government. Sure, we understand why, but we’re not here to discuss that problem. We need to find out how we can ship our own oil purchases into our country. I understand that you have already been involved in discussions?’

  ‘Yes. I have and have twice been abroad investigating possibilities. I travelled on my German passport.’

  ‘Convenient?’

  ‘Very. The problem is not getting the oil. The problem is getting it here. The British truly believe the oil embargo will break your back. It’s a serious problem and not to be taken lightly. Scuttlebutt in the crude industry is that if caught, there will be severe ramifications for the seller. It’s not auto spares or typewriters we’re talking of smuggling.’