Dark Intent (18 page)

Plaza Hotel, Pretoria

After she walked out on her husband, Kirsty Krige drove fast along the dirt track to the main gate and then joined the main road to Pretoria.
She reached the city in one hour and then skirted the centre to the far side. She had known after talking to her friend what she was going to do when she returned to the farm and she had booked a room for the night in a small, stylish city hotel, the Plaza.

As Kirsty had told her husband, she was far from sure whether or not they would come together again and that she needed time to think and be alone.
She was an alluring woman, thirty-three, sexually appealing and with dark brown hair, usually pulled back revealing faintly pale skin and captivating beauty. She was very intelligent and had completed her formal education studying pure and applied mathematics at Natal University in Durban. After getting a first in her degree she stayed on in Durban for five years working for a firm of actuaries. She then returned to Pretoria where she had been brought up, met and married Jan Krige. He was already running the farm, left to him by his father, and she learned to love the way of life, keeping to herself fond memories of the rich social life she had enjoyed to the full in Durban.

On the second evening of he stay in the hotel, she received a phone call from a man who introduced himself as John Kallis. She was surprised because only two or t
hree people knew she was there.

‘Do I know you?’ she asked, knowing she didn’t.

‘You don’t,’ said Kallis, smoothly. ‘But I have heard of you and someone said you had left the farm and were staying at the Plaza Hotel.’

‘I certainly didn’t know my whereabouts were public knowledge,’ she said, indignantly. ‘What do you want?’

‘I am sure your whereabouts are not public knowledge,’ said Kallis, reassuringly. ‘But I have heard of you, all complimentary I assure you. I would like to meet you somewhere in private. I think you will find what I have to say very interesting.’

‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’ she asked.

‘A direct meeting would be preferable,’ said Kallis, mysteriously. ‘I could come round to the hotel.’

Kirsty was curious and knew she could only be satisfied by meeting Kallis
She thought for a moment and then said: ‘Come to the hotel lobby at ten tomorrow morning. I have dark hair and will be wearing dark blue denims and a white shirt.’

‘Great,’ said Kallis. ‘I will be there.’
His voice was without emotion and he replaced the phone. He was pleased. He was entering the second stage of his plan that he believed would satisfy his desire to possess the white file.

Plaza Hotel, Pretoria

The next morning, Kirsty Krige caught the hotel lift to the ground floor and sat down in the lobby.
At ten precisely she saw a tall man enter the hotel and, after a quick glance around, walked over to her.

‘Mrs Krige?’ he said suavely.
‘John Kallis.’

‘Yes, I’m Kirsty Krige,’ she said.
‘Shall we sit down?’ They shook hands briefly.

‘There is a place over there,’ said Kallis.
‘He indicated the extensive lounge that came up to the lobby and led the way to a small table and two chairs over on the side.

When they were seated he looked at her.
‘I can imagine that you want to know why I contacted you. He shifted the position of his chair slightly and, before she could say anything, continued. ‘I said I know a few things that will be of interest to you. They primarily concern your husband.’

She had guessed that was coming. She remained silent and listened.

‘Some of this you probably know,’ said Kallis, ‘but there are parts in this drawn out saga that you do not. Three to four weeks ago your husband was asked by a political organization called the group of no name or group, to retrieve a file that had been stolen from their offices. The man who stole the file sent it to a leading trial lawyer in Durban, Andrew Cartwright. Your husband accepted the job and he was told he would be accompanied by two other men.’ Kallis stopped and looked round the room.

Before he could continue, Kirsty Krige spoke. ‘Who do you work for?
Where did you get this information?’

‘I don’t mind telling you,’ said Kallis.
‘I used to work for the Directorate: Special Operations, the Scorpions, in Durban. I recently left them and now I work for the group on special assignments. Not everyone likes them, I know. My boss, the man who directs group operations, is Johan Teichmann.’

Her face was impassive when she said:
‘You are right. Many people do not like them. They are racists, the type this country can do without.’

