Deon Meyer (22 page)

 

 

And my name was one of them.”

 

 

“Yes, sir. After Johnny’s visit to the consulate, the CIA reacted as we expected. They told Johnny not to make direct contact again, that the building is being watched. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. I arranged for his phone to be monitored. A week ago they called, a smokescreen for a meeting in the gardens at the art museum. There they asked Johnny to take the info to Lusaka.”

 

 

“What went wrong, Janina?”

 

 

“We think Johnny used his own initiative, sir. We think the hard drive he took was empty. Or filled with pointless data.”

 

 

“Johnny Kleintjes,” said the director with nostalgia. “I think he did not completely trust you, Janina.”

 

 

“It’s possible. It took a lot of persuading to get him to go along. The three names …”

 

 

“He knows all three.”

 

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

 

And he does not believe any one of the three is Inkululeko.”

 

 

“That’s right.”

 

 

“Typical of Johnny. He would want to check things through first. But with an escape route if the Yanks got serious.”

 

 

“I suspect Thobela Mpayipheli has the real hard drive.”

 

 

“The one you prepared.”

 

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

 

“And you do not want that data to reach Lusaka.”

 

 

“I thought we would stop Mpayipheli at the airport. I wanted to send the drive with one of my own people. That is still the plan.”

 

 

“More control.”

 

 

She nodded. “More control.”

 

 

The director pulled open a drawer in the big desk. “I too have a confession, Janina,” he said, lifting out a photograph, a dog-eared color snapshot. He held it out to her. She took it carefully, holding it up to her eyes with her fingertips on the edges of the faded card. The director, young— easily twenty years ago. He had his arm around a tall broad-shouldered black youth, supple and muscular, regular features, a strong line to mouth and chin, determined. In the background was a military vehicle.

 

 

“Dar es Salaam,” said the director. “Nineteen eighty-four.”

 

 

“I don’t understand, sir.”

 

 

“The other man in the photo is Thobela Mpayipheli. He was my friend.” There was a faint smile lingering on the small Zulu’s mouth.

 

 

A chill swept over her. “That is why you let the Reaction Unit come.”

 

 

He looked up at the ceiling, his thoughts in another time. She waited patiently.

 

 

“He is a ruthless man, Janina. A freak of nature. He is … he was only seventeen when he enlisted. But they picked him out from the start. While the others had general infantry training in Tanzania and Angola, he was sent with the elite to the Soviet Union. And East Germany. The KGB fell in love first and kept us up-to-date with his training. The Germans pinched him. They knew …”

 

 

“That’s why there is no record.”

 

 

The director was still somewhere in the past. “He was everything they needed. Dedicated, intelligent, strong— mentally, too. Fast… He could shoot, ah, Tiny could shoot… .”

 

 

“Tiny?”

 

 

A dismissive gesture. “That is a story in itself. But above all he was unknown in their world, a wild card that the Americans and Brits and even Mossad knew nothing of. A black unknown, a brand-new player, an unrecorded assassin with the hunger …” The director pulled himself back to the present, his eyes slowly focusing on hers.

 

 

“They bought him from us, Janina. With weapons and explosives and training. There was one small problem. He was unwilling. He wanted to come back to South Africa, to shoot Boers and blow up the SADF. His hate was focused. They sat with him for nearly two weeks, trying to explain that he would make a contribution, that the CIA and MI5 were hand in glove with the Boers, that war against one was war against the others. Two weeks … until they turned his head.”

 

 

She pushed the photo back across the desk. She met the director’s eyes and they sat, staring, testing, and waiting.

 

 

“He makes me think of Mazibuko,” she said.

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

“Was he the so-called Umzingeli?”

 

 

“I don’t know the whole story, Janina.”

 

 

She stood up. “I can’t afford to let him reach Lusaka.”

 

 

The director nodded. “He is the sort of man who will retrieve Johnny and the data.”

 

 

“And that would not do.”

 

 

“No, that would not do.”

 

 

Silence descended between them as each considered the implications, till the director said: “I want you to know I am going home for some rest. I will be back later. Will you be sending the usual team to watch me?”

 

 

“It will be the usual team, sir.”

 

 

He nodded wearily.

 

 

“That is good.”

 

 

 

19.

T
he editor of the
Cape Times
looked at the rounded figure of Allison Healy and thought once more,
If she could lose ten or fifteen kilograms …
She had a sensuality about her. He wondered if it was the curves, or the personality. But there was a beautiful slender woman somewhere inside there.

 

 

“… and nobody else knows about this Johnny Kleintjes, which gives us a great angle for tomorrow’s story. I’ve got his address, and I will get an interview with the daughter. And this afternoon, we’ll get a pic of Mrs. Nzululwazi and the boy. Exclusive.”

 

 

“Right,” said the editor, wondering if she was a virgin.

 

 

“But there’s more, Chief. I know it. And I want to use this radio show to put some bait in the water. Stir the pot.”

 

 

“You’re not going to leak our scoop, are you?”

 

 

“I’m going to be all coy and clever, Chief.”

 

 

“You’re always coy and clever, Allison.”

 

 

“Fair enough,” she said, and he laughed.

 

 

“Just make sure you plug the newspaper. And if you can let it slip that we will be revealing a lot more tomorrow morning …”

 

 

* * *

Self-assured, at ease, Janina sat at the big table.

 

 

“Can you hear us, Tiger?” she asked.

 

 

The entire room listened to the captain’s voice as it came over the speakerphone. “I can hear you.”

 

 

“Good. What is your status?”

 

 

“Team Bravo has arrived with our vehicles. We expect the Oryx back any moment and another is on the way from Bloem-fontein.” She could hear the impatience in Mazibuko’s voice, the suppressed anger.

