We dont see many of those around here.
The blood was pulsing through him, he was aware of his readiness. As long as he recognized it, he could control it. He still felt unreal; the conversation was impossibly banal. It is the biggest-selling bike bigger than seven-fifty cc in the country, he said, keeping his voice even with difficulty.
You dont say?
He didnt know how to answer. The motorbike was between them he wanted to reduce the gap but also maintain it.
You were going quite fast.
I was. Was he going to get a ticket? Would it be as ridiculous as that?
Let me see your drivers license.
Suspicion: he must know something, he could not be alone.
Of course. He took the key from the ignition, unlocked the luggage case, tried to scan the line of thorn trees and bushes surreptitiously. Where were the others?
Lots of packing space, hey? There was an ingenuous quality in the man, and the question loosened something in his belly, a strange feeling.
He zipped open the blue sports bag, looking for his wallet, took out the card, and handed it over. He kept a vigilant watch on the officers face, looking for covertness or deceit.
Mpay
Mpayipheli. He helped the man pronounce it.
Is this your motorbike, Mr. Mpayipheli?
Then he knew what was happening, and the urge to giggle was overwhelming, pushing up in him without warning as his brain grasped the possibility that this provincial representative had absolutely no idea. It almost overcame him. He allowed it to bubble up modestly careful not to lose it but suddenly relaxing, laughing heartily, I could never afford one of these.
The officer laughed along with him, bonding two middle-class men admiring the toys of the rich. What do these things cost?
Just over ninety thousand.
The man whistled through his teeth. Whose is it?
My bosss. He has an agency in the Cape. For BMW. And again the laugh bubbled up in him, any minute now he was going to wake up under the tarpaulin of the El Camino, these moments of drama could not be real.
The traffic officer handed back his drivers license. I rode a Kawasaki when I did traffic in Bloemfontein. A seven-fifty. Big. I dont see a chance for that anymore. Trying to strengthen the bond.
Ive got a Honda Benly at home.
Those things last forever.
They both knew the moment of truth was coming, a defining factor in the budding relationship. It hung in a moment of silence between them. The officer shrugged his shoulders apologetically. I really should ticket you.
Fuck, he could not hold it in. It was filling his body with the urgency of a call of nature. I know was all he could manage.
Youd better go, before I change my mind.
He smiled perhaps too widely, put out his hand. Thank you. He turned away quickly, putting away the license in the wallet, wallet in the bag, bag in the motorbike.
And take it easy, came the voice over his shoulder. Speed kills.
He nodded, put on the helmet, and pulled on his gloves.
* * *
You know all that I know, said Janina Mentz, but she lied. I planned the operation on Ismail Mohammeds testimony. I recruited Johnny Kleintjes. Me alone. No one else knew anything. We compiled the data together. It is false but credible, I am sure of that. He contacted the Americans. They showed interest. They invited him to Lusaka. He went, and then the call came to his house.
And she got Mpayipheli.
Unforeseen.
Unforeseen, Janina? According to the transcript of Monicas interview, Johnny came to her work two weeks before he left for Lusaka and said if something happened to him, Mpayipheli is the man. And moreover, on top of the hard drive in his safe was a note with Mpayiphleis phone number.
Then she saw what the director saw, and the hand around her heart squeezed a little tighter. He knew.
The director nodded.
She saw from a wider perspective. Johnny Kleintjes sold us out.
Us and the Americans, Janina.
But why, sir?
What do you know of Johnny Kleintjes?
She threw up her hands. I studied his file. Activist, exile, ANC member, computers
Johnny is a communist, Janina.
She sprang up, frustration and fear the goads. Mr. Director, with respect, what does that mean? We were all communists when it suited us to have the help of the Eastern bloc. Where are the communists now? Marginalized dreamers who no longer have a significant influence in the government.
She stood with her hands on the desk and became conscious of the distaste in the Zulus demeanor. When he eventually answered, his voice was soft. Johnny Kleintjes may be a dreamer, but you were the one who marginalized him.
I dont understand, she said, removing her hands and stepping back.
What dont you understand, Janina?
Sir, she said, sinking slowly into the chair, to whom could he go? To whom did he sell us out?
That is what we must find out.
But it makes no sense. Communism
Theres nothing left. Theres no one anymore.
You are too literal, Janina. I suspect its more a question of the enemy of my enemy
You must explain.
Johnny always had a special hatred for the Americans.
Insight came slowly to her, reluctantly. You mean
Who does the CIA currently view as threat number one?
Oh, my God, said Janina.
* * *
A bespectacled black soldier with the epaulettes of the Anti-Aircraft School on his shoulders came to fetch Captain Tiger Mazibuko under the tree. The colonel asks the captain to come quickly.
He jumped up. Have they got him? He jogged ahead, aware of the expectations of the RU behind him.
I dont think so, Captain.
You dont think so?
The colonel will tell you, Captain. He jogged into the building. The colonel stood at the radio, microphone in hand.
We have a situation.
What?
There are thirty-nine Hells Angels on motorbikes at the Windsorton Road roadblock. They want to come through.
Where the hell is Windsorton Road?
Forty-five kilometers north, on the N12.
