Текст книги "Rage"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

Соавторы: Wilbur Smith
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A mat of short woolly curls covered his pate, and his skin was a clear light toffee colour. His eyes were huge and dark, and he had appealing gamine features. He reminded Isabella of any one of the dozens of children of the estate workers on Weltevreden. She smiled at him, and he gave back a cocky but friendly grin.

'This is Benjamin,' Tara said. 'And these, Benjamin, are your

! ',!!i brother and sister – Mickey and Isabella." Isabella stared at the child. She had tried to discount and for all that Lothar had told her, and in some measure she had succeede But now it all came rushing back, the words roaring in her ears ll flood waters.

'Your half brother is an attractive coffee colour,' Lothar had to her and she wanted to scream, 'How could you, Mater, how cou you do this to us?" But Michael had recovered from his obvious su prise, and now he held out his hand towards the child and said, 'Hi there, Ben. It's fine that we are brothers – but how about yc and me being friends also?" 'Hey, man – I like that,' Benjamin agreed instantly. To add Isabella's dismay and confusion, he spoke in a broad south Londc accent.

Isabella spoke barely a dozen words during lunch. The pea sou was thickened with flour that had not cooked through and it stuc to the roof of her mouth. The boiled silverside lay limply in its ov watery gravy, and the cabbage was cooked pink.

They sat at the table with Phineas, the receptionist, and five oth of Tara's guests, all black South African expatriates, and the boisteJ ous conversation was almost entirely conducted in left-wing jargo The government of which Isabella's beloved father was a minist was always referred to as the 'racist regime' and Michael joine cheerfully in the discussion about the redistribution of wealth an the return of the land to those who worked it after the revolutioz had succeeded and the People's Democratic Republic of Azania ha.

been established. Isabella wanted to scream at him, 'Damn you Mickey, they are talking about Weltevreden and the Silver Rive Mine. These are terrorists and revolutionaries – and their sole purpose is to destroy us and our world." When the bread-and-butter pudding was served, she could take i no longer.

'I'm sorry, Tara,' she whispered. 'I have a splitting headache, an I simply have to get back to the Dorchester and lie down." She wa so pale and discomforted that Tara made only a token protest and genuine noises of concern. Isabella refused to let Michael escort her 'I won't spoil your fun. You haven't seen Mater – Tara – in ages. I'l just grab a taxi." Perhaps it really was fatigue that had weakened her, but in the cal: she found herself weeping with chagrin and shame and fury.

'Damn her! Damn her to hell,' she whispered. 'She has disgraced and dishonoured all of us, Daddy and Nana and me and all the family." As soon as she reached her room she locked her door, threw herself on the bed and reached for the telephone.

'Exchange, I want to put a call through to Johannesburg in South Africa–' She read the number out of her address book.

The delay was less than half an hour and then a marvellously homey Afrikaans accent said, 'This is police headquarters, bureau for state security." 'I want to speak to Colonel Lothar De La Rey." 'De La Rey." Despite the thousands of miles that separated them, his voice was crisp and clear, and in her imagination she saw him again naked on the beach in the dawn, like a statue of a Greek athlete but with those glowing golden eyes, and she whispered, 'Oh God Lothie, I've missed you. I want to come home. I hate it here." He spoke quietly, reassuring and consoling her, and when she had calmed he ordered her, 'Tell me about it." 'You were right. Everything you said was true – even to her little brown bastard, and the people are all revolutionaries and terrorists.

What do you want me to do, Lothie? I'll do anything you tell me." 'I want you to stay there, and stick it out for the full two weeks.

You can telephone me every day, but you must stay on. Promise me, Bella." 'All right – but, God, I miss you and home." 'Listen, Bella. I want you to go to South Africa House the first opportunity you have. Don't let anybody know, not even your brother Michael. Ask for Colonel Van Vuuren, the military attach.

He will show you photographs and ask you to identify the people you meet." 'All right, Lothie – but I've told you twice already how much I miss you, while you, you swine, haven't said a word." 'I have thought about you every day since you left,' Lothar said.

'You're beautiful and funny and you make me laugh." 'Don't stop,' Isabella pleaded. 'Just keep talking like that." Adrian Van Vuuren was a burly avuncular man, who looked more like a friendly Free State farmer than a secret service man. He took her up to the ambassador's office and introduced her to His Excellency who knew Shasa well and they chatted for a few minutes.

