Unofficial and Deniable

JOHN GORDON DAVIS

UNOFFICIAL & DENIABLE

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000

Copyright © John Gordon Davis 2000

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers

John Gordon Davis asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780007574407

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2014 ISBN: 9780008119348

Version: 2014-12-15

DEDICATION

To Tana and David Hilton-Barber

CONTENTS

COVER

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

PART I

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

PART II

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

PART III

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

PART IV

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

PART V

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

PART VI

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

PART VII

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

KEEP READING

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHER BOOKS BY

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

PROLOGUE

Andy Meyer, the junior officer on watch in the US Coast Guard station, remembered the yacht dropping anchor in the open channel of St Thomas, American Virgin Islands, in the small hours of that September morning in 1996 because it was not flying a flag. Four hours later, just before dawn, he noticed the yacht steaming out of the channel towards the nearby British Virgin Islands. Meyer hoped the skipper knew what he was doing – there were rocky waters ahead, best navigated in daylight, and technically he should have registered his arrival in American waters before departing. Meyer decided to make an entry in the Log, just to show he had done some work.

The sun was up when the yacht, Rosemary, anchored in the big open bay of Road Town, Tortola, the sleepy little capital of the nearby British Virgin Islands, but it is established by Immigration Department records that it was not until three o’clock that afternoon that the skipper, Sinclair Jonathan Harker, reported his arrival. He appeared, according to Mrs Doris Johnston, the chief immigration officer, to have been drinking; he was nervous, unshaven, wild-looking. He gave his last port of call as Nassau, Bahamas, and produced a crew list certifying that only he and his wife Josephine were aboard. He presented Josephine’s passport, along with his own, but Mrs Johnston told him that Josephine had to report in person. Mrs Johnston then demanded his Nassau port clearance certificate: Harker said he had not known he needed such a document before leaving the Bahamas. Mrs Johnston told him in no uncertain terms that he would have to return to Nassau to get it.

Harker then left Mrs Johnston’s indignant presence, went to the American Express office and telephoned Josephine’s insurance company in New York advising them of her death and asking what procedures he had to follow. He then sent a fax to her attorney, asking the same question, then another to her father, Denys Valentine, in Boston, reporting his daughter’s death, saying he would telephone as soon as he had composed himself. Then, instead of heading to the police station to report her death, he returned to his boat and proceeded to drink a bottle of rum.

At noon the next day a police party went out to his boat, alerted by Mrs Doris Johnston who had complained to them that Josephine Harker still had not reported to Immigration Department. The Commissioner of Police, Joshua Humphrey, found Harker sitting in the saloon of his yacht, ashen, starting on a new bottle of rum. Harker looked up and said:

‘I want to report a person missing on the high seas …

Joshua Humphrey, portly, black, with forty years’ experience, suspected immediately that Sinclair Jonathan Harker was guilty as sin; ‘Sin-clear Harker the sinful sailor,’ he dubbed him. And when he went into Jack Harker’s history and learned that he had been a career officer in the Rhodesian army battling freedom-fighters until the bitter end of that long, nasty, bush war, he was sure. But when he learned that, at the end of that war, Harker had been snapped up by the South African Defence Force to fight in their bush war in Angola against the ANC guerrillas and the Cuban army, Commissioner Joshua Humphrey, a devout Africanist, was downright convinced of his guilt.

‘An’ what you bin doin’ since you stopped being a soldier for apartheid, Major Harker?’

‘A publisher. And I was never a soldier for apartheid – I was a soldier against communism.’

Joshua Humphrey found the distinction a metaphysical one but decided not to argue. ‘A publisher? How does a military man become a publisher, sir? Where?’

‘In New York. Commissioner, I’m very traumatized and I feel your attitude is persecutory.’

‘In New York, huh?’

The Commissioner was smart enough to know his lack of real experience. It was a relief to share responsibility and telephone the US Coast Guard in St Thomas and ask, as a favour, whether an officer experienced in investigations on the high seas would come over to take a look at this case.

