* * *
Maam, let us let her go. Vincent Radebe sat next to Janina Mentz, speaking softly to keep the potential for conflict between them low-key. He knew she was keeping an eye on him, knew she had doubts about his attitude and his support for her. But he had to do what he must do.
She sat at her laptop at the big table. She finished typing but did not turn to him.
Ai, Vincent, she said.
She knows nothing. She cant add value, he said.
But she can do damage.
Maam, she understands she must not talk to the media.
Janina put her hand on Vincent Radebes arm compassionately. It is good that you are part of the team, Vincent. You bring balance. I respect and value your contribution. And your honesty.
He had not expected that. Can I go and tell her?
Let me give you a scenario to think over. We drop Mrs. Nzu-lulwazi at her house. She fetches her child, and a photographer from the
Cape Times
photographs them standing hand in hand in front of their little house. Tomorrow the picture is on the front page. With the caption Mother and child wait anxiously for fugitives return or something like that. Do we need that? While the minister works to explain Mpayiphelis true colors to the media? She has already done damage. You heard the reporter on the radio. His common-law wife says he is a good man.
He could see what she meant.
In any case, Vincent, what guarantee do you have that she will not talk to the media again? What happens when they start pulling out checkbooks?
I have summed her up differently he said.
She nodded in thought. Perhaps you are in a better position to make this decision, Vincent.
Maam?
The decision is yours.
You mean I can decide if she can go or not?
Yes, Vincent, just you. But you must bear the responsibility. And the consequences.
He looked at her, searching for clues in her eyes, suddenly wary.
I will have to think about it, he said.
That is the right thing to do.
* * *
He slowed down when he saw Petrusville. He had hoped the road would bypass the town, but it ran directly through. Koos Kok was right, it would have been better at night, but there was no helping it now, he must gut it out. He checked the fuel meter still over half. Keeping the needle on sixty, he rode into town, one- and two-story buildings, bleached signboards, Old World architecture. From the corner of his eye he could see black faces from the lower town turning, staring. He was colorless, without identity under the helmet, thankfully. He stopped at the four-way stop. A car pulled up alongside him, a woman, fat and forty. She stared at the bike, at him. He kept his eyes forward, pulled away, excruciatingly aware of the attention. There was a sprinkling of activity in the hot, sleepy afternoon. Pedestrians. Cars, bakkies, bicycles. He rode with his ears pricked for alarm signals, his back tense as if waiting for a bullet. Kept to sixty, revs low, trying not to make a racket, to be invisible, something impossible on this vehicle. He passed houses and children by the road, a few fingers pointed did they recognize him, or was it the motorbike? Town boundary, a sign saying he could ride 120 again. He accelerated slowly, uncertain, keeping watch in the rearview mirror.
Nothing.
Was it possible?
A car beside the road. White people under a thorn tree, a thermos of coffee on the concrete table. They waved. He lifted his left hand.
Signboard saying Vanderkloof Dam to the right.
He continued straight on.
Somewhere up ahead was the turnoff to Luckhoff and the bridge over the Orange.
Trouble must be waiting there.
* * *
Fourteen kilometers south of Koffiefontein the official of the Free State Traffic Authority sat at his speed trap.
* * *
Department of Psychology, said the womans voice over the phone.
Hi. May I speak to Mr. Van Heerden?
You mean Dr. Van Heerden?
Oh. Zatopek van Heerden?
Im afraid Dr. Van Heerden isnt in. May I take a message?
This is Allison Healy of the
Cape Times.
Do you know how I can get hold of him?
Im afraid Im not at liberty to provide his home number.
Does he have a cell number?
The woman laughed. Dr. Van Heerden is not keen on cell phones, Im afraid.
May I leave my number? Will he call me back?
He will be in again tomorrow.
* * *
Thobela Mpayipheli knew the bridge must be within a kilometer or two, according to the map.
A Volkswagen Kombi approached from the front. He watched the driver, looking for signs of blockades, the law, or soldiers.
Nothing.
He saw the green seam of the river, knew the crossing was just ahead, but there was no sign of activity.
Was he far enough east? Was that why they were not here?
The road straightened and the bridge came into view, two white railings, double lane, open, clear.
He accelerated, leaving the Northern Cape, looked down at the brown waters flowing strongly, the midday sun reflecting brightly off the ripples. The sluices of the dam must be open, he surmised. Probably because of the rain. Over the bridge, over the Orange.
Free State.
Relief flooded through him. They had slipped up.
What about
His head jerked up to the sky, searching for the specks of helicopter, ears straining for their rumble above the noise of the motorbike.
Nothing.
Had the ride in the back of the El Camino slipped him through the net?
It didnt matter. The initiative was with him now; he had the lead and the advantage.
He must use it.
He used the torque with purpose, felt the power flow to the rear wheel, how the steering rod got lighter.
He wanted to laugh.
Fucking beautiful German machine.
