Sleep pulled him under, past riptides and eddies to a place of safety. He slept like the dead but the dead did not bother him. He was in the burned-out cellar of his dreams with the woman curled against his back for warmth.

"Get up!" The command was barked loud and clear into his ear. The command was barked loud and clear into his ear. "That is an order, soldier!" "That is an order, soldier!"

Emmanuel pushed his face deep into the pillow. He wasn't ready to leave the coc.o.o.n. The war could go on without him.

"Up. Now!" the sergeant major said. the sergeant major said. "Put your shorts on. You don't want them to find you bare-a.r.s.ed, laddie." "Put your shorts on. You don't want them to find you bare-a.r.s.ed, laddie."

The bottle of white pills, still almost half full, stood next to the spent candle stub. Emmanuel reached for it and saw, through half-open eyes, the pale pre-dawn light that crept through the curtains.

"Forget the pills," the sergeant major said. the sergeant major said. "Shorts first and then wash your face, for G.o.d's sake. You smell like a Frenchman." "Shorts first and then wash your face, for G.o.d's sake. You smell like a Frenchman."

Emmanuel sat up, alert to the rumble of voices on the other side of the bedroom door. He reached for his shorts and pulled them on, then touched Davida on the shoulder.

"Get up," he whispered. "Put your nightgown on."

"Why?" She was sleepy and warm, the crumpled sheets wrapped around her body.

"Company," he said, and lifted her up by her shoulders so he could drop her cotton shift over her head.

"Whatever happens, stay low and don't say anything." She was now wide awake and alert to the footsteps outside the door. She slid off the bed and sprang into the corner like a cat.

Outside, King's voice was raised in protest. "There's no need for this-"

Emmanuel stood up and the door smashed inward. Silver hinges flew into the air and d.i.c.kie and Piet appeared as solid black silhouettes against the gray dawn light in the open doorway.

"Down! Down!" Piet's handgun was drawn, hammer c.o.c.ked, finger on the trigger. "Get down."

Emmanuel sat on the edge of the bed, conscious of Davida hidden in the dark corner behind him. She was low to the ground and silent, but it was inevitable that Piet and his partner would find her.

"Get the curtains, d.i.c.kie."

Two more Security Branch men pushed King back toward the main rooms of the house.

"That's my property!" King fumed. The Security Branch officers pressed him into the kitchen. One of the men remained on guard in the corridor while the other returned to the destroyed doorway. Piet and d.i.c.kie had come with backup. Thank G.o.d the mad Scottish sergeant had woken him up. He had his shorts on and Davida had her nightdress on. That was something.

"You're in a world of trouble," Piet said. "The Pretorius brothers are opening the icehouse now. What are they going to find, Cooper?"

Emmanuel tried to absorb that information. Did Shabalala leave his lonely vigil outside the icehouse and walk to Jacob's Rest with the news? No. Shabalala would never leave Louis alone, not for a second.

The sound, half scream, half howl, was terrible to hear. The Pretorius boys had found their baby brother lying cold and blue among the bottles of fizzy soft drinks and ice cube trays. Emmanuel got to his feet, thinking of Shabalala facing the rage of the grieving Pretorius family alone.

"Sit down." Piet clipped his gun back into the holster and began to walk a slow circuit of the room. He kicked a pile of discarded clothing with his foot and randomly lifted artifacts and books. He stopped at the foot of the bed and peered into the corner.

"Well, well, Cooper," he said, "this explains why this room smells like a wh.o.r.ehouse."

A cold finger of fear touched Emmanuel's spine. He had to get Piet away from Davida, even if it spared her only a few minutes of his special attentions.

"Is that the only place you get to be with a woman?" Emmanuel said. "In a wh.o.r.ehouse? Makes sense with a face like yours. I hope you leave a decent tip."

"Secure this package, d.i.c.kie." Piet indicated Davida's hiding place and lurched toward the bed where Emmanuel remained standing.

"You are in my world now, Detective Sergeant Cooper." Piet was unnaturally calm. "You should show some respect."

In Piet's world, fear and respect were the same and Emmanuel wasn't going to show either without a fight. Davida cowered in d.i.c.kie's shadow and he went on the offensive.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. There were rules about how white policemen dealt with each other and Piet was walking a thin line.

"I was invited." Piet fumbled in his grubby jacket and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. The stench of stale beer, sweat, and blood wafted from him. "King sent one of his kaffirs to the police station to ask for our help. A h.e.l.l of thing, the old kaffir making it there on a bicycle in the dark."

"Why would King need you?" He already knew the answer. Why wait for a team of Hebrew lawyers to get to work when it was possible to play one branch of the police force against the other and muddy the waters even further? King had smelled his separation from the main task force and used it against him: basic warfare tactics. There was only one flaw in the plan. The rich Englishman hadn't planned on the Security Branch finding Davida in the room with him, and against all reason Emmanuel was glad of the knowledge. Davida had come to him of her own accord.

Piet lit a cigarette and inhaled.