The Virgin Islands, with balmy turquoise bays and white beaches, interlaced with exotic coral reefs, are very beautiful, possibly the best real estate in the world, but commercially they are good for little more than offshore banking and tourism. Named for their unspoilt beauty, they were colonized by Great Britain and Denmark as bases from which to battle the Spaniards and the pirates who plagued the merchantmen carrying the spoils of the New World back to Europe. Sugar plantations were developed, but the problem was labour: the tropical heat made the cane fields unworkable by white men; they simply did not have the sweat-glands for hard work in such a climate. The solution was black labour – for over two hundred years British and American slaving ships sailed to West Africa and brought back their cargoes of human beings to be sold as slaves to the plantation owners. The Virgins, like all the islands arcing across the Caribbean Sea, prospered, despite a series of rebellions by slaves which were ruthlessly suppressed. But then came the Abolition of Slavery Act in Great Britain which decreed that all slaves throughout the British Empire be freed at midnight on 31 December 1834.

Thus the basic economy of the Caribbean was dislocated: the plantation owners returned to Europe, the cane fields went to ruin, the erstwhile slaves scratched a subsistence living. Denmark sold her share of the Virgin Islands to the United States of America; the British hung on to their share of the islands until the Wind of Change swept Africa, whereupon she granted independence to all her colonies. But, unlike the newly independent African states, the Caribbean islanders spoke no African language, the only culture they knew was that of their colonial masters and they clung to that. Joshua Humphrey, Commissioner of Police, great grandson of slaves, was proud of his British heritage. He had something very important in common with Lieutenant-Commander Albert Smith of the US Coast Guard: both were proud to be black descendants of slaves, determined to show they could do their jobs as well as any white man, and both deeply resented South Africans because of their former politics. And now here sat a South African, a former senior officer in the South African army, with a story of his American wife’s mysterious disappearance.

‘Where exactly did this take place, Major?’ Smith asked, his pen poised.

Harker took a note from his pocket with trembly fingers. He handed it across the desk. ‘Those are the coordinates I got from my satellite-navigator when I woke up and found Josephine missing.’

Smith consulted a chart on the desk. He carefully marked in the coordinates with a parallel ruler.

‘But,’ he said, ‘that means she disappeared south east of Florida, in American waters.’

‘I thought they were international waters.’

Smith smiled. ‘Come on, Major, you’re a military man who can read maps, you know enough law to know where’s “high seas” and where’s territorial waters.’ He paused for a response, then continued: ‘But no matter what you thought, why didn’t you sail back to Florida, back to Miami or Key West to report to the police? They were less than two hundred miles away, and the winds would have been in your favour. Why did you go a thousand miles or more, against the wind, into the Atlantic, all the way to the Virgin Islands to report?’

Harker wiped a hand down his gaunt face. ‘I just didn’t think of it. I was distraught. Exhausted … We were heading for the Virgin Islands when this accident happened and I just carried on.’

Smith sat back. ‘So seven days later you arrived here. What time was that?’

‘About eight o’clock in the morning.’

‘And this was your first stop in the Virgins?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well,’ Smith said with satisfaction, ‘it was recorded by our Coast Guard station that you stopped in the American Virgins for several hours the night before last.’

‘Oh,’ Harker said, ‘that. But I only anchored, I didn’t go ashore.’

‘But you “stopped”,’ Humphrey insisted. ‘Why did you not go ashore, to the police, to report Josephine’s disappearance?’

Harker closed his eyes. ‘Because,’ he said tensely, ‘I needed to sleep.’

‘So why didn’t you go ashore to report after you slept?’

‘Because it was still dark. I thought it better to wait until daylight when senior police officers would be at work, not juniors on night duty.’

Humphrey smirked. Smith said: ‘Not because you thought the US Virgins police might be more efficient and therefore more dangerous to you? Seeing Josephine was American and she disappeared in American waters off an American boat.’

Harker’s nerves were ragged. ‘No. And I’ve told you I thought she’d been lost in international waters.’

Both officials smirked. ‘But you reached Tortola at about eight o’clock that morning,’ Smith said. ‘Yet you didn’t report to this police station at all – they came to your boat, the next day. Only then did you report anything.’ Smith looked at him. ‘How come, Major?’

‘Because I was exhausted after my ordeal – seven days at sea alone. I needed to sleep some more.’

‘But,’ Smith said, ‘Mr Humphrey says you had been drinking when he went out to your boat.’

‘When I woke up I had a few drinks. To pull myself together before reporting.’

‘But what did you do yesterday, when you arrived?’

Harker closed his eyes. ‘I sent a fax to Josephine’s father from the American Express office, informing him of her death.’

‘Why didn’t you telephone?’

‘Because,’ Harker said tensely, ‘of the emotion. I wanted him to be informed before I telephoned and we all burst into tears.’

