Deon Meyer (42 page)

 

 

* * *

Captain Tiger Mazibuko crossed the border an hour after midnight. He was driving a
i
.8-liter GTI Turbo Volkswagen Golf. He had no idea how Janina Mentz had organized it: it was waiting for him at the police station at Ellisras, and the keys were handed to him at the desk of the charge office once he had shown his passport. Now he was in Botswana and he drove as fast as the narrow road and the darkness allowed in this other country, with cattle and goats grazing beside the road. He had made his calculations. Everything depended on the dog’s progress, but the injuries would hold him up. The pilot of the Oryx had spoken with him over the cell phone; they had their hate for Mpayipheli in common. The pilot said the wound was bad and the fugitive would not last the night on the motorbike. He was close to falling when he came out of the helicopter, and there were more shots fired, perhaps he had taken another bullet or two.

 

 

Let’s say the fucker was tougher than they thought; let’s say he kept going …

 

 

Then Mpayipheli would be ahead of him. At least two hours ahead.

 

 

Would he be able to catch him?

 

 

It depended on how fast the bugger could ride— he had to eat, he had to rest, he had to drink and fill up with petrol.

 

 

It was possible.

 

 

Maybe he slept somewhere and then Tiger would wait for him. At the bridge over the Zambezi, just beyond the place where the waters of the great river and the Chobe merged.

 

 

A good place for a death in Africa.

 

 

* * *

Before he turned off the light and sank into the softness of the double bed, he sat staring at the telephone. His longing for Miriam and Pakamile was overwhelming— just one call, “Don’t worry about the reports over the radio, I am okay, I am nearly there, I love you,” that was all he wanted to say, but if they had tapped the line, they would know immediately where he was and they would come get him.

 

 

If only he could contact someone and say the terrible information on your piece of computer equipment is destroyed, your dark secrets are safe and threaten no one, leave me alone, let me go help an old friend, and then let me go home.

 

 

Tomorrow he would be there, late tomorrow afternoon he would ride into Lusaka. He had read the signs— no roadblocks outside Gaborone, no hot pursuit by the Oryx, obviously they did not want to involve the Botswana government, they wanted to keep it in the family. Probably they were waiting for him in Lusaka, but that was good, he could handle that, he was trained in the art of urban warfare. Tomorrow it would all be over. He felt as if he were sinking into the bed, deeper and deeper, so weary, his whole body exhausted, but his brain was flashing images of the day behind him. He was aware of the physiology of the bullet wounds, the feverishness, the effects of the painkillers and four cans of cola and the brandy he had after his room service meal.
We have a club sandwich and chips or a cheeseburger and chips, take your pick.
He could rationalize his emotions, but he could not suppress them, he felt so alone.

 

 

Not for the first time. Other cities, other hotel rooms, but that was different, there had been no Miriam before.

 

 

There had never been a Miriam before he had found her. There were other women; at Odessa there were the prostitutes, the official Stasi-approved whores to see to their needs, to keep the levels of testosterone under control so they would pay attention to their training. Afterward he was under instructions— don’t get involved, don’t get attached, don’t stay with a woman. But his Eastern bloc masters had not reckoned on the Scandinavians’ obsession with black men. Lord, those Swedish women, shamelessly hot for him, on his first visit in ’
82
, three of them had approached him in a coffee shop in Stockholm, one after another until he had fled, sure of a plot, some NATO counterintelligence operation. Eventually, a year later, Neta had explained it to him: it was just a thing they had, she couldn’t say why. Agneta Nilsson, long fine blond hair and two wild weeks of passion in Brussels until the KGB had sent a courier to say that was enough, you are trespassing, looking for trouble. He, Thobela Mpayipheli from the Kei, had eaten white bread, the whitest to be had, sated himself to the bursting point but not his heart, his heart remained empty until he had seen Miriam. Not even in ’
94
had his heart been so empty, waiting for the call from a man who was now minister, waiting for his reward, waiting to be included in the victory, to share the fruits, waiting. Days of wandering the streets, a stranger in his own land, among his own people. He had thought of his father in those weeks, played with the idea of taking the train to visit his parents, to stand in the doorway and say, “Here I am, this is what happened to me,” but there was too much baggage, the gulf was too wide to cross, and in the evenings he went back to the room and waited for the call that never came— rejected, that is how he felt, a feeling that slowly progressed to one of betrayal. They had made him what he was, and now they didn’t want to know. Eventually he went to Cape Town so he could hear the tongue of his ancestors again, until he decided to offer his services where they would be appreciated, where he would be included, where he could be part of something.

 

 

It had not worked out as he thought it would. The Flats had been good to him, but he remained the outsider, still alone, alone among others.

 

 

But not so lonely as now, not like now. Fevered chills, strange dreams, a conversation with his father that never ended, explanation, justification, on and on, words flowing out of him, and his father receding, shaking his head and praying, and then he forced himself to wake up, sweating, and the pain in his hip was a dull throbbing and he got up and drank from the tap in the bathroom of the cold sweet water.

 

 

* * *

Somewhere in the predawn Allison Healy awoke from sleep momentarily, just enough to register one thought: the decision to withhold the information that he had given her was the best decision of her life.

 

 

Had she known, in those moments when she had to decide? Had she known despite her fears and insecurities?

 

 

It no longer mattered. She rolled over, pressing her voluptuousness against his back and thighs, and sighed with joy before she softly sank away in sleep again.

 

 

 

38.

W
hen Lien and Lizette crept into the double bed beside her, Janina Mentz woke up and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?” she asked.

 

 

Lien said, “It’s early, Ma, sleep a little longer.”

 

 

She checked the clock radio. “It’s half past six.”

 

 

“Very early,” said Lizette.