His Excellency invited Isabella to the races at Ascot the coming Saturday but Colonel Van Vuuren intervened apologetically.

'Miss Courtney is doing a little job for us at present, Your Excellency. It might not be wise to make too much public display of her connections to the embassy." 'Very well,' the ambassador agreed reluctantly, 'But you will come to lunch with us, Miss Courtney – not often we have such a pretty girl at our gatherings." Van Vuuren gave her the short tour of the embassy and its a treasures, which ended in his office on the third floor. 'Now, my dear, we have some work for you." A pile of albums was stacked on his desk, each full of head-an shoulder photographs of men and women. They sat side by side or Van Vuuren flicked through the pages, picking out the mug shots the people she had met at the Lord Kitchener Hotel.

'You make it easier for us by knowing their names,' Van Vuurc remarked, and turned to a photograph of Phineas, the hotel recei tionist.

'Yes, that's him,' Isabella confirmed, and Van Vuuren looked u his details in a separate ledger. 'Phineas Mophoso. Born 194 Member of PAC. Convicted of public violence 16 May 1961. Violate bail conditions. Illegal emigration late 1961. Present location believe U.K." 'Small fry,' Van Vuuren grunted, 'but small fry often shoal wit big fish." He offered to provide an embassy car to drive Isabella bac to the Dorchester.

'Thank you, but I'll walk." She had been alone at Fortnum & Masons and when she got bac to the hotel Michael was frantic with worry.

'For heaven's sake, Mickey. I'm not a baby. I can look arte myself. I just felt like exploring on my own." 'Mater is giving a party for us at the Lord Kitchener this evenin She wants us there before six." 'You mean Tara, not Mater – and the Lardy, not the Lord Ki!

chener. Don't be so bourgeois and colonial, Mickey darling." At least fifty people crowded into the residents' lounge of the Lord for Tara's party, and she provided unlimited quantities of draugh bitter and Spanish red wine to wash down the Irish cook's unforgett able snacks. Michael entered into the spirit of the occasion. He wa at all times the centre of an arguing gesticulating group. Isabell backed herself into a corner ai the lounge and with a remote and ic' hauteur discouraged any familiar approach from the other guests while at the same time memorizing their names and faces as Tan introduced them.

After the first hour the smoky claustrophobic atmosphere, and th volume of conversation lubricated by Tara's Spanish plonk, became oppressive and Isabella's eyes felt gritty and a dull ache started ir her temples. Tara had disappeared and Michael was still enjoyin himselfi 'That's my patriotic duty for tonight,' she decided, and sidled to.

wards the door taking care not to alert Michael to her departure.

As she passed the deserted reception desk, she heard voices from behind the osted glass door of Tara's tiny office, and she had an attack of conscience.

'I can't just go off without thanking Mater,' she decided. 'It was an awful party, but she went to a lot of trouble and I am one of the guests of honour." She slipped behind the desk, and was about to tap on the panel of the door when she heard her mother say, 'But, comrade, I didn't expect you to arrive tonight." The words were commonplace, but the tone in which Tara said them was not. She was more than agitated she was afraid, deadly afraid.

A man's voice replied, but it was so low and hoarse that Isabella could not catch the words, and then Tara said, 'But they are my own children. It's perfectly safe." This time the man's reply was sharper.

'Nothing is ever safe,' he said. 'They are also your husband's children, and your husband is a member of the fascist racist regime. We will leave now and return later after they have gone." Isabella acted instinctively. She darted back into the lobby and out through the glass front doors of the hotel. The narrow street was lined with parked vehicles, one of them a dark delivery van tall enough to screen her. She hid behind it.

After a few minutes, two men followed her out of the front entrance of the hotel. They both wore dark raincoats but their heads were bare. They set off briskly, walking side by side towards the Cromwell Road and as they came level with where she leaned against the side of the van, the street light lit their faces.

The man nearest to her was black, with a strong, resolute face, broad nose and thick African lips. His companion was white and much older. His flesh was pale as putty and had the same soft amorphous look. His hair was black and lank and lifeless. It hung on to his forehead, and his eyes were dark and fathomless as pools of coal tar – and Isabella understood why her mother had been afraid. This was a man who inspired fear.

Colonel Van Vuuren sat beside her at his desk with the pile of albums in front of them. 'He is a white man. That makes life a lot easier for all of us,' he said as he selected one of the albums.