* * *
Fourteen kilometers south of Koffiefontein the official of the Free State Traffic Authority sat reading.
The white patrol car was behind the thorn trees that grew by the dry wash, his canvas chair positioned so that he could see the reading on the Gatsometer and the road stretching out to the south. The book was balanced on his lap.
So far it was an average day. Two minibus taxis for speeding, three lorries from Gauteng for lesser offenses. They thought if they came through here, avoiding the main routes, they could overload or get away with poor tires, but they were wrong. He was not over enthusiastic. He enjoyed his work, especially the part that allowed him to sit in the shade of an acacia on a perfect summers day, listen to the birds chattering, and read Ed McBain. But when it came to enforcing traffic ordinances, he was probably a tad stricter with vehicles from other provinces.
He had pulled over a few farmers in their bakkies. One didnt have his drivers license with him, but you couldnt just write a ticket for these gentlemen, they had influence. You gave them a warning.
Two tourists, Danes, had stopped to ask directions.
An average day.
He checked his watch again. At quarter to five he would start rolling up the wires of the Gatsometer. Not a minute later.
He looked up the road. No traffic. His eyes dropped back to the book. Some of his colleagues from other towns listened to the radio. When there were two officers stationed together, they talked rubbish from morning to night, but he preferred this.
Alone, just him and McBains characters, Carella and Hawes and the big black cop, Brown and Oliver Weeks and their things.
An average day.
25.
E
verything happened at once. The director walked into the Ops Room and everyone was astounded, Janina Mentzs cell phone rang, and Quinn, headphones on his ears, suddenly started making wild gestures to get her attention.
She took the call because she could see from the little screen who it was.
Its Tiger, said Mazibuko. I am awake.
Captain, I will phone you right back, she said, and cut the connection. What have you got, Rudewaan? she asked Quinn.
Johnny Kleintjess house number. We relayed it here.
Yes?
Its ringing. Continuously. Every few minutes they phone again.
Where is Monica Kleintjes? Bring her down.
In my office. Is she going to answer?
A nervous question because of the directors presence, the figure at the margins, the big boss they almost never saw. They couldnt afford a messup now.
Mentzs voice was reassuring. Perhaps its nothing. Maybe its the media. Even if it is the people in Lusaka by now they must know something is going on, with all the media coverage.
Quinn nodded to one of his people to go fetch Monica Kleintjes.
She turned to the director and stood up. Good afternoon, sir.
Afternoon, everyone, the small Zulu said, smiling like a politician on election day. Dont stand up, Janina. I know you are busy. He went and stood by her. I have a message from the minister. So I thought I would come down. To show my solidarity.
Thank you, sir. We appreciate it.
The minister has asked the Department of Defence to track down people who worked with Mpayipheli in the old days and, shall we say, do not have fond memories of him.
She is a woman of initiative, sir.
That she is, Janina.
And did she find someone?
She did. A brigadier in Pretoria. Lucas Morape. They trained together in Russia, and he describes our fugitive as, I quote, an aggressive troublemaker, perhaps a psychopath, who was a continuous embarrassment to his comrades and the Movement.
That is good news, indeed, sir. From a public relations angle, of course.
It is. In the course of the afternoon the brigadier will release a short report to the media. He prepared to leave. That is all I have at the moment, Janina. I wont disturb you further.
I truly appreciate it, sir. But may I ask one more favor? Could you pass on this news to Radebe personally?
Is he somewhat skeptical, Janina?
One could say that, sir.
The director turned and walked over to where Radebe was sitting at the communication banks. Mentz concentrated on her cell phone, getting Mazibuko on the air.
You must know we are working with a bunch of morons here, said Tiger Mazibuko.
How so?
Jissis, he said. So many egos. So much politicking. Free State Command wants to run the show and so does Northern Cape. They dont even have enough radios for all the roadblocks, and Groblershoop is not covered, because the trucks have broken down.
Slow down, Tiger. Where are you?
Anti-Aircraft School. Kimberley
Is that where the Rooivalks are?
Yes. They are waiting in a row here. My people, too.
Tiger, according to my information, Free State Command is covering the N8 from Bloemfontein to Perdeberg, and Northern Cape is responsible for the rest, up to Groblershoop. With the police as backup.
In theory.
What do you mean, in theory?
In the Free State things look okay: they have fourteen roadblocks and things look right on the map. But between us and Groblershoop there are about twenty roads that cross the N8. The little colonel here says they have only sixteen roadblocks, and four of them have not reported back yet because they havent received radios yet, or they dont work.
Do you include the police in that?
The police are using their own network. The coordination stinks.
You would expect that, Tiger. This thing came down on them out of the blue.
They are going to let the fucker slip through, maam.
Captain
Sorry.
She saw Monica Kleintjes coming in with an urgent limp, Quinns assistant behind her.
Let me see what I can do, Tiger. Ill phone you back.
She stood up and went to Quinn. Are they still calling?
Not at the moment.
