Dark Intent (19 page)

Jan Krige’s farm

After constantly checking his trail, Jan Krige became aware that he had lost the guerrillas. There was no sight of them.
He watched his trail for a while and then moved off in a steady run at right angles to it. He was alert, physically very fit, his mind on the unexpected confrontation he had experienced with the two guerrillas. He knew he had the advantage of knowing the area very well and he could go where he wanted to undetected. He regretted not having his pistol with him and he thought about how he could get hold of one. He did not relish facing the two men unarmed. He was certain that if the guerrillas still wanted him they would go and watch the house and his Land Rover, if they were still on the farm. If that happened they would block his way out.

As he neared the side of the house and the barns, still concealed by foliage, it came to him that there had always been a snub-nosed .38 Smith and Wesson revolver in a small office, standing alone and hidden from the house by the
buildings. It was kept for protection only, but this time, if it was still there, he would use it to kill.

Krige waited in the bush for a while longer and then went quickly to the outbuildings. He was soon at the small office and he slipped inside.
He rapidly jerked open the only drawer in the single desk and delved with his hand through an untidy assemblage of notes and receipts. With a feeling of quiet satisfaction his hand found the gun and he extracted it, simultaneously rotating the cylinder to see if it was loaded. It was full and he stuck it behind his belt to keep his hands free. After leaving the office, he went with consummate stealth to an adjacent barn that, through a side window, provided an excellent view of the entire side wall of the house from the kitchen to the verandah.

Krige waited, his eyes probing for the slightest movement, the silence and stillness a void
He did not see anyone, but he had no intention of assuming they were not there. He was now certain they weren’t still out in the bush looking for him and that they had not left the farm. They could be cleverly concealed in the house and have the patience to wait until he appeared which to them would be a foregone conclusion.

Krige gave it ten minutes and decided to take his chance and go for the rear door leading into the kitchen.
He left the barn through the single set of doors, hidden from the house, and moved round to the corner. After a final look at what lay ahead, he ran across the yard towards the kitchen. When he reached it, he grabbed the handle and flung the door open, sweeping into the kitchen. There, rising like a ghost, was Ngwenya, the pistol pointed at his heart, a supercilious grin on his traditionally scarred face.

‘You are too impatient,’ said the black, sardonically.
‘We knew you would come.’

As Ngwenya drew breath, Krige glanced past him, diverting his attention, the oldest evasive technique in the book.
Ngwenya, thinking Krige had seen Nofomela, turned, saw only the vacant passage and made to swing his gun back onto Krige. But he was too late and, leaping forward, Krige hit him with brute force in the stomach, his fist sinking into the unused muscle. The guerilla tried to regain his footing, the gun partly hanging, and Krige came in again, beating him viciously to the floor. He pulled his gun from his waist and callously fired two rapid shots into the black’s head, killing him instantly.

‘You haven’t lost your touch Major. Drop the gun.’

Krige stepped from Ngwenya, his back to the voice, knowing immediately who had spoken, hoping he had not been outplayed. He released the gun, turned, and standing in the doorway leading to the passage, pointing a pistol at his heart, was the tall, proud figure of Nofomela.

Nofomela took a couple of steps into the room.
‘You took your time coming here,’ he said. ‘For a moment we thought we had lost you and would never see you again. That would have been most disappointing.’ He was deathly calm, grinning fleetingly, his face alight with satisfaction. ‘We have unfinished business.’

‘What do you want?’ said Krige. ‘I told you my lawyer has the original and I gave you his name.
Surely a man of your education can use a phone book.’

‘Tell me where I can contact him,’ snapped Nofomela. ‘I want to get out of this place. You go first.’
He waved the barrel of his pistol towards the passage.

As Nofomela swung the weapon back into play Krige moved rapidly taking two measured steps and driving his knee into the guerrilla’s groin. Cradling the body as it fell forward, he swept Nofomela’s feet from under him, sending him crashing to the floor, an unwanted mass of flesh and bone.
Wrenching the pistol from the guerilla’s hand, he fired two shots into the man’s chest, killing him where he lay in a grotesque heap.

Krige stared for a moment at the dead bodies, finding it ironic that here on his own farm he had finally killed the two men who had escaped him in KwaZulu-Natal, 800 kilometres away.
He collected the guerillas’ pistols, placed them on the table and dragged the bodies in turn out into the yard, where he placed them against the rear wall of the house.

He went inside, poured a Scotch and walked out onto the verandah.
Everything was peaceful, in stark contrast to the violence that had just occurred. He was drained, mentally and physically, and craved sleep, but that had to wait while he selfishly savoured the prowess he had so adeptly exhibited in slaughtering two men he had come to hate. It was now clear why the group wanted them dead and all the other murderers who were in the black file he had been told existed. He had little remorse. He had become a ruthless killer, ready to destroy life without compunction and devour the satisfaction that came with the work. Kirsty was a forgotten part of his life and had served his desire for sexual gratification. He had discovered his alter ego and it suited him.

Krige slept for an hour after killing the blacks, enough to replenish his depleted mental and physical strength. He had a bath, changed his clothes and went to the phone in the lounge. He dialled Johan Teichmann’s number.

‘Teichmann,’ said the group leader.

‘It’s Jan Krige. I would like to see you on the farm. You will find what I’ve got to tell you very satisfying.’

‘Can’t you tell me over the phone?’ said Teichmann, a little curious.
Krige had never phoned him unless it concerned business.

‘I’d rather not,’ said Krige.
‘I’d like to move quickly.’

‘I’ll be there in an hour,’ said Teichmann and replaced the receiver.