‘I admit there are some racists in their ranks but the leadership or core of the group is made up of some very intelligent men who have the highest sense of honour,’ said Kallis.
‘They are certainly not racist. They only want to protect their own people.’

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Your husband duly went to Durban with the other two,’ said Kallis. ‘He could not stand them and the animosity was mutual. The two men bottled out after one attempt to get the file failed and your husband decided to go it alone. Cartwright was unfortunately killed and it appears your husband couldn’t find the file. He left empty handed and went back to Pretoria.’ Kallis leant forward in his seat and stared intently at Kirsty. ‘I believe you have heard this before. Am I right?’

‘I have heard it before,’ said Kirsty.
‘I suspected my husband killed Andrew Cartwright. Do you know he did?’

‘He told the men in the group who organized the operation that he had killed Cartwright,’ said Kallis.
‘To the group the death of Cartwright was not important. It simply happened.’

‘That is what I meant earlier,’ said Kirsty.
‘Death to them is of no consequence as long it achieves a specific goal and their own people are not killed.’

Kallis was quiet. He knew she was right.
He broke his silence and said: ‘The operation in Durban was a complete failure because the file was not retrieved. I will ask you a question, which I want you to answer. Did your husband retrieve the file? When Gerrit Viljoen of the group arrived at your farm after your husband had been shot there was a stranger present. He had spared your husband’s life and escaped after being shot by one of Viljoen’s men. I believe this man was working for the Scorpions. I also think your husband gave him his assurance that he had the file and would hand it over to the Scorpions. If what I’ve just told you is true, your husband knew where the file was and did not say. If the file was not on the farm it was with someone your husband could trust, like his lawyer David Staples.’ Kallis changed position in his seat. ‘A copy of the file was sent to the DSO. I came across it by chance and sent it to the group. I was found out and that is why I’m now in Pretoria.’

‘I knew my husband had gone to Durban to retrieve this missing file but, like the group leaders behind the operation, I don’t believe he ever found it,’ said Kirsty.
‘He would have told me if he had found it and been able to retrieve it. You are guessing and have no evidence.’ She did not waver as she lied.

‘Tell me something,’ said Kallis.
‘Do you trust your husband?’

She paled. ‘Yes, I do trust him.
Why do you ask?’

‘Did your husband go away recently for a few days?’ asked Kallis.

‘Yes, he was away,’ she said, knowing there was no point in lying.

‘Do you know where he went?’ said Kallis, persisting.

‘He told me he was going to Pretoria to discuss a business deal,’ she said.

‘That quite frankly was a blatant lie,’ said Kallis.
‘Your husband and another man, John Dalton, were asked to go to KwaZulu-Natal to get rid of four blacks who were hated by the group leadership. Your husband complied and went after the blacks. One was a Zulu and a member of the provincial parliament, Moses Shozi, and the others were ex-guerillas. The Zulu and one of the guerrillas were killed and the other two escaped. They are now in Pretoria. I saw them the other night talking to a man, Rupert Bosch, from the group. I had his line tapped and heard him speaking to them about what I have told you. He was definitely an informer and I suspect he was working for a section in the African Nationalist Congress.’

‘How do you know all this?’ said Kirsty, visibly shocked.

‘It’s my job,’ said Kallis.

‘I am sure a man in your position has other things to tell me,’ said Kirsty, mockingly, now determined to get everything she could out of Kallis.

‘I will tell you something that might be related to all this,’ said Kallis. ‘The group has another file that is identical to the one that went missing. This other file, File B, refers to blacks. The first file, File A, refers to whites and was explicitly designed for their protection. I do not need to tell you what the other file is for.’ Kallis grinned, beginning to enjoy himself. ‘The black file was stolen two days ago from the group offices and they don’t have any idea who took it and where it is now. Interestingly enough, the man, Rupert Bosch, who I saw talking to the two guerrillas, disappeared the day after the file was taken.’ Kallis looked at his watch. He then told her how the original of each file could be ascertained.