"We got a confession last night," he said. "The colonel is on his way from Pretoria to pose for photos. It's going to be a big case. Everyone wants a piece of the action."

"He signed?" Emmanuel asked. n.o.body, but n.o.body, in government was going to look too closely at the confession of a known Communist, least of all van Niekerk, whose ambition was to rise on the political tide. Piet and d.i.c.kie were bulletproof and Emmanuel himself was half naked.

"Of course," Piet said. "So you can imagine my surprise when I heard you had someone else in line for the murder. A murder that I have a written and signed confession for."

If he dropped it now and said he made a mistake about Winston King's involvement, then apologized for the inconvenience he'd caused, maybe he'd get to fight another day. The Security Branch had outmaneuvered him and now a black man from Fort Bennington College was going to hang for crossing the river on a Wednesday instead of a Sat.u.r.day.

Piet smoked the rest of his cigarette in silence and blew smoke rings into the air schoolboy style. A bad sign. He walked over to the pile of clothes, picked up Emmanuel's discarded jacket, and rifled through the pockets until he found what he was looking for.

He held up Davida's statement between thumb and forefinger.

"Your evidence?" he said.

"A statement." Emmanuel didn't give him any more. Nothing was going to stop Lieutenant Lapping from reading over the long list of d.a.m.ning allegations leveled at Captain Pretorius: adultery, manufacture of p.o.r.nography, physical a.s.sault, and criminal misconduct as defined under the Immorality Act.

Piet unfolded the paper and read the handwritten statement. He finished and looked to the corner where Davida huddled at d.i.c.kie's feet.

"You write this?" he asked.

Davida pressed deeper into the corner, afraid to look up, afraid to answer. d.i.c.kie reached down and slapped her across the face with an open hand, drawing blood from the corner of her mouth. Fear kept her silent.

"Answer," d.i.c.kie said.

"Yes." She pressed her hand against her throbbing cheek.

"Look-" Emmanuel got Piet's attention. "You have your confession. This is nothing compared to what's going on at the station."

Piet smiled. "I'll leave after you have been punished for disobeying orders and for getting on my f.u.c.king nerves and not a moment before, Cooper."

The pockmarked lieutenant stepped away to reveal Henrick and Paul Pretorius standing side by side in the smashed doorway. He held the piece of paper up for them to see.

"Know what this is?" Piet asked. "It's a statement claiming that your father was a deviant and a liar who defiled himself by blood mixing. What do you have to say to that?"

The Pretorius brothers moved toward Emmanuel in a rage. He blocked a punch from Paul and ducked under Henrick's sledgehammer blow before a jab to the stomach sent him reeling back onto the bed. The wooden beams of the ceiling tilted at a crazy angle above him. Paul breathed down on him.

"You're going to pay," he said. "For Louis and for the lies you're telling about my pa."

"Every word, true," Emmanuel said, and tried not to tense when the punches. .h.i.t him from every direction. He tasted bile and blood and heard the wet smack of his flesh yielding to fists. So, this is what Donny Rooke felt like out on the kaffir path: a punching bag in the Pretorius family's private gymnasium.

"Stop, stop, stop," Piet ordered. "You can't take it out of him all at once like that. It's dangerous. You have to slow down. Consider where you're delivering the message and how."

Emmanuel struggled to sit up. If Piet was calling the shots, he was in deep, deep trouble. The Security Branch officer could keep him alive and in pain for days. Piet took off his jacket and rolled his sleeves up to the biceps.

"Henrick. Hold him down and keep him down," Piet instructed.

"I'm a police officer," Emmanuel groaned. "What you're doing is against the law."

"I'm not doing anything," Piet said. "This is a private beating carried out by two men whose brother you killed and hid in an icehouse."

That did sound bad. Inaccurate, but a jury would think twice about punishing the Pretorius boys for taking out their anger on the man who Louis had said tried to molest him.

"Now," Piet continued. "Start with a slap. Openhanded. Not soft and not hard. Just enough to get his attention."

"You have my attention," Emmanuel said, and Paul delivered a stinging hit across his cheek. Not too hard and not soft, either. The tin soldier was a natural.

"Good." Piet was impressed. "Now pose a question and wait for the answer."

"Why did you tell those lies about my pa?"

"No lies," Emmanuel said. "Your pa liked to f.u.c.k dark girls. Outdoors and from behind."

Paul hit him hard across the face and sent the blood and spit flying from his mouth. The skin above his left eye burned and he focused on the enraged Paul Pretorius, who was struggling against Piet Lapping's hold.

"Calm down," Piet said. "That was too hard too early."

"He said-"

"Cooper is testing you," Piet pointed out with a scholarly fussiness. "The stronger prisoners will do that. Your job is to remain calm."

"I almost forgot-" Emmanuel blinked away the blood that ran from a cut in his eyebrow. "Louis was the one molesting those coloured women last year. Your pa sent him off to a crazy farm. Check if you don't believe me."

