rivoniaunmasked

you can. Meanwhile, while Kleingeld is doing the talking, you, Daantjie . van Wyk turned to Constable
van den Berg "you get out and go round to the back of the van. You can pretend to look at the tyres or
something... but keep watching Kleingeld out of the corner of your eye. The rest is up to you,
Kleingeld. If you think the person you're talking to is acting in a suspicious manner, or if you smell
anything at all fishy, wedge your foot into the doorway. We don't want them to slam the door in our
faces and lock us out while they grab their chance to destroy any documents or other evidence which
might be useful to us. Such things have been known to happen, you know... Now, Daantjie, if you see
Kleingeld wedging his foot into the doorway, you must jerk open the doors of the van so that the rest
of us can get out– and quickly! The moment we're out of that van we must scatter, cover all exits and
rush the house and outbuildings. Any papers and documents you may find are to be handed over to Mr
Dirker and Sergeant Kennedy."
In small groups, and travelling in several vehicles, the sixteen men set out for Rivonia Police
Station.
There was some delay at the Police Station, as it was decided at the last moment that it might be
advisable to get a special search warrant in case of need. This type of warrant, which is used
exclusively by Security men, is issued only at The Grays, the headquarters of the Security Branch.
While one of the men drove back to Johannesburg to fetch the warrant, the others busied
themselves in making the van appear thoroughly foolproof. Someone had noticed that there was an
opening behind the driving seat, so that it was possible for someone happening to peer past the driver
and into the back to see the men who were hidden there. This was obviated by hanging a blanket–
borrowed from the cells– across the opening and securing it firmly in place.
By three o'clock all was ready and the van set out for Lilliesleaf. Fourteen men and the police dog
crouched or huddled in the back. In front, wearing white coats, sat Constable van den Berg and
Sergeant Kleingeld. The latter had added a rakish-looking cap and a pair of dark glasses to his outfit.
The men in the back could not see where they were going, of course, but van Wyk had given the
driver minute directions. Opposite the caravan park there were two gates. He was to drive past the first
one, which was locked, and turn in at the second.
It was growing very stuffy in the confined space at the back, where fourteen men were wedged
uncomfortably close together. The added presence of the dog Cheetah contributed little to their
comfort.
Swinging in at the second gate, the van proceeded up a driveway which wound through dense trees
and bushes. The farm certainly looked more than peaceful; it looked dead and deserted, and there was
no sign of any house. Van den Berg was just beginning to wonder uncomfortably whether he had come
to the right place when the homestead came into view at last: a large modern residence with a tiled
roof, situated fully 500 yards from the entrance to the farm.
The van was nearing the house when the two policemen up in front found the way blocked by a
Bantu, apparently a servant. Not wishing to excite suspicion, van den Berg brought the van to a halt.
Kleingeld leaned out of the window and addressed the man.
"Where's the master?"
Van Wyk, huddling uncomfortably in the back with the nervously panting Cheetah directly in front
of his face, strained his ears to catch the conversation.
"There's nobody at home," he heard the Bantu reply.
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