When he had finished he said: ‘I do not believe you know where the white file is held.
If your husband can lie so brazenly to you and conceal his actions, I’m not surprised he didn’t tell you if he had managed to get it. I was hoping you knew something and could have been of assistance to me in finding a document that rightfully belongs to the group. Now I must leave you. It has been a pleasure talking to you.’

Kallis rose from his seat and walked towards the doors.
He was soon gone.

For a while Kirsty sat at the table, her head held in her hands.
She knew a copy of the file was in the safe on the farm and that her husband’s lawyer had the original. To her this whole business was complex and, even though she felt she should become involved, she did not know how. She was certainly not going to contact her husband.

Jan Krige’s farm

The two guerrillas Nofomela and Ngwenya made easy work of their drive north towards Jan Krige’s farm.
If they saw more than two cars at the same time it was a lot. In forty-five minutes they reached White River and Nofomela pulled the car over and parked in the town centre.

‘Let’s stretch our legs,’ he said.

Ngenya hauled himself out of the vehicle. ‘That looks like a café over there. We can go there for something to revitalize us.’

They seated themselves in the near-empty café and gave their orders to the waiter.

‘I take it we will stick to what we discussed when we meet Krige,’ said Ngwenya. ‘We don’t want him to see us come in. Surprise is everything.’

‘Agreed,’ said Nofomela.
‘According to Bosch, we should see the turnoff to the farm from this road. After parking some distance away, we will have to walk to get to the house. I’m sure we will find adequate cover for our approach.’

‘It’s hard to believe that here we are, five hundred miles from KwaZulu and about to confront the bastard who tried to kill us three days ago,’ said Ngwenya.

‘Don’t be too hasty to put an end to him,’ said Nofomela sagely. ‘The aim of this exercise is not to kill Krige, but to get the file.’ He smiled ruthlessly. ‘If Krige gets in the way, it will be his fault if he falls foul of us and gets killed.’

After they had consumed what had been placed in front of them, the two men left the café for the car.
Nofomela gunned the engine and they drove off. Twenty minutes later, he saw the sign they wanted. It said Krige.

Nofomela laughed.
‘Our guy certainly gets full marks for imagination.’

‘Something has just come to me,’ said Ngwenya, stopping the car, engine running, at the side of the road.
‘Bosch said Krige has a wife. What do we do about her? We can’t kill a woman.’

‘That should not be a problem,’ said Nofomela confidently. ‘We will just have to play our cards as they come, whoever we get to first.
Krige wouldn’t do anything that endangers his wife and the same applies to her.’

Nofomela swung the car into the road, expelling a cloud of dust as they sped off down the dirt track to the main gate of the farm.
When they saw it, Nofomela stopped and reversed off the track into some undergrowth.

‘The less conspicuous we are the better,’ he said, cutting the engine.
‘Let’s move before it gets dark.’

The two men half-ran towards the gate and, when they were near it, climbed through a barbed wire fence onto Krige’s land.
What they saw in front of them resembled a small valley. They could see part of the house poking out from behind a rocky outcrop that loomed before it. Farm buildings reared up next to the house and acres of prime tobacco extended from the little oasis before disappearing beyond carefully planned fire breaks.

After they had surveyed the scene, Nofomela said:
‘I think we should follow that ridge. It goes beyond the house and the dense vegetation should provide excellent cover all the way there.’

Together they made for the ridge, climbed halfway up and moved in single file towards the house.
As they neared their goal, they heard the engine of a vehicle disturb the tranquillity of the valley and they dropped to the ground. A Land Rover soon appeared, the noise from the engine a high-pitched scream, and they watched as the driver, hanging over the wheel, drove along the single stretch of track to the house.

‘That guy’s in a hurry,’ said Nofomela, getting to his feet and brushing off flecks of earth and dead leaves.
‘It must be Krige. You don’t drive on just anyone’s land like a madman. Give him a minute to get out of the Land Rover and then we’ll go in.’

After a short wait, the guerillas left the ridge and, using the
kopje
as a screen, approached the house. When they reached the mound of rock, they at last had a full view of the house. To them it was an attractive building and they were quiet as they absorbed its solitude. There was no one in sight.