The Johannesburg road?
The colonel nodded.
Fuck them. Send them home.
Its not that simple.
Why?
They say there are another fifty on the way. And when they arrive they are going through and if we want to stop them, we will have to shoot them.
Tiger reconsidered. Let them through.
Are you sure?
Mazibuko smiled. Very.
The colonel hesitated a moment and then depressed the SEND button on the microphone. Sergeant, let them through whenever they want.
Roger and out, came the response.
What is your plan, Captain? the colonel asked just before Mazibuko walked out with a certain zip in his step.
He did not look up, but kept walking. Diversion, Colonel. Nothing like a bit of diversion for a bunch of frustrated soldiers, he said.
* * *
The traffic officer was carefully rolling up the tubes of the Gat-someter. It was a tedious job on his own, but he did it mechanically, without bitterness, just another part of his easy routine. His thoughts were occupied with the black motorcyclist.
Strange, that. A first. Black man on a big motorbike. You dont see many of those.
But that wasnt all.
The thing was, when he rode off, the BMWs flat, two-cylinder engine made a nice muffled sound. He could swear he heard the man laugh, a deep, thundering, infectious, paralyzing laugh.
Must be his imagination.
* * *
Who? asked Janina Mentz. Al Qaeda? How, sir? How?
My personal feeling is Tehran. I suspect Johnny had made a contact or two some way or another. Perhaps through the local extremists. But in my opinion, that is not the burning question, Janina.
She drew a deep breath to damp the growing unease. She was watchful for what would follow.
The question we must ask ourselves now is, What is on the hard drive?
She knew why the balance had shifted. He was not the Zulu source, he was not Inkululeko. He was free. Of suspicion, misunderstanding, circumstantial evidence. He was pure.
The director leaned toward her and said, with great tenderness: I had hoped you would have some ideas.
* * *
The lieutenant of First Infantry Battalion had put a lot of thought into the roadblock at Petrusburg. His problem was that the place had a proliferation of roads leading like arteries out of the heart of the town in every direction three dirt roads north, the east-west route of the N8 to Kimberley and Bloemfontein, the R48 to Koffiefontein, another dirt road south, and then the paved road to the black township, Bolokaneng.
Where to put up the blockade?
His eventual decision was based on the available intelligence: the fugitive was heading for Kimberley. That is why the roadblock was just four hundred meters outside the town boundary on the Kimberley side, on the N8. For extra insurance, the SAPS, who provided two vans and four policemen, according to the agreement, were sitting on the gravel road that ran parallel east-west and joined the N8 farther along toward the City of Diamonds.
Now the lieutenant had a more difficult decision to make. One thing was for sure: if you are a member of the military faced with a complicated choice, your first option is to pass the decision up the chain of command. That is how you cover your back.
So he did not hesitate to resort to the radio.
Oscar Hotel, he said to the ops commander at the Anti-Aircraft School. I have stopped nineteen riders on BMW motorbikes here. One says he is a lawyer and will get an injunction against us if we dont let them through. Over.
He could swear he heard the colonel say Fuck, but perhaps the radio reception was not clear.
Stand by, Papa Bravo.
Papa Bravo.
Military abbreviation for Petrusburg. There was once a time when he had felt like a clown using these terms, but it had passed. He waited, looking out of the tent that stood beside the road. The BMWs stood in ranks of two, all with headlights on and engines idling. Where the fuck were they going? His men stood with their assault rifles over their shoulders, looking on curiously. There is something about a group of bikers. Like a Mongol horde of Genghis Khan on the way to cause desolation
Papa Bravo, this is Oscar Hotel Quebec, come in, over.
Papa Bravo in, over.
Are you sure there are no black guys on any of the BMWs, over.
We are sure, Oscar Hotel, over.
Let them through, Papa Bravo. Let them through. Over.
Roger, Papa Bravo over and out.
27.
I
n the editorial office of the
Cape Times
Allison Healy read the story that had come in from the
Star
s offices in Johannesburg.
A violent man, an aggressive troublemaker, perhaps a psychopath is how a former comrade-in-arms of the fugitive Thobela Mpayipheli describes the man now being sought across three provinces by intelligence authorities, the SA National Defence Force, and the SAPS.
According to Brig. Lucas Morape, a senior member of the Supply and Transport Unit at SANDF headquarters in Pretoria, he served with Mpayipheli in Tanzania and at a Kazakhstan military base in the former USSR, where Umkhonto we Sizwe soldiers were trained as part of Eastern bloc support for the Struggle in the eighties.
In one instance, he almost beat a Russian soldier to death in a mess-room fistfight. It took the leadership weeks to repair the diplomatic damage done by this senseless act of brutality.
Mpayipheli allegedly received sensitive intelligence data from his Cape Town employer and is heading north. He slipped through a military cordon at Three Sisters early this morning during a heavy thunderstorm. His current whereabouts are unknown.
In an issued statement, Brig. Morape goes on to describe Mpayipheli as a compulsive brawler who became such a problem to the ANC that he was removed from the training program. I am not surprised by allegations that he worked for a drug syndicate in the Cape. It fits his psychopathic profile perfectly.