'These are all white,' he explained. 'We have got them all in here.

Even the ones safely behind bars, like Brain Fischer." She found his photograph on the third page.

'That's the one." 'Are you sure?" Van Vuuren asked. 'It's not a very good photo." It must have been taken as he was climbing into a vehicle, for the background was a city street. He was glancing back, most of his body obscured by the open door of the vehicle, and movement ha blurred his features slightly.

'Yes. That's him all right,' Isabella repeated. 'I could never mistaN those eyes." Van Vuuren referred to the separate ledger. 'The photograph w taken in East Berlin by the American CIA two years ago. He is wily bird, that's the only picture we have. His name is Joe Cicer( He is the secretary general of the South African Communist Par!

and a colonel in the Russian KGB. He is a chief of staff of tl: military wing of the banned ANC, the Umkhonto we Sizwe." Va Vuuren smiled. 'And so, my dear, the big fish has arrived. Now w must try and identify his companion. That will not be so easy." It took almost two hours. Isabella paged through the alburr slowly. When she finished one pile, Van Vuuren's assistent broug in another armful of albums and she began again. Van Vuuren st patiently beside her, sending out for coffee and encouraging her with a smile and a word when she flagged.

'Yes." Isabella straightened up at last. 'This is the one." 'You have been wonderful. Thank you." Van Vuuren reached fc the ledger and turned to the curriculum vitae of the man in th photograph.

'Raleigh Tabaka,' he read out. 'Secretary of the Vaal branch PAC and member of Poqo. Organizer of the attack on the Sharpeviii police station. Disappeared three years ago, before he could b detained. Since then there have been rumours that he was seen i: training camps in Morocco and East Germany. He is rated as trained and dangerous terrorist. Two big fish together. Now, if w could just find what they are up to!" Tara Courtney waited up long after her party had broken up. Th last guests had staggered through the glass doors, and Michael ha( kissed her goodnight and gone off to try and pick up a late cruisinl taxi in the Cromwell Road.

Since first she had met him, Joe Cicero had been associated will danger and suffering and loss. There was always an aura of myster'.

and a passionless evil surrounding him. He terrified her. The ma] with him she had met for the first time that night. Joe Cicero ha( introduced him only as Raleigh, but Tara's heart had gone out t( him immediately. Although he was much younger, he reminded he so strongly of her own Moses. He had the same smouldering intensit,.

and compelling presence, the same dark majesty of bearing an( command.

i They came back a little after two in the morning, and Tara let them in and led them through to her own bedroom in the back area of the hotel.

'Raleigh will stay with you for the next two or three weeks. Then he will return to South Africa. You will provide everything he asks for, particularly the information." 'Yes, omrade, Tara whispered. Although she was the registered C owner and licensed proprietress of the hotel, the money for the purchase had been provided by Joe Cicero and she took her orders directly from him.

'Raleigh is the nephew of Moses Gama,' Joe said, watching her carefully with those expressionless black eyes as she turned to the younger man.

'Oh Raleigh, I didn't realize. It is almost as though we are one family. Moses is the father of my son, Benjamin." 'Yes,' Raleigh answered. 'I know that. This is the reason that I am able to give you the object of my mission to South Africa. Your dedication is proven and unquestioned. I am going back to Africa to free your husband and my uncle, Moses Gama, from the prison of the fascist racist Verwoerd regime to lead the democratic revolution of our people." Her joy dawned slowly with her understanding. Then she went to Raleigh Tabaka and as she embraced him she was weeping with happiness.

'I will give anything to help you succeed,' she whispered through her tears. 'Even my life." Jakobus Stander had only two classes on a Friday morning, and the last one ended at 11.30. He left the grounds of the University of the Witwatersrand immediately afterwards and caught the bus down to Hillbrow. It was a ride of only fifteen minutes and he reached his flat a little after midday.

The suitcase was still on the low coffee table where he had placed it the night before, after he had finished working on it. It was a cheap brown case made of imitation leather with a pressed metal lock.

He stood staring at it with pale topaz-coloured eyes. Except for the eyes, he was an unremarkable young man. Although he was tall, he was too thin and the grey flannel trousers hung loosely around his waist. His hair was long, flecked with dandruff, hanging over the back of his collar, and the elbows of his baggy brown corduroy jacket were patched with leather. Rather than a tie he wore a turtle-neck jersey with the collar rolled over. It was the self-consciously shabl uniform of the left-wing intellectual, adopted by even the Profess, of the Department of Sociology in which Jakobus was a senior le turer.

