Pradesh in 1993, just as white minority rule was ending and the country was opening up to the rest of the world. They control a vast business empire (Atul is South Africa's richest black businessman) and have become notorious for the “capture” of Zuma, some of his cabinet ministers and important elements of the state.
Prior to his appointment as finance minister, Van Rooyen visited the Saxonwold, Johannesburg, compound of the Guptas seven times and made 17 phone calls to the brothers. Hours after his appointment the Guptas sent two of their business associates to be appointed as advisers to Van Rooyen. The ascendancy of an ill-qualified Gupta stooge to the most sensitive cabinet position in South Africa sent the rand into a tailspin, stocks slid and bond prices tumbled. The country lost billions of rand within 24 hours. Four days later and under enormous pressure, Zuma made an astonishing U-turn by removing Van Rooyen and reappointing the respected Pravin Gordhan as finance minister.
I was watching the spell-binding political drama with anticipation from my kitchen at Red Tin Roof. Before starting to cook and bake at five or six every morning, I scoured news sites for more information on Zuma's attempts to capture the Treasury. Like most South Africans, I realised that should a man accused of fraud and his henchmen lay their hands on the state's coffers, it would be as fatal as handing an alcoholic the keys to his local Liquor City.
Several former and current politicians and journalists visited me at Red Tin Roof, and old security and intelligence sources contacted me again. In the meantime Max du Preez, journalist, author and gabba for twenty-five years, was providing analysis and spurring me on to start writing again. He lives a stone's throw from me in Riebeek-Kasteel.
Max and I had co-founded three significant events in print and television journalism: the Afrikaans anti-apartheid newspaper Vrye Weekblad in 1988, the Truth Commission Special Report at the SABC in 1996, and the public broadcaster's premier current affairs and investigative show, Special Assignment, in 1999. We started the SABC ventures before the likes of ANC commissar Snuki Zikalala and Zuma clown Hlaudi Motsoeneng destroyed the broadcaster and turned it into a propaganda tool for the ANC.
“You have to write another book,” said Max. We were sitting in a quirky restaurant called Eve's Eatery in the heart of the village when he added: “You know more about guys like this than anyone else.”
“And what should the book be about?” I asked Max.
“About the people that Zuma surrounds himself with. The Shauns and the Mdlulis and the Ntlemezas and the Jibas and the Nhlekos and the Hlaudis and the Zwanes. But also about the faceless, nameless bunch behind them that play a vital role to keep him in power.”
“And out of prison,” I added.
“Precisely,” he said.
“And don't forget that they also enable him and the family to make money,” I said. “Just think about his son's links to the Guptas and illegal tobacco smugglers.”
“There you have it,” said Max. “It's a book.”
Shortly after this lunch with Max, Arthur Fraser was appointed as the new director-general of the State Security Agency (SSA). The man implicated in a two-year forensic investigation for misappropriating hundreds of millions of rand and fingered as a possible treason suspect was now South Africa's top spy boss.
I was horrified at Fraser's appointment but neither shocked nor surprised. It was clearly payback time in return for the favour he had done the embattled Zuma almost a decade previously. Fraser had, at the very least, taken out a political insurance policy.
Fraser's rise to the top of the intelligence hierarchy must be seen against the backdrop of what I regard as the primary objective of Zuma's presidency: to stay out of prison. In order to avoid spending his last days behind bars, he has to cling to power in order to prepare an exit strategy that will guarantee his freedom. This is closely followed by his greed to fill his and his family's pockets. Cronies are welcome to help themselves but their priority is to assist him to retain his freedom. Only after Zuma has looked after himself comes the small little problem of governing the Republic and its millions and millions of hungry, uneducated and jobless voters who are looking to him for salvation and deliverance.
When I saw Max again, he said to me: “Remember what we spoke about the other day? Our conversation about the people that protect Zuma?”
“Of course I do,” I said. “I think about it often.”
“And now you have Fraser as well. There is now a Zuma person in virtually every crucial position in government.”
I told Max about the phone call from the former spook who had told me about Paul Engelke in Moscow.
“I haven't contacted him yet,” I said. “I don't know if he will speak to me.”
“Find out and if he says yes, go! Go as soon as possible,” he said. “Ek weet mos dat as jy eers daar is, gaan jy met sy kop smokkel. [I know that once there, you will get into his head.]”
* * *
I e-mailed Paul Engelke in Moscow and said who I was and that I wanted to talk to him about his investigation into Arthur Fraser. Would you see me if I come to Russia? He replied almost immediately – always a good sign – and agreed to meet me but added that he was bound by the constraints of the Intelligence Act and couldn't talk to me about anything he did as a senior SSA employee. The investigation into Fraser, he added, was top secret.
I replied that I already knew a lot about his investigation and maybe he could just confirm a few things. He said that if I came to Moscow, I had to bring a bottle of Rust en Vrede red wine, a plastic tub of Mrs Ball's and dried fruit. Russian food is bland, he complained. They add salt and nothing else. I smiled as I had just read a quote about the Russian capital that said: “You don't come to Moscow to get fat.”
“I want to write a book again,” I said to Sam on a blazingly hot afternoon on the veranda of the Red Tin Roof. Next to us bursts of white petals adorned the roses while on the other side of the fence heat waves danced on Hermon Road. She fell silent and stared at me. She had lived through the last three books and said that they had been the loneliest times of her life.
“And who is going to cook while you sit in your cosy little corner week in and week out and talk to no one?” she demanded to know.
“Fiona will cook. I'll keep an eye on the kitchen.” I said. Fiona Snyders is Red Tin Roof's chef and the heart of the kitchen. Large, gregarious and loud, Fiona has been with us from day one. When it is busy and the heat rises into the forties, Fiona is a sight to behold: a battle tank on a mission, her head perched forward and her mouth going off. She has a braai tong in one hand while a pudgy finger on the other presses against an Angus steak to determine if it is medium-rare or medium.
Sam finally conceded that I should write the book and that she would support me. “It's in you and you can't get rid of it. Go for it, otherwise you'll never be happy.”
I then bowled her my googly: “I have to go Russia. Maybe next week already.”
“To do what?”
“To see someone.”
“Who is he?”
“A former spook. He was high up in State Security and knows a hell of a lot. He lives in Moscow. I think he might talk to me. His name is Paul Engelke.”
“And for how long are you going?”
“Twelve days; maybe two weeks. I'm not sure yet.”
“Do you need two weeks to speak to one person?”
“I might need time to persuade him.”
Sam gave me one of those looks. “And don't forget to bring Olga back,” she snarled. “We can do with another waitress.”
* * *
In the drab twilight of a Russian winter with an ash-coloured sky blotting out the sun, I strolled along Red Square and past the Kremlin while waiting for Paul Engelke to contact me. Communism was long gone but the cobbles of the square still