Rage by Wilbur Smith

circumstances before. He had to shake his head slightly to be rid of it.
    â€˜I am glad for both our sakes that you were able to come. Can I help you with your bags?’ Manfred De La Rey asked.
    â€˜Don’t worry. I can manage.’ Shasa went back to tie down and secure the Mosquito and fetch his luggage from the bomb bay, while Manfred doused the smoke pot.
    â€˜You brought your own rifle,’ Manfred remarked. ‘What is it?’
    â€˜Seven millimetre Remington magnum.’ Shasa swung the luggage into the back of the truck and stepped up into the passenger door of the Ford.
    â€˜Perfect for this type of shooting,’ Manfred approved as he started the truck. ‘Long shots over flat ground.’ He swung on to the track and they drove for a few minutes in silence.
    â€˜The Prime Minister could not come,’ he said. ‘He intended to be here, but he sent a letter for you. It confirms that I speak with his authority.’
    â€˜I’ll accept that.’ Shasa kept a straight face.
    â€˜The Minister of Finance is here, and the Minister of Agriculture is our host – this is his farm. One of the biggest in the Free State.’
    â€˜I am impressed.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Manfred nodded. ‘I think you will be.’ He stared hard at Shasa. ‘Is it not strange how you and I seem doomed always to confront each other?’
    â€˜It had crossed my mind,’ Shasa admitted.
    â€˜Do you think there is some reason for it – something of which we are unaware?’ Manfred insisted, and Shasa shrugged.

    â€˜I shouldn’t think so – coincidence only.’ The reply seemed to disappoint Manfred.
    â€˜Has your mother never spoken about me?’
    Shasa looked startled. ‘My mother! Good Lord, I don’t think so. She may have mentioned you casually — why do you ask?’
    Manfred seemed not to have heard, he looked ahead. ‘There is the homestead,’ he said, with a finality that closed the subject.
    The track breasted the rim of a shallow valley and the homestead nestled below them. Here the water must be near the surface for the pasturage was lush and green and the skeletal steel towers of a dozen windmills were scattered down the valley. A plantation of eucalyptus trees surrounded the homestead, and beyond it stood substantial outbuildings, all freshly painted and in good repair. Twenty or more brand-new tractors were lined up before one of the long garages, and there were flocks of fat sheep on the pastures. The plain beyond the homestead reaching almost to the horizon was already ploughed, thousands of acres of chocolate loam ready for sowing with maize seed. This was the heart land of Afrikanerdom, this was where the support of the National Party was solid and unwavering, and it was the reason why under the Nationalists the electoral areas had been re-demarcated to swing the centres of power away from the urban concentrations of population to favour these rural constituencies. That was why the Nationalists would stay in power for ever, and Shasa grimaced sourly. Immediately Manfred glanced at him, but Shasa offered no explanation and they drove down to the homestead and parked in the farm yard.
    There were a dozen men sitting at the long yellow-wood kitchen table, smoking and drinking coffee and chatting while the women hovered in attendance. The men rose to welcome Shasa and he went down the table shaking hands
with each of them and exchanging polite, if not effusive greetings.
    Shasa knew every one of them. He had faced all of them across the floor of the House and had lashed most of them with his tongue, and in return had been attacked and vilified by each of them, but now they made room for him at the table and the hostess poured strong black coffee for him and placed a dish of sweet cakes and hard-baked rusks in front of him. They all treated him with that innate courtesy and hospitality that is the hallmark of the Afrikaner.