Without removing the jacket, he sat down on the narrow bed ai stared at the suitcase.

'I am one of the only ones left,' he thought. 'It's all up to me no They have taken Baruch and Randy and Berny – I am all alone." There had been less than fifty of them even in the best times.

small band of true patriots, champions of the proletariat, almost of them white and young, members of the young liberals or studen and faculty members involved in radical student politics at the Enl lish-speaking universities of Cape Town and the Witwatersran, Kobus had been the only Afrikaner in their ranks.

At first they had called themselves the National Committee ( Liberation, and their methods had been more sophisticated th Umkhonto we Sizwe and the Rivonia group. They had used dynami and electrical timing devices, and their successes had been many an heartening. They had destroyed power substations and railw switching systems, even a reservoir dam, and in the triumphal mood of those early days they had restyled themselves the Africa Resistance Movement.

In the end they had been destroyed in exactly the same manner Mandela and his Rivonia group, by the inefficiency of their aw security and the inability of the members who were captured by t security police to withstand interrogation.

He was one of the only ones left, but he knew that his hours ( freedom were numbered. The security police had taken Berny tw days ago and by now he would have talked. Berny was not made ( heroic stuff, a small pale and nervous creature, too soft-hearted fc the cause. Jakobus had argued against his recruitment, but that wa too late now. The bureau for state security had Berny, and Bern knew his name. There was very little time left, but still he procrastir ated. He looked at his wristwatch. It was almost one o'clock. Hi mother would be home by now, preparing his father's lunch. H lifted the telephone.

Sarah Stander stood over the kitchen stove. She felt tired an( dispirited, but she seemed always to be tired these days. The telephone rang and she turned down the hot plate of the stove, and wipe( her hands on her apron as she went through to her husband's stud> The room was lined with shelves of dusty law books that had one been a promise of hope to her, a symbol of success and advancemenl but now seemed rather to be the fetters that bound Roelf and her iJ penury and mediocrity.

She lifted the phone. 'Hello. This is Mevrou Stander." 'Mama,' Jakobus replied, and she gave a little coo of joy.

'My boy – where are you?" But at his reply her spirits plunged again.

'In the flat in Johannesburg, Mama." That was a thousand miles away, and her longing to see him devastated her. 'I hoped you were–' 'Mama,' he cut her off. 'I had to speak to you. I had to explain.

Something terrible is going to happen. I wanted to tell you – I don't want you to be angry with me, I don't want you to hate me." 'Never!" she cried. 'I love you too much, my boy –' 'I don't want Papa and you to feel bad. What I do is not your fault. Please understand and forgive me." 'Kobus, my son, what is it? I don't understand what you are saying." 'I can't tell you, Mama. Soon you will understand. I love you and Papa – please remember that." 'Kobus,' she cried. 'Kobus!" but the earpiece clicked and then there was only the hum of a broken connection.

Frantically she rang the exchange and asked to be reconnected but it took fifteen minutes before the operator called her back. 'There is no reply from your Johannesburg number." Sarah was distraught. She roamed around her kitchen, the midday meal forgotten, twisting her apron in her fingers, trying desperately to think of some way of reaching her son. When her husband came in through the front door she rushed down the passageway and threw her arms around his neck, and she gabbled out her fears.

'Manie!" RoeIf said. 'I will telephone him. He can send one of his men around to Kobus's flat." 'Why didn't I think of that?" Sarah sobbed.

The secretary in Manfred's ministry told them he was not available and would not be in again until Monday morning.

'What will we do now?" Roelf was as worried as she was.

'Lothie." Sarah brightened. 'He is in the police in Johannesburg.

Ring Lothie, he will know what to do." Jakobus Stander broke the connection to his mother, and jumped to his feet. He knew he must act quickly and decisively now. Already he had wasted too much time, they would be coming for him soon.

He picked up the suitcase and left the flat, locking the door behind him. He rode down in the lift, still holding the heavy suitcase, even though the handle cut into his fingers. There were two girls in the lift with him. They ignored him and chattered to each other all the w down. He watched them surreptitiously. 'It may be you, he through 'It could be anybody." The girls barged out of the lift ahead of him, and he follow slowly, walking lopsidedly because of the weight of the brown su case.