‘I see …’ Smith nodded. ‘Not because you didn’t want to answer awkward questions? And then you returned to your boat to rest?’

Harker hesitated an instant. ‘Yes.’

Smith smiled. ‘Not so, Major. You made another phone call. American Express gave us the number. Who to?’

Harker closed his eyes again, sick in his guts. ‘I forgot. To Josephine’s insurance company.’

Humphrey’s face creased in theatrical wonder: ‘But how can you forget? And why, Major? What was the hurry? Why was that more important than reporting her death to me, the police?’

‘I was in the American Express offices, I had the facilities available, I simply took the opportunity to do the responsible thing.’

Humphrey snorted. ‘An’ what did you ask the insurance company?’

‘I simply reported Josephine’s death.’

‘You didn’t ask how to collect the insurance?’

Harker hesitated. ‘No. I mean I simply asked what formalities were required of me generally.’

‘Formalities? For what?’

Harker sighed.

‘Formalities to wind up her estate. Affidavits, death certificates, police reports and so on?’ Smith suggested.

Harker hesitated, then sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘In other words,’ Humphrey said, ‘how to satisfy the insurance company that they had to pay up.’

‘And how much insurance did you have on Josephine, Major?’ Smith asked.

‘None,’ Harker said shakily. ‘She insured her own life. She paid the premiums.’

‘And who was the beneficiary?’

‘Her estate.’

‘And who was the beneficiary of her estate under her will?’

Harker took a deep breath. ‘As far as I know, some of her relations, and her father. And me. Mostly me, but I don’t know the amounts.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘A will is a private matter, isn’t it?’ Harker rasped angrily.

Silence. Then: ‘And you? Who is the beneficiary under your will?’

‘Josephine. She gets everything.’

‘Did she know?’

Harker closed his eyes. ‘Yes. When we got married and decided to do this trip around the world we both made new wills in each other’s favour.’

‘And where is her will?’

‘With her attorney, in New York. As is mine.’

‘And did you advise her attorney of her death when you were at American Express?’

Harker sighed. ‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us earlier?’

‘I forgot that detail.’

‘Oh, you forgot. Like you forgot to mention that you advised her insurance company?’ Smith smiled. ‘And how long have you and Josephine been together?’

‘Over seven years.’

‘And did she work?’

‘She was a writer. She published under her maiden name, Josephine Valentine.’

Smith looked at Humphrey. ‘You mean the Josephine Valentine? Who wrote that book about South Africa: Outrage?’

‘Right.’

Smith and Humphrey glared at each other. ‘So your wife was a wealthy woman?’ Smith asked.

Harker shifted. ‘Well off, yes.’

‘And you, Major?’

‘I published her books, or rather my company did, Harvest House. So I’m well off too.’ He added shakily: ‘So why the hell am I suspected of murdering her? Why would I kill the goose that lays the golden eggs?’

Smith smiled grimly. ‘Nobody’s accusing you yet, Major. And we will ask the questions, if you please. But tell me – was your relationship happy?’

‘Very.’

Smith frowned. ‘But how did she feel about your military history? Fighting fox apartheid, against the freedom forces of Nelson Mandela – she was very anti-South Africa in her books.’

‘She understood that I never regarded myself as fighting for apartheid. I was a professional soldier fighting against the Cuban army, Russia’s surrogates in Africa who were helping the illegal communist regime of Angola fight the Angola freedom forces. The South African army was supporting those freedom fighters, and so was America, because it was no secret that the Cubans also intended to overrun South Africa and turn it into another communist state. That’s what I was fighting against.’

‘But,’ Humphrey said, ‘that also meant you were fighting for apartheid. And against the ANC who had bases in Angola.’

Harker dragged his hand down his face. ‘I knew apartheid was going to collapse soon. The greater evil was if the Cubans and Russians overran South Africa, taking the Cape Sea Route. The communists could already control Suez any time they wanted. Next to go would have been the Panama Canal. Then the communists would have had the whole world sewn up. So the important thing was to defeat the Cuban army in Angola, drive them out of Africa.’

‘But you and your famous wife never quarrelled about this?’

‘No.’

‘So when did you settle in America?’

Harker said tensely: ‘In 1986 I was wounded, and invalided out of the army. First I went to England and became involved in publishing. I came to America in 1987 and took over Harvest House. In 1988 I met Josephine and later started publishing her books. And we’ve lived happily ever after. Okay?’ He closed his eyes. ‘And now I want to go back to my boat and sleep.’