‘Be patient,’ said Nofomela, knowing what his friend was thinking.
‘Unless he’s gone off for a nap he will soon appear, either on the verandah or in that room adjacent to it.’

They sat still for what seemed an age, only their heads showing, and then their patience was rewarded.
A tall man came on to the verandah, a glass of whisky in his hand, and sat down in a rocking chair that could easily have coped with someone twice his size. From the brief view of the man’s face and the way he walked, Nofomela instantly recognized Jan Krige.

‘Now’s the opportunity we wanted,’ said Nofomela.
He went from the
kopje
, Ngwenya behind him and walked casually up to the verandah steps. Krige was reading from a magazine when Nofomela stepped onto the polished stone. He quickly turned and rose to his feet, slowly placing the magazine and unfinished whisky on a side table.

‘Who the hell are you?’ said Krige.
‘Don’t you know this is private property?’

‘Surely you recognize us,’ said Nofomela softly.

‘Why should I recognize you?’ said Krige. ‘Are you saying we have met before?’

‘A week ago you tried to kill us in Malakazi township, KwaZulu-Natal,’ said Nofomela, bluntly. ‘You put a bullet into our sick friend, Ngubane, and then tried to do the same to us.
You and your friend failed and we escaped into the night. Do you think that is an accurate description of your antics Major Krige?’

‘You are mistaken,’ said Krige, calmly. ‘I’ve never been near this place you call Malakazi.’

Nofomela went on. ‘After we had escaped I remembered seeing you previously. You’ve had your photograph in the press and, when you were head of the Johannesburg murder and robbery squad, you once came so close to me in the cells of Pretoria central prison I could smell you.’

Krige knew there was now no point denying what the black had said and he knew he had to remain calm until he could either overpower them or escape.
He noticed their guns were still in their holsters and he was aware that he had to act before they could bring them into play. He had to keep them talking.

‘What do want?’ said Krige, asking the obvious question.
‘Spit it out.’

Nofomela indicated to Ngwenya to take over and the man moved forward.

‘Before you went on this mission to kill us and Moses Shozi, at the behest of the group command, you did another job for them in Durban. You were sent with two other thugs of the group to retrieve from Andrew Cartwright, a distinguished lawyer, what is known as File A. During the operation the men with you fled and you went in alone. Cartwright was killed by you but you returned to Pretoria without the file. You told your group masters that you had been unable to find it and they believed you. But if you didn’t get the file, someone else did and shortly after the operation a copy of the file, that was meant for the DSO in Durban, was intercepted and sent to the group. The word copy means just that and the all-important original is still missing.’

Ngwenya stood still, his eyes never leaving Krige. ‘Now, I will get to the guts of why we are here. We do not believe anyone else took that file from Cartwright’s house.
First, if they had broken in and taken it before you got there, Cartwright would have had the police at the place. Second, you, with your experience, would not have killed Cartwright before getting him to reveal where the file was, and he certainly would have given you what you wanted rather than die.’ Ngwenya smoothly put his hands in his pockets. ‘We conclude, Major, that you did receive the file that night and managed to evade any possible pursuit. To us that means the file is either on this farm or with someone you trust implicitly, like your lawyer. You also decided not to return the file to the group and to send a copy instead to the Scorpions. We want that file Major. You can either give it to us freely or tell us where we can get it. If you don’t cooperate we’ll relieve you of it by force, something you won’t like.’

Krige knew he could not hold them off by denying what they said was true and his only options were to fight his way out or reveal that David Staples had it.
The two men were armed, tall and powerful and his chance of overcoming them was not good. He had to play along until the right opportunity arose.

‘I do not have the file here on the farm,’ said Krige.
‘There was only one copy made and that was sent to the DSO. The original is in the hands of my lawyer.’

‘What are his name and contact details?’ said Nofomela.

‘His name is David Staples. He works in the centre of Pretoria and has a house on the outskirts. I can get that information for you.’ He pivoted slightly to go through the doors into the lounge but before he could take a step, Nofomela rapidly moved towards him.