He caught the bus at the corner and took the seat nearest t door, placing the suitcase on the seat beside him, but retaining 1

grip on the handle all the way.

The bus stopped outside the side entrance of the Johannesbu railway station, and Jakobus was the first passenger to alight. Lu ging the suitcase, he started towards the station entrance, and th, his steps began to drag and his mouth went dry with terror. The was a constable of the railway police at the entrance, and as Jakob hesitated he looked directly at him. Jakobus wanted to drop t] suitcase and run back to the bus which was pulling away behiI him, but the.press of other passengers bore him forward like a de leaf in a stream.

He did not want to catch the constable's eye. He trudged forwa head bowed, concentrating on the heels of the fat woman in whi shoes just ahead of him. He looked up as he came level with tl station portals, and the constable was walking away from him, hid hands clasped lightly behind his back. Jakobus's legs felt rubbel and his relief was so intense that he thought he was going to be il He fought down his nausea and kept on going with the stream commuters.

At the centre of the concourse under the high arched skylight glass there was a goldfish pond surrounded by wooden benches. A though most of the benches were crowded with travellers snatching few minutes' rest between trains or awaiting the arrival of friend..

there was room for Jakobus at the end of one of them.

He sat down and placed the suitcase between his feet. He wa sweating heavily and he had difficulty in breathing. Waves of nause kept welling up from the pit of his guts and there was a bitter sic taste at the back of his throat.

He wiped his face with his handkerchief and kept swallowing bar.

until gradually he had control of himself again. Then he lookel around him. The other benches were still crowded. In the centre o the one facing him there was a mother with two daughters. Th youngest one was still in napkins, she sat on her mother's lap with dummy in her mouth. The elder girl had skinny sun-browned leg: and arms and frilly petticoats under her short skirt. She leaner against her mother's side and sucked a lollipop on a stick. Her moutt was dyed bright red by the sticky candy.

All around Jakobus passed a continual stream of humanity, coming and going down the broad staircase that led up to the street.

Like columns of ants, they spread out to reach the separate platforms, and the loudspeakers boomed out information on arriving and departing trains, and the hiss and huff of escaping steam from the locomotives echoed against the high arches of glass above where Jakobus sat.

He looked down at the suitcase between his feet. He had drilled a needle hole through the imitation leather. A strand of piano wire emerged from the aperture, and he had fixed a brass curtain ring to the end of it, and taped the ring to the brown leather beside the handle.

Now he picked at the tape with hi fingernail and peeled it away.

He stuck his forefinger through the brass ring and gently pulled the wire taut. There was a muted click from the interior of the suitcase and he started guiltily and looked around him again. The little girl with the lollipop stuck in her cheek had been watching him.

She gave him a sticky smile and shyly cuddled closer to her mother's side.

Using his heels and the back of his legs, Jakobus pushed the suitcase slowly under the bench on which he was seated. Then he stood up and walked briskly across to the men's toilets on the far side of the concourse. He stood in front of one of the porcelain urinals and checked his wristwatch. It was ten minutes after two. He zipped up his fly and walked out of the men's room.

The mother and the two little girls were still sitting where he had left them, and the brown suitcase lay under the bench opposite. As he passed the child recognized him and smiled again. He did not return the smile but went up the staircase into the street. He walked down to the Langham Hotel at the corner and went into the men's bar. He ordered a cold Castle beer and drank it slowly, standing at the bar, checking his wristwatch every few minutes. He wondered if the mother and the two little girls had left, or if they were still sitting on the bench.

The ferocity of the explosion shocked him. He was almost a block away but it knocked over his glass and the dregs of the beer ran across the bar top. There was consternation throughout the bar room. Men were swearing with surprise and astonishment and rushing to the door.

Jakobus followed them out into the street. The traffic had stopped, and people were swarming out of the buildings to block the pavements. From the station entrance a cloud of dust and smoke billowed and through it staggered vague shadowy figures, powdered with dust, their clothing hanging off them in rags. Somewhere a woman began to scream, and all around him there were shouted questions.

'What is it? What happened?" Jakobus turned and walked away. He heard the sirens of the police cars and the fire engines coming closer, but he did not look back.