 

 

“Time to get ready,” she said without enthusiasm. She could sleep for another hour or two.

 

 

“We’re not going to school today,” said her youngest.

 

 

“Oh, really?”

 

 

“It’s National Keep Your Mother at Home at Any Cost Day.”

 

 

“Hah!”

 

 

“Failure to obey is punishable with a fine of five hundred rands’ worth of new clothes for every descendant.”

 

 

“That will be the day.”

 

 

“It is the day. National Keep Your Mum—”

 

 

“Put on the TV”

 

 

“Watching TV so early in the morning is harmful to the middle-aged brain. You know that, Ma.”

 

 

“Middle-aged, my foot. I want to see the news.”

 

 

“Maaa … leave the work until we go to school.”

 

 

“It’s not work, it’s a healthy interest in my environment and my world. An attempt to demonstrate to my darling daughters that there are more things in life than Britney Spears and horny teenage boys.”

 

 

“Like what?” said Lien.

 

 

“Name one thing,” said Lizette.

 

 

“Put on the TV”

 

 

“Okay, okay.”

 

 

“Middle-aged. That’s a new one.”

 

 

“People should be comfortable with their age.”

 

 

“I hope I see the same level of wisdom on your report cards.”

 

 

“There you go— the middle-aged brain’s last resort. The school report.”

 

 

Lien pressed the button on the small color television. A sports program on M-Net appeared slowly on the screen.

 

 

“The middle-aged brain wants to know who has been watching TV in my room.”

 

 

“I had no choice. Lien was busy entertaining horny teenage boys in the sitting room.”

 

 

“Put it on TV2 and stop talking rubbish.”

 

 

“Isn’t there an educational program—”

 

 

“Shhh…”

 

 

… details about the South African weapons scandal. The newspaper quotes a source saying the data Mpayipheli is carrying contains the Swiss bank account details of government officials involved in the weapons deals, as well as the amounts allegedly paid in bribes and kickbacks. A spokesperson for the Office of the Minister of Defence strongly denied the allegations, saying it was, quote, another malicious attempt by the opposition press to damage the credibility of the government with deliberate lies and fabrications, unquote.

 

 

The spokesperson also denied any military involvement in the disappearance of Mrs. Miriam Nzululwazi, the common-law wife of the fugitive Mpayipheli, and her six-year-old son. According to the
Cape Times,
a man identifying himself as an employee of the Department of Defence took young Pakamile Nzululwazi into his custody last night, after his mother was arrested at her place of work, a commercial bank, earlier in the day.

 

 

Meanwhile, rival motorcycle groups seemingly supporting Mr. Mpayipheli clashed in Kimberley last night. Police were called in to break up several fights in the city. Nine motorcyclists were treated for injuries at a hospital.

 

 

Moving on to other news …

 

 

The other fear embraced her when she awoke and found Van Heerden gone. No note, nothing, and she knew the fear would be her constant companion until she heard from him again. Until she saw him again, the impulse to dial his number, to seek reassurance and confirmation, would strengthen through the day, but she must resist at all costs.

 

 

She stood up, looking for salvation in routine, swung the gown over her shoulders, put on the kettle, opened the front door, and retrieved the two newspapers. Went back to the kitchen, scanned the
Times,
everything was as she had written it, the main story, the boxes, the other two stories. She glanced quickly at pages two and three, did not see the small report hidden away, unimportant.

 

 

LUSAKA— Zambian police are investigating the death of two American tourists after their bodies were found by pedestrians on the outskirts of the capital yesterday.

 

 

A law enforcement spokesman says that the tourists died of gunshot wounds, and the apparent motive was robbery. The names of the two men are expected to be released today after the American embassy and relatives have been notified.

 

 

No arrests have been made.

 

 

She was in a hurry to get to the
Burger.
She opened the newspaper on the breakfast bar.

 

 

Weapons Scandal:

 

 

MOTORCYCLE MAN HOLDS THE KEY

 

 

CAPE TOWN— Full particulars of the South African weapons scandal, including names, relevant sums, and Swiss bank account numbers of government officials are allegedly contained in the computer hard drive in the possession of the fugitive Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli— the motorcyclist who still evades arrest by the authorities.

 

 

Sweet lord,
she thought,
where did this come from?

 

 

According to advocate Pieter Steenkamp, previously of the Directorate for the Investigation of Serious Economic Crimes (Disec), there was frequent mention of the hard drive during the hearing of evidence relating to alleged irregularities in the weapons transaction of R43.8 billion last year.

 

 

“Come on,” murmured Allison.

 

 

“We conducted more than a hundred interviews and according to my notes, at least seven times there was mention made of complete electronic data in the possession of an intelligence agency,” said Advocate Steenkamp, who joined the Democratic Alliance in November last year.

 

 

“My allegations will probably be dismissed as petty politicking. We will just see more coverup. It is in the interest of the country and all its people that Mr. Mpayipheli is not apprehended. His journey has more significance than that of Dick King who rode on horseback from Durban to Grahamstown in 1842 to warn the English of the Boer siege.”

 

 

The fugitive motorcyclist was still on the loose at the time of going to press after leaving Cape Town on a stolen BMW R1150 GS (see article below) the day before yesterday. According to a SAPS source, Mpayipheli evaded government authorities at Three Sisters during one of the worst thunderstorms in recent memory (article on p. 5, weather forecast on S8).

 

 

An extensive operation at Petrusburg in the Free State also failed to apprehend the Umkhonto veteran last night. Unconfirmed reports claim that he crossed the border into Botswana late last night.

 

 

Allison Healy considered the report, staring at the magnets on her fridge.

 

 

Not impossible.

 

 

And if they were right, she had been scooped. Badly.