Deon Meyer (37 page)

 

“I know where Lusaka is. Do you?”

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

“Thobela showed me. In the atlas. Did you know Thobela is the cleverest man in the world?”

 

 

 

32.

L
uke Powell’s official title was economic attaché of the American consulate in Cape Town. But his unofficial office, as everyone in the intelligence community was well aware, had little to do with the economy. His actual rank was senior special agent in charge of the CIA in southern Africa, which included everything this side of the Sahara.

 

 

In the politically correct terminology of his country, Luke Powell was an
African American,
a jovial, somewhat plump figure with a round, kind face who wore (to the great mortification of his teenage daughter) large gold-rimmed eyeglasses that had gone out of fashion ten years ago. He was no longer young, there was gray at his temples, and his accent was heavy with the nuances of the Mississippi.

 

 

“I’ll have a cheddamelt and fries,” said Powell to the young waiter with the acne problem.

 

 

“Excuse me?” said the waiter.

 

 

“A cheddamelt steak, well done. And fries.”

 

 

The frown had not disappeared from the waiter’s forehead. Every year they were younger.
And dimmer,
thought Janina Mentz. “Chips,” she said in explanation.

 

 

“You want only chips?” the waiter asked her.

 

 

“No, I want only an orange juice. He wants a cheddamelt steak and chips. Americans refer to chips as fries.”

 

 

“That’s right. French fries,” said Luke Powell jovially, smiling broadly at the waiter, who was properly confused now, the pen poised over the order book.

 

 

“Oh,” said the waiter.

 

 

“But they’re not French, they’re American,” said Powell with a measure of pride.

 

 

“Oh,” said the waiter.

 

 

“I’m just going to have a plate of salad,” said the director.

 

 

“Okay,” said the waiter, relieved, and scribbled something down, hovered a moment but as no one said anything more, he left.

 

 

“How are y’all?” asked Luke Powell with his smiling mouth.

 

 

“Not bad for a developing Third World nation,” said Janina, and opened her handbag, taking out a photograph and handing it to Powell.

 

 

“We’ll get right to the point, Mr. Powell,” she said.

 

 

“Please,” he said. “Call me Luke.”

 

 

The American took the black-and-white photo. He saw the front door of the American consulate in it, and the unmistakable face of Johnny Kleintjes leaving the building.

 

 

Ah,” he said.

 

 

Ah, indeed,” said Janina.

 

 

Powell removed his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and tapped them on the photo.

 

 

“We might have something in common on this one?”

 

 

“We might,” said the director softly.

 

 

He’s good, this American,
thought Janina Mentz, considering the lightning adaptation to changes, the poker face.

 

 

An innocent six-year-old boy from Guguletu has become a pawn in the nationwide manhunt for Thobela Mpayipheli, the fugitive motorcyclist being sought by intelligence agencies, the military and police.

 

 

“Now you’re cooking,” said the news editor, tramping around nervously behind Allison as the deadline loomed.

 

 

Pakamile Nzululwazi was taken from a day-care center for preschoolers late last night by an official from the “Department of Defence.” He is the son of Mpayipheli’s common-law wife, Miriam Nzululwazi, who also mysteriously disappeared from the Heerengracht branch of Absa, where she is an employee.

 

 

“Cooking with gas,” said the news editor, and she wished he would sit down so she could concentrate in peace.

 

 

* * *

“What happened in Lusaka?” asked Janina Mentz.

 

 

Luke Powell looked at her and then he looked at the director and then he replaced the glasses on his face.

 

 

What a strange game this is,
thought Janina. He knew they knew and they knew he knew they knew.

 

 

“We’re still trying to find out,” said Powell.

 

 

“So you got stung?”

 

 

Luke Powell’s kind face betrayed nothing of the inner battle, of the humiliation of admitting the superpower’s little African expedition had gone wrong. As always, he was the professional spy.

 

 

“Yes, we got stung,” he said evenly.

 

 

* * *

Now they sat in a circle on the grass, chatting, the four soldiers, the pilot and copilot.

 

 

Thobela Mpayipheli was relieved because now they were at a safer distance. He could hear their voices but not their words. He could hear laughter bursting out, so he assumed they were telling jokes. He heard the periodic crackle of the radio that would hush them every time until they were certain the message was not for them.

 

 

The adrenaline had left his body slowly, discomfort had grown, but at least he could move now, shift his limbs and work away the stones and grass tufts that bothered him.

 

 

But he had a new worry now: How long?

 

 

They were obviously waiting for a signal or alarm. And he knew he was the object of that alarm. The problem was, as long as he lay pinned down under this bridge, there would be no call. Which meant they would not leave. Which meant it would be a long night.

 

 

But more crucial were the hours lost, hours in which he should be burning up the kilometers to Lusaka. Not yet a crisis, still enough time, but better to have time in the bank, because who knew what lay ahead. There were at least two national borders to cross, and although he had his passport in the bag, he did not have papers for the GS. The African way would be to put a few hundred rand notes in the pages of the passport and hope it would do the trick, but the bribery game took time for haggling and you could run up against the wrong customs man on the wrong day— it was a risk. Better to find a hole in the border fence, or make one and go your way. The Zambezi River, however, was not so easy to cross.

 

 

He would need those hours.

 

 

And then, of course, the other little problem. As long as it was dark he was safe. But tomorrow morning when the sun came up, this hiding place in the deep shadow of the bridge would be useless.

 

 

He had to get out.

 

 

He needed a plan.

 

 

* * *

“There is one thing I have a problem understanding, Luke,” said the director. “Inkululeko, the alleged South African double agent, works for you. So why offer to buy the intelligence off Johnny Kleintjes?”