Krige sat down in his rocking chair. He was proud of himself for completing the job in KwaZulu-Natal, even though the two men in the yard had willingly and incongruously come to him, the killer. He never imagined in his most bizarre dreams that he would indulge in the satisfaction that now coursed his body, a potent drug. He did not regret now his lies and acts of duplicity. They had been necessary to find his hidden self, a part of him he never knew existed.

In a little over one hour after his phone call to Teichmann, the man arrived and drove his car up to the house.
He hauled himself out of the vehicle and came round to the verandah steps where Krige stood, arms folded.

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ said Krige, guiding Teichmann onto the verandah and indicating one of several seats.

‘It sounded urgent,’ said Teichmann, releasing his bulk onto soft cushions. ‘I came straight away.’

‘You are aware that two of the guerril
las we went to kill in KwaZulu-Natal escaped, when Dalton and I thought we had them,’ said Krige. ‘Unknown to me they fled Malakazi township and came to Pretoria. Two hours ago they turned up here on the farm.’ Krige clasped his hands behind his neck and leant back in his chair, as relaxed as a cat after devouring a nocturnal meal.

Teichmann sat upright, staring at Krige. ‘Where are they now?’ he asked, half-expecting the men to appear.

‘They’re dead,’ said Krige. ‘I put them in the back yard for a couple of your men to come and remove. I would like them to do it today and I suggest you make the calls now. My phone’s through there in the other room. This will look good in the press and when you say it was self-defence, you won’t be lying.’

Teichmann got up and went to phone in the lounge.
In five minutes he finished the call and returned to the verandah. ‘They’ll soon be here,’ he said. ‘Now tell me the story.’

‘I was sitting out here when they appeared,’ said Krige. ‘I recognized them immediately but did not admit it. That did not help me because they recognized me and knew I was one of the whites who tried to kill them in Malakazi township.
They knew I had killed their friend Elijah Ngubane and had been rightly told I had got rid of Moses Shozi, not one of their bosom pals. They proceeded to tell me about my past deeds, almost as much as I know myself. They knew I had killed Cartwright and that I had gone to Durban to retrieve the white file.’ He wrapped his hands around his belt. ‘I told them I had not been able to find it and that I had come back to Pretoria empty handed. They did not believe me and said they would force me to tell them the truth and reveal where I was keeping the file. I played for time and said my lawyer David Staples had the original. They asked for his contact details and that was when I got away from them. When I returned to the house they were lying in wait. We fought and I killed them. It’s as simple as that.’

Teichmann looked at Krige in admiration.
‘I always knew you were one of the best operatives I have known. It must come from your training in the police and your ingrained ability. So the job is now complete.’ He rubbed his hand over his prodigious stomach. ‘You probably don’t know that a copy of the file was sent to the DSO. It was intercepted by one of our plants, John Kallis, and sent to me. Kallis was found out and fired. He has excellent credentials and is very street wise. I took him on as a special operative reporting only to me.’ He leaned forward. ‘I am glad you called because something very embarrassing has occurred. The black file, File B, that you know exists and which is identical to the white file, File A, in concept was removed from its safe. It has not been found.’

Krige suspected what was coming but this time had no fear of being asked by Teichmann to get involved.

‘I once said I would not ask you again to do anything for me,’ said Teichmann. ‘I also said that I don’t always have control of some of the leaders in the group. There are things that are extremely important which they leave me to solve, and I keep them informed when I think it appropriate.’ Teichmann scratched his cheek. ‘They do know the white file went missing and has not yet been found. I assured them I have the best man on the case. They also know the black file is missing. The fact that two documents of vital importance have been stolen concerned them a lot more than if it had only been the one. It makes them very uneasy.’ Teichmann came out of his chair and took a step towards Krige, his hands in his pockets. ‘I again assured them that both files would be retrieved. I do not want to disappoint them and neither do I want to disappoint myself. But I have one problem that I believe could be seriously detrimental to success. I don’t know if I can trust the man to whom I have now given the sole responsibility of finding File B as well as File A.’

‘Who is he?’ asked Krige.

‘His name is John Kallis, the ex-DSO man I mentioned earlier.’

‘I don’t know him,’ said Krige. He brushed a tiny leaf from his shirt. ‘Let me understand this. You have given the job of solving these two cases to one man who you now feel you can’t trust. When did you decide you couldn’t trust him?’

‘Shortly after I had assigned him the job of also locating the black file and dealing with the guilty parties,’ said Teichmann, embarrassed.

‘Has anything occurred to substantiate this belief?’ asked Krige. He laughed ruthlessly. ‘I would never have given another job of such importance to one man.’

Teichmann tacitly accepted the criticism. ‘You have worked with people and sensed that something is not right. I started to feel that about Kallis. For a while I didn’t think any more of it until the second file was stolen. I remember telling Kallis to start the interrogation process of all those who had been working on the file and who had access to the safe. There was no reason for him to have access but he had the list of all those who did. Since then he has never spoken to me about our inability to find one man, Rupert Bosch. To me Bosch has to be the prime suspect and yet it is strange that Kallis has not once made reference about him to me. It is as if the man never existed.’

‘That is strange,’ said Krige. ‘If I were in Kallis’s position, I would certainly keep my boss informed concerning progress in finding the prime suspect. It implies that Kallis found Bosch and got hold of the black file for himself. If that were the case it would have meant nullifying Bosch. I assume everyone else on the list is clean.’

‘Yes,’ said Teichmann.
‘I have the greatest confidence in our methods.’

‘I bet you do,’ said Krige. ‘Let me ask you a question. Why are you telling all this to me?’

‘I would like you to help me and become directly involved in sorting out this mess,’ said Teichmann bluntly.

‘I knew that was coming when you first told me the black file had gone missing,’ said Krige.
‘I take it the job would also entail finding the white file.’