Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

and a matching shirt, open at the neck and loose over his hips. Gabriel detected a tell-tale rumple to the fabric over the right side. He followed Witaarde into a kitchen dominated by a plain wooden table, its worn surface scarred by what looked like decades if not hundreds of years of use.

‘Drink?’ Witaarde asked, standing by a tall refrigerator.

‘A lager would be good, if you have one.’

Witaarde smiled, running a hand over his straight dark hair, held in place by some sort of gel into a breaking wave.

‘I’m a Boer, of course I have lager!’

He took two bottles from the fridge, flipped the caps off on an opener screwed to the underside of a worktop and motioned for Gabriel to sit at the table.

‘Gesondheid,’ Gabriel said, raising the neck of the bottle and tilting it towards Witaarde.

Witaarde smiled as he clinked his own bottle against Gabriel’s.

‘Gesondheid. I appreciate a man who troubles himself with the culture of a new country.’

Gabriel took a pull on the cold lager, which was excellent: yeasty and lemony.

‘My father told me it was good manners.’

‘Your father was right. What was his line of work?’

‘He was a diplomat. Hong Kong.’

‘Ah. Another British colony vinnig afdraaide gaan. It’s what we say. You know, going downhill fast?’

Gabriel grimaced. It was hard to disagree. In recent years he’d watched as the Chinese had begun dismantling the rule of law and the former colony’s independence, despite playing lip service to the ‘one country-two systems’ mantra.

‘You think that’s bad,’ he said. ‘Have you seen what’s happening in the UK? They elected a fucking communist, for God’s sake.’

‘Yah, I saw that. You said, “they”?’

‘Yes, you know. The idiots who swallowed Tammerlane’s bullshit about free this, free that, free everything for ‘the people’. Who do they think’s paying for it all?’

Witaarde shrugged.

‘Not my fight, Brother, but I feel your pain. It’s why New Hope exists.’

Sensing that this was Witaarde’s invitation for him to start talking business, Gabriel leaned forwards across the table, pushing the half-empty bottle of lager to one side. Witaarde mirrored the gesture so their faces were only a foot or so apart.

‘My friends and I want to help you,’ Gabriel said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, even though they were alone.

‘Help me with what?’

Gabriel smiled.

‘Come on, Julius, let’s not pussyfoot around. Why do you think I came halfway around the world to meet you? Because I’m telling you, it wasn’t for the luxury travel. My kidneys feel like your dog’s been chewing on them for the last six hours.’

Witaarde smiled.

‘Why don’t you tell me what you think you know and we’ll take it from there?’

‘You are the founder of Boerevryheid an Regte, and—’

‘Wrong,’ Witaarde interrupted. ‘That was my father.’

‘My apologies. You are the leader of Boerevryheid an Regte.’

Witaarde nodded.

‘I am.’

‘You believe in the right of white South Africans to establish their own homeland, free of the corrupt control of the black-dominated ANC government in Pretoria. How am I doing so far?’

‘Very well. Tell me something, Alec. We have kept a low profile so far. How did you find out so much about us?’

Gabriel smiled and swallowed some more lager.

‘My friends and I have what you might call an intelligence department. We make it our business to know about and, if possible, befriend, those organisations around the world that share our worldview. The BVR is one of those organisations. We wish to offer you moral support and something more. May I?’ He pointed to the attaché case.

‘Please.’

Witaarde shifted his weight in his chair and his hand strayed to his hip.

Gabriel lifted the case onto the table, popped the catches, lifted the lid and swivelled the case round so Witaarde could see its contents.

He had a flashback. A former Delta Force operator named Shaun Cunningham, looking with wonder at a similar sight, moments before Sir Toby Maitland blew his head off by shooting him through the lid. He shook his head to clear the horrific image.

Witaarde closed the lid and regarded Gabriel over the top.

‘There’s twenty-five thousand US in there,’ Gabriel said. ‘A token of our goodwill. I’m sure you can put it to good use.’

Witaarde lifted the case down and placed it beside his right leg. The hand hovering by his right hip had relaxed and joined its fellow on the table top.

‘Thank you. Dankie.’

Gabriel waved his hand.

‘Call it a gesture of solidarity.’

‘Tell me, Alec, you talk about you and your friends. Who, exactly, are these “friends” and where do they get their money from?’

‘Smart question. We have been active for the last fifteen years. Our agenda is one of facilitating separatist movements who reject the global trend towards the mongrelisation of the races. Though this might surprise you, we are also happy to fund non-whites, provided they pursue a strict racist agenda.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes. Why?’

Gabriel had worked up his script with Eli before she’d left for England. They’d gone for fanatical-meets-just-this-side-of-crazy. Now he tried it out.

‘Isn’t it obvious? Look around you, Julius. Not here, in New Hope, but in the wider world. Lift your head above the horizon, beautiful though the veldt is. The world is on the brink of a catastrophe. Not climate, either. I am talking about the breakdown of human society itself. Intermingling blood is a recipe for disaster. We are sleepwalking into a racial apocalypse!’

He’d raised his voice and deliberately not wiped away the spittle that had collected at the corners of his mouth. Stopping suddenly, he looked at Witaarde, whose stark blue eyes were shining. Now he’d learn whether they’d pitched it right.

‘My friends and I believe we have a God-given duty to halt that,’ he finished.

‘Amen,’ Witaarde said, finally. ‘Amen to that, Brother. Thank you for this money. But what do you want in return?’

Gabriel shook his head sadly, letting his mouth curl downwards and his eyes grow heavy.

‘Julius, Julius, don’t talk like a trader. There is no quid pro quo. We have money, more than we know what to do with. Do you think we’re investors, looking for a return? No! I