 

 

Powell merely shook his head.

 

 

“What do you care if we think we know who he is?” asked the director, and Janina was surprised at the direction the questions had taken. The director had confessed nothing to her of his suspicions.

 

 

“I don’t think that is a sensible line of questioning, Mr. Director,” said Powell.

 

 

“I think it is because the smell of rat is fairly strong in this vicinity.”

 

 

“I have no comment. I am willing to discuss our mutual Lusaka problem, but that’s it, I’m afraid.”

 

 

“It does not make sense, Luke. Why would you take the risk? You knew it was there, from the moment Kleintjes walked into the consulate. You know we have a photographer outside.”

 

 

Powell was spared for a moment by the waiter bringing the food— a cheddamelt steak for the American, a plate of chips for Janina, and an orange juice for the director.

 

 

“I did not…,” Janina began, and then decided to let it go, it would not help to correct the waiter. She took the orange juice and placed it in front of her.

 

 

“I’m going to get some salad,” said the director, and stood up.

 

 

“May I have some ketchup?” asked Powell.

 

 

“Excuse me?” said the waiter.

 

 

“He wants tomato sauce,” Janina said, irritated.

 

 

“Oh. Yes. Sure.”

 

 

“Why do you do that?” she asked Powell.

 

 

“Do what?”

 

 

“Use the Americanisms.”

 

 

“Oh, just spreading a little culture,” he said.

 

 

“Culture?”

 

 

He just smiled, the waiter brought the tomato sauce, and he poured a liberal amount over his chips, took his fork and stabbed some and put them in his mouth.

 

 

“Great fries,” Powell said, and she watched him eat until the director returned with a full plate of salad.

 

 

“Have you any idea who burned you in Lusaka?” Janina asked.

 

 

“No, ma’am,” said Powell through a mouthful of steak.

 

 

The waiter materialized at the table. “Is everything all right?”

 

 

She wanted to snap at the pimple face that all was not right, that she did not order chips, that he’d better not come flirting for a tip but rather leave them in peace, but she did not.

 

 

“Steak’s fantastic,” said Powell, and the waiter grinned, relieved, and went away.

 

 

“How’s your salad, Mr. Director?” asked Powell.

 

 

The director placed his knife and fork precisely and neatly on his plate. “Luke, we have people in place in Zambia. The last thing we need is to run into a team of yours.”

 

 

“That would be unfortunate.”

 

 

“So you have a team there, too?”

 

 

“I am not at liberty to say.”

 

 

“You said you were willing to discuss our mutual Lusaka problem.”

 

 

“I was hoping you had information for me.”

 

 

“All we know is that Thobela Mpayipheli is on his way there with a hard drive full of who knows what. You are the one who knows what happened there. With Johnny.”

 

 

“He was, shall we say, intercepted.”

 

 

“By parties unknown?”

 

 

“Exactly.”

 

 

“And you don’t even have a suspicion?”

 

 

“I wouldn’t say that.”

 

 

“Enlighten us.”

 

 

“Well, frankly, I suspected that you were the fly in the ointment.”

 

 

“It’s not us.”

 

 

“Maybe. And maybe not.”

 

 

“I give you my personal guarantee that it was not my people,” said Janina Mentz.

 

 

“Your personal guarantee,” said Powell, smiling through a mouthful of food.

 

 

“It’s going to get crowded in Lusaka, Luke,” said the director.

 

 

“Yes, it is.”

 

 

“I am asking you, as a personal favor, to stay away.”

 

 

“Why, Mr. Director, I did not know South Africa had right-of-way in Lusaka.”

 

 

There was a chill in the director’s voice. “You have botched the job already. Now get out of the way.”

 

 

“Or what, Mr. Director?”

 

 

“Or we will take you out.”

 

 

“Like you’re taking out the big, bad BMW biker?” asked Powell, and put another piece of steak loaded with cheese and mushroom in his mouth.

 

 

* * *

The big, bad BMW biker had his plan thrust upon him.

 

 

Fate played an odd card beside the mighty Modder.

 

 

 

33.

H
ad it not been for the singing, Little Joe Moroka might never have stood up from the ring of jokers. Cupido started the whole thing with one of those teasing statements—“You whiteys can’t…”— and it eventually ended up with a singsong, and that is when the pilot and copilot, white as lilies, burst forth with “A bicycle built for two” in perfect harmony, a cappella, and filled the night with melody.

 

 

“Jissis,” said Cupido when they had finished and the rowdy applause had faded. “Where the fuck did you learn to sing like that?”

 

 

“The air force has culture,” said the pilot, acting superior.

 

 

“In striking contrast with the other branches of the SANDF,” confirmed his colleague.

 

 

“All sophisticated people know this.”

 

 

“No, seriously,” said Da Costa. “Where does it come from?”

 

 

“If you spend enough time in the mess, you discover strange things.”

 

 

“It wasn’t bad,” said Little Joe. “For whitey harmony.”

 

 

“Ooh, damning with faint praise,” said the pilot.

 

 

“But can the darkie sing?” asked the copilot.

 

 

“Of course,” said Little Joe. And that is how it began, because the pilot said, “Prove it,” and Little Joe Moroka smiled at them, white teeth in the darkness. He stretched his throat, tilted his head up as if his vocal cords needed free rein, and then it came, warm and strong, “Shosholoza,” the four notes in pure bravura baritone.

 

 

Thobela Mpayipheli could not hear the conversation from under the bridge, but the first song of the two pilots had reached him, and although he did not consider himself a music fanatic, he found pleasure in it despite his position, despite the circumstances.

 

 

And now he heard the first phrase of the African song and his ears pricked up, he knew this was something rare.