'No, Tanhie Sarie, I haven't seen Kobus since we last met at Waterkloof." Lothar De La Rey tried to be patient. The Standers were old friends of his parents, and he had spent many happy childhood holidays at the cottage on the Stander farm at the seaside.

That was before Oom RoeIf Stander had been forced to sell the farm.

'Yes, yes Tannie. I know, but Kobus and I live in different worlds now – I know how worried you must be. Yes, of course." Lothar was taking the call in his private office in the headquarters complex of Marshall Square, and he glanced at his wristwatch as he listened to Sarah Stander's plaintive voice. It was just before two o'clock.

'What time was it when he telephoned you?" Lothar asked, and listened to her reply. 'That was an hour ago. Where did he say he was speaking from? All right, Tannie, what is his address in Hillbrow?" He scribbled it on the pad in front of him. 'Now tell me, Tannie, what was it exactly he said. Something terrible and you must forgive him? Yes, that doesn't sound very good, I agree. Suicide?

No, Tannie Sarie, I'm sure he didn't mean that, but I will send one of my men to check his flat, why don't you ring the university in the meantime?" One of the other telephones on his desk squealed and he ignored it. 'What did they say at the university?" he asked. 'All right, Tannie, I will telephone you and Oom Roeif just as soon as I have any news." By now all three of his telephones were shrilling, and Captain Lourens, his assistant, was signalling him frantically from the door of his office.

'Yes, I understand, Tannie Sarie. Yes, I promise I will telephone you. But I must ring off now." Lothar replaced the receiver and looked up at Lourens.

'da, what is it, man?" 'An explosion at the main railway station. It looks like another bomb." Lothar jumped to his feet and snatched up his jacket. 'Casualties?" he demanded.

'There are bodies and blood all over the place." 'The bloody swines,' Lothar said bitterly.

The street was cordoned off. They left the police car at the barrier and Lothar, who was in plain clothes, showed his identification and the sergeant saluted him. There were five ambulances parked outside the station entrance with their lights flashing.

At the head of the staircase leading down into the main concourse Lothar paused. The damage was terrible. The glass in the arched skylights had been blown out and it coated the marble floors, glittering like a field of ice crystals.

The restaurant had been turned into a first-aid station and the white-jacketed doctors and ambulance crews were at work. The stretcher-bearers were carrying their grisly loads up the staircase to the waiting vehicles.

The officer in charge of the investigation was a major from Marshall Square. He had his men searching the wreckage already, working methodically in an. extended line across the concourse. He recognized Lothar and beckoned to him. The glass crunched under Lothar's feet as he crossed to join him.

'How many dead?" he asked without any preamble.

'We have been incredibly lucky, Colonel. About forty injured, mostly by flying glass, but only one dead." He reached down and pulled back the plastic sheet that was spread at his feet.

Under it lay a little girl in a short dress with a frilly lace petticoat.

Both her legs and one arm had been blown away, and the dress was soaked with her blood.

'Her mother lost both eyes, and her little sister will lose one arm,' the major said, and Lothar saw that the child's face was miraculously unscathed. She seemed to be sleeping. Her mouth was bright red with sticky sugar and in her remaining hand she still clutched the stick of a half-eaten lollipop.

'Lourens,' Lothar said quietly to his assistant. 'Ring Records. Use the telephone in the restaurant. Tell them I want a computer run on my desk when I get back to the square. I want the name of every known white radical on the list. It had to be a white man in this section of the station." He watched Lourens cross the concourse and then he looked down at the tiny body under the plastic sheet.

'I'm going to get the bastard who did this,' he whispered. 'This one isn't going to get away." His staff were waiting for him when he got back to the office forty minutes later. They had already vetted the computerized list and checked the names of those in detention, in exile or those whose whereabouts could be assumed to be outside the Witwatersrand area.

There remained 396 suspects unaccounted for. They were listed in alphabetical order and it was almost four o'clock before they had worked down to the 'S' section. As Lothar folded over the last sheet of the print-out the name seemed to leap from the page at him: STANDER, JAKOBUS PETRUS In the same moment Sarah Stander's plaintive voice echoed in his ears.

'Stander,' he said crisply. 'This one is a new addition." He had last checked the list twenty-four hours before. It was one of the most important tools of his trade, the names upon it so familiar that he could conjure up each face clearly in his mind's eye. Kobus' name had not been there on his last reading.