Humphrey said, ‘No, we’ve impounded your boat, Major, while the forensic scientist examines it, takes photographs and so on. You’ll have to sleep in a hotel tonight. So please tell us again what happened that night Josephine disappeared.’

Harker opened his eyes. ‘Jesus. I’ve told you twice.’

‘Again, please.’

‘Look, evidently you suspect me. So I want a lawyer.’

Smith smiled. ‘Why do you want a lawyer if you’re innocent, Major? Why are you scared of just telling us again what happened, if you’re telling the truth?’

Harker took a deep, tense breath. ‘You can’t put me to the expense of a hotel when I have my own boat.’

‘Okay,’ Humphrey smiled, ‘so I offer you a bed in the cells instead. It’s up to you. But I would be grateful if you came back here at noon tomorrow to resume our discussion. And I would be grateful for your passport, please …’

Harker had left his boat at anchor in the bay: now, on emerging from the police station, he found it chained to the government jetty, under guard. Policemen were aboard. He collected some things and checked into the Ambrosia boarding house.

At ten o’clock the next morning Jack Harker was arrested at the aerodrome attempting to board a flight to the French island of Guadeloupe. In his baggage was a .25 Browning pistol. His South African passport had been surrendered to Humphrey: he was using an expired passport which the police had not known he possessed. On his return to the police station he was further interrogated; finally he was formally charged with the murder of Josephine Valentine Harker.

A week later he was extradited to Florida to face trial.

PART I

The Back-story

1

In those days of apartheid many accidental deaths occurred in police custody – black suspects fell down stairs and cracked their skulls, or slipped on soap in the showers, or sometimes even threw themselves out of upper windows in a reckless attempt to escape. There was always an official inquest, as the law required, but the magistrate very seldom found anything suspicious, anything indicating reprehensible interrogation techniques by the police. The inquest into the death of Steve Biko, for example, evoked no judicial censure even though Biko was driven naked through the night, a thousand miles, in the back of an open truck, to a police hospital after he had sustained a fractured skull when he fell against a wall whilst irrationally attacking his police interrogators. In those days these accidental deaths were attributed by most of the white public to a few ‘bad apples’ in the police, though the frequency suggested that there must be a lot of them, but not too many questions were asked and there were no hard facts to gainsay police explanations.

Then deaths began to befall the apartheid government’s enemies outside the country, which were clearly not accidental: Professor Ruth First, wife of the leader of the South African Communist Party, was killed by a parcel bomb in Mozambique; Jeanette Schoon, wife of an anti-apartheid activist, was blown to bits, together with her little daughter, by another parcel bomb in Angola; Dulcie September died in a hail of bullets in Paris as she opened the offices of the African National Congress; Dr Albie Sachs, anti-apartheid activist, had his arm blown off by a car-bomb in Mozambique; Advocate Anton Lubowski, another anti-apartheid politician, was gunned down outside his home in Namibia on the eve of his country’s independence from South Africa. The press, particularly the international press, argued that the pattern of these murders suggested they were the work of the South African government, but this was hotly denied. But then there were a number of explosions: at the London headquarters of the African National Congress, and at Cosatu House in Johannesburg, headquarters of the Congress of South African Trade Unions. Khotso House, also in Johannesburg, the headquarters of the South African Council of Churches, was bombed; Khanya House, headquarters of the South African Bishops’ Conference in Pretoria, was set on fire. Who were the people committing all these crimes? The government blamed it all on black political rivalry and ‘Godless communists’; others blamed it on those bad apples in the police; only a few believed it was government policy to murder and destroy its enemies and their property, and they largely kept their mouths shut because of the security police. For those were the days of the Brezhnev Doctrine, the Cold War in which Africa was the major battleground, most of Africa being communist-sponsored one-party dictatorships, the era of the Total Onslaught Total Strategy, the total strategy to combat the total onslaught of the ungodly communist forces of darkness bent on overthrowing Western democracy and the Godly principles of apartheid. The security police could detain anyone for 180 days without trial, and then another 180 days immediately afterwards, and then another, and so on until, in the words of the Minister of Justice, ‘the far side of eternity’. There was freedom of speech in parliament but precious little outside; radio and television were government-controlled, the press had to watch its step and foreign journalists who wrote unkindly about apartheid were unceremoniously deported.