‘We’ll come with you Major,’ said Nofomela, lifting his hand to grab Krige by the arm.
But before he could take hold, Krige back-peddled and spun into the lounge with the agility of a ballet dancer. He adroitly corrected his balance and, like an antelope ahead of the lion, skipped and ran down the passage to the doors in the kitchen that led to the back yard and the open veld beyond.

‘I’ll follow him,’ shouted Nofomela to Ngwenya who was already moving. ‘Get round to the back.’

Ngwenya vaulted down the verandah steps and sprinted to the rear of the house. Nofomela, running as if his life was at stake, quickly reached the kitchen. He saw Krige through the wire screens. He was nearly across the yard and heading for the nearest line of trees and scrub. Nofomela bolted through the back door and gave chase, beginning to enjoy what to him had become an exciting game. Before he reached the trees, he slowed for Ngwenya, who had just appeared at the corner of the house, to catch up with him.

Together, the two guerrillas continued their pursuit.
At first Krige appeared to have vanished and then he re-appeared, altering his direction and driving towards the north-western section of the farm. The vegetation and trees were becoming more congested and progress for Nofomela and Ngwenya was not as good as it had been earlier. At times they had to slow down to a walk, as they brushed aside the foliage in their path.

When the guerrillas had gone 500 metres, the bush became so dense they had to stop.
They had lost sight of Krige and as far as they knew he could well have changed direction again.

‘What should we do?’ asked Ngwenya, bending over and resting his hands on his knees.
‘He must know this land like the back of his hand. To lose sight of him in this thick bush means we can kiss him goodbye. We’ll never find him now.’

Nofomela leant against a tree, his arms folded in front of him.
‘We shouldn’t have lost sight of him. But that’s history and to nail him now will require use of our brains. I think we can only achieve our objective by drawing him into a trap.’

‘What do you suggest?’ said Ngwenya, sometimes slow to think, preferring to leave it to Nofomela.

‘The way I see it is this,’ said Nofomela. ‘Krige will soon realize that we are not on his trail anymore and that we have lost him. After a while, he will think we have given up and got out of here. He won’t want to sit it out here in the bush doing nothing. Impatience will set in and drive him crazy.’

Nofomela scratched the incipient growth of stubble on his face. ‘My bet is that he will plan on getting out as quickly as possible and that means reaching his Land Rover.
He will know that our vehicle is not on his land and that we will have to walk some distance to get to it. That will give him an advantage if he can make it to his Land Rover without us seeing him.’

‘Why don’t we just leave?’ asked Ngwenya.
‘We only have to go to his lawyer and the file is ours.’

Nofomela shook his head. ‘By the time we get to the lawyer, Krige will have told him we are coming.
If that happens we will never find the man. The only way of knowing he is telling the truth is to threaten him with his life. Even then we will not be sure, but it is our only chance. Besides, we must not lose sight of the fact that we still want to kill him. The only way we will be satisfied is to get hold of him.’

‘Where do we go now?’ said Ngwenya, beginning to see the logic in what Nofomela was saying.

‘We head for the house. The Land Rover is parked in front of the verandah. I am certain Krige’s wife is not on the farm otherwise we would have seen her earlier. When we’re at the house, we go inside and split up. You go to the kitchen, which has a good view of the back and I will take up position in the lounge. From there I will be able to see if he goes in a circle and approaches the house from the other side of the rocks.’

‘What about servants?’ said Ngwenya.

Nofomela looked at him and said: ‘Kill them if they interfere. I don’t think any are here. Now let’s go.’

The two guerrillas started to back-track in single file, keeping low, and after a while they saw the barns that were adjacent to the house.
No one was in sight and they swiftly crossed the yard to the back door. They slipped through and stood quietly in the kitchen, listening for any sound.

‘I’ll give a faint tap if I spot him,’ said Nofomela. ‘You do the same.
Good luck.’ He gave a thumbs-up and disappeared down the passage to the lounge.