 

 

“What’s the weather doing, Captain?”

 

 

“It’s not raining so hard anymore. The air force says the system is moving east.”

 

 

“Thank you, Tiger.” She went to stand alongside Vincent Radebe. “We have established beyond reasonable doubt that Thobela Mpayipheli was an MK member who received specialized training in the Eastern bloc. There are still some details outstanding, but he is a worthy opponent, Tiger. Don’t be too hard on your team.”

 

 

Just hissing on the line, no response.

 

 

“The point is, he is not an innocent citizen.” She looked pointedly at Radebe, who boldly met her eyes.

 

 

“He knows how serious we are about that data and he did not scruple to use violence. He chose confrontation. He is dangerous and he is determined. I hope we all understand this.”

 

 

Some heads nodded.

 

 

“We also know now that the data he is carrying is of an extremely sensitive nature for this government and especially for us as an intelligence service. So sensitive that you have the right to use any necessary force to stop him, Tiger. I repeat. Any necessary force.”

 

 

“I hear you,” said Captain Tiger Mazibuko.

 

 

“In the next half hour I will be requesting the mobilization of the available manpower from the army bases at De Aar, Kimberley and Jan Kempdorp. We need more feet on the ground. There are too many possible routes to watch. Tiger, I want you centered in Kimberley so that you can respond quickly. Given the background of the fugitive, we will need a concentration of highly mobile, well-trained men when he makes contact again. Let the police and the army watch the roads. I will ask that the entire Rooivalk Squadron be moved to Kimberley on standby.”

 

 

“How certain are you of Kimberley,” Mazibuko’s voice came back over the ether.

 

 

She thought a little before answering, “It’s an informed guess. He’s tired, he’s wet, hungry, and the rain is slowing him down. He hears the clock ticking and his time running away. Kimberley is the closest to a straight line between him and Botswana, and he will see Botswana as freedom and success.”

 

 

She saw one of Rahjev Rajkumar’s people whispering in his ear.

 

 

“Is there something, Raj?”

 

 

“Radio program, ma’am. SAFM.”

 

 

“Any questions?” She waited for a reaction from Radebe and Mazibuko.

 

 

“Mazibuko out,” said the captain over the speakerphone. Radebe sat and stared at the digital instruments before him.

 

 

“Switch on, Raj,” she said.

 

 

… joined by Allison Healy, crime reporter from a Cape Town newspaper, who broke the saga of the big, bad Xhosa biker in her newspaper this morning. Welcome to the show, Allison.

 

 

Thanks, John, it is a privilege to participate.

 

 

You have interesting new information about our fugitive motorcyclist?

 

 

I have, John. We have information that casts a new light on Mr. Mpayipheli’s motivation, and it seems this is something of a mercy mission. His motive, it seems, might just be noble.

 

 

Please go on.

 

 

I’m afraid that’s about all I can say, John.

 

 

And how did you get that information, Allison?

 

 

From a source very close to him. Let’s call it a love interest.

 

 

“Quinn,” said Janina with suppressed rage.

 

 

“Yes, ma’am?”

 

 

“Bring her in.”

 

 

He looked bewildered.

 

 

“Miriam Nzululwazi. Bring her in.”

 

 

“Very well, ma’am.”

 

 

… on the side of the fugitive?

 

 

It is not for me to choose sides here, John, but there are two things that I find puzzling. According to information provided to the police by what is allegedly the Presidential Intelligence Unit, Mr. Mpayipheli stole the BMW motorcycle. But that seems to be untrue. No charges have been filed with the police, there is no theft investigation, and I spoke to the owner of the dealership just five minutes ago, and the truth is that Mr. Mpayipheli left a note behind, saying he had no choice but to borrow the machine and will pay for the privilege. That does not sound like theft to me.

 

 

And the second thing, Allison?

 

 

The
Cape Times
broke the story more than five hours ago, John. If the fugitive is guilty of anything, why has the government not stepped forward to set the record straight?

 

 

I see where you are going. What do you think is happening here?

 

 

I think the government is once again trying to cover up, John. I wouldn’t be surprised if some form of corruption or something similar is involved. I’m not saying that’s it. I’m just saying I will not be surprised. I’m working on several new leads, and the
Cape Times
will have a full story tomorrow morning.

 

 

Thank you very much, Allison Healy crime reporter of a Cape-based newspaper. This is John Modise and you are tuned to SAFM. The lines are open now; if you have an opinion on the matter, please call us. And remember, the subject this morning is the fugitive motorcyclist, so let’s stick to that…

 

 

“Monica Kleintjes,” said Janina. “We will have to bring her in, too. Before the media flock to her door.”

 

 

“Right, ma’am,” said Quinn. “But what about her telephone, if they call again from Lusaka?”

 

 

“Can you redirect the line here?”

 

 

“I can.”

 

 

Janina’s thoughts were jumping around. How had the Healy woman got that information? How had she made the connection between Mpayipheli and Nzululwazi? What could be done to slow her down?

 

 

… Pretoria chapter of the Hell’s Angels. Good morning, Burt.

 

 

Good morning, John. What we want to know is where the man is. Do you have information?

 

 

We know he was in the vicinity of Three Sisters at six o’clock this morning, Burt. Where he is now is anybody’s guess. Why are you asking?

 

 

Because he’s our brother, man. And he’s in trouble.

 

 

Your brother?

 

 

All bikers are part of a greater brotherhood, John. Now, you may have heard a lot of untruths about the Angels, but I can tell you, when one of our brothers is in trouble, we help.

 

 

And how do you think you will be able to help?

 

 

Any way we can.

 

 

Rajkumar made a deprecating sound and turned the volume down. “All the worms are creeping out of the woodwork,” he said. “No,” said Janina. “Leave it on.”