"For Christ's sake, shut up," the sergeant major whispered as Henrick rose off the bed and hammered his fists indiscriminately into whatever patch of flesh he could find. Piet's little talk on remaining calm clearly had no impact on Henrick. the sergeant major whispered as Henrick rose off the bed and hammered his fists indiscriminately into whatever patch of flesh he could find. Piet's little talk on remaining calm clearly had no impact on Henrick.

"Get him off," Piet instructed Paul. "We don't want a dead policeman on our hands."

Henrick's weight lifted off him, but the pain remained and surged in waves from his toes to his cranium. His mouth was puffed and cut, which made taunting the Pretorius boys a linguistic challenge. He heard his own breath, ragged and defeated. An hour more and he'd be sausage meat.

"You understand now, don't you?" Piet said. "You are in s.h.i.t up to your elbows."

Emmanuel shrugged. He knew he was in trouble: he could feel it in his face, his chest, and his stomach.

"Bring the girl," Piet instructed his partner, and Emmanuel sat up straight. He was scared: for himself and for Davida, who appeared slight and nymphlike in her white cotton nightdress. This morning was going to be bad for everyone. What was Mrs. Ellis going through, knowing her girl was locked away with armed and violent men? Even King must know that he'd opened his door to a force he could not control. "Don't be frightened," Piet said to Emmanuel when Davida was pushed roughly around the foot of the bed. "The physical work is done and now we move to a longer-term punishment. One that you have kindly handed to me in the form of this girl."

Emmanuel tried to stand but Henrick slammed him down. Davida's face was streaked with tears but she didn't make a sound.

"Was she was worth it?" Piet asked. "I hope so, because you're going to spend the next couple of years in jail wondering why you flushed your life and your career down the toilet for one night between the sheets."

Emmanuel worked his swollen tongue against the roof of his mouth until a semblance of feeling returned. He wanted Davida out of the room and out of harm's way even if it meant going against van Niekerk's orders about keeping the past hidden.

"No law broken." Emmanuel managed to get the three words out, slurred but recognizable.

d.i.c.kie sn.i.g.g.e.red. "Have you forgotten what country you're in? You've been caught with a nonwhite. You're going to jail."

"Not white," Emmanuel said, even as he thought about van Niekerk's response to what he was doing.

"I know she's not white," Piet said. "That's why you're going down. down."

"Not white," Emmanuel repeated.

Piet stared at him, dumbfounded. "f.u.c.k off." He grabbed a hand and checked the skin underneath Emmanuel's fingernails for dark pigment. It was an old wives' skin color test pa.s.sing as science. He dropped the hand with a grunt. "You're as white as me and d.i.c.kie here."

Emmanuel reached down and lifted one of his leather shoes onto his knee. He slid a finger under the inner sole and pulled out a single piece of paper.

"The missing intelligence report..." Piet smiled. Most interrogations were intensely boring: the repet.i.tive questions, the strangled denials, the hour-long beatings. There were no real surprises left on the job anymore.

Piet opened the page and whistled low in response to the information.

"Little Emmanuel Kuyper," he muttered. "I remember the photographs of you in the newspaper. You and your little sister. You had the whole country crying."

"What are you talking about?" d.i.c.kie tried to keep up with the conversation. He didn't read much, not even the lowbrow daily papers that carried more pictures than print.

"Emmanuel Kuyper. That was his name before he changed it, probably to avoid the connection with his famous parents," Piet explained. "Cooper here is the boy whose father was acquitted of manslaughter after the jury found he had good reason to believe a half-caste shopkeeper had fathered his children. A part-Malay, if I remember."

"Bulls.h.i.t," d.i.c.kie said. "There's not a drop of Malay blood in him. Look at him. He's white, white."

"That's what caused the scandal." Piet lit up again, lost in memory. "Half the country thought the father's story was a pack of lies, while the other half thought the mother was a wh.o.r.e. During the trial, the father's side of the family put the children up for adoption. An Afrikaner family who didn't want them turned over to a coloured orphanage took in Cooper and his sister. You were brought up in a proper Afrikaner home till you left school, hey, Cooper? Probably threw a torch onto the bonfire with all the other Voortrekker Scouts at the Great Trek celebration."

The feeling in Emmanuel's mouth returned. He was going to burn a couple of bridges in the next few moments but he didn't care about the consequences. So long as Davida walked out unharmed and he could follow her.

Piet squinted hard and flicked the intelligence report to the floor. "Your mother may have been f.u.c.king the Malay," Piet said, "but there's not a drop of brown blood in you."

"Prove it," Emmanuel said.

There was a pause while Lapping examined the problem from every angle.

"Interesting," he said. "We can't charge you under the Immorality Act if you're mixed race, but that doesn't mean your life isn't about to go down the drain if I pursue this claim and get you recla.s.sified."

"Go ahead," Emmanuel said.

"You'll lose your job," Paul Pretorius joined in. "You'll lose your home and your friends. Everything."

"He's going to lose all that anyway once he's charged under the act." Lieutenant Lapping circled Davida, thinking aloud all the while. "This way he saves himself and the girl from a public court appearance and makes them both innocent parties, as they've committed no offense. Clever."