Deon Meyer (5 page)

mgwenya
of the sixties. He quickly made a name for himself at the ANC and MK offices in London. Married in 1973. He was East German-trained at Odessa from 1976 and specialized in intelligence, where he earned the nickname
Umthakathi,
meaning ‘wizard,’ thanks to his skill with computers. Kleintjes was responsible for establishing the ANC’s computer systems in London, Lusaka, and Quibaxe in Angola in the eighties, and, more important, was the project leader for the integration of Struggle and regime computer systems and databases since 1995. He retired at age sixty-two in 1997, after his wife died of cancer, and shares a house with their only daughter, Monica.”

 

 

She looked up. She had their attention still.

 

 

“The question is: What was Johnny Kleintjes doing at the American embassy? And the answer is that we don’t know. Telephone monitoring of the Kleintjes household was initiated the same evening.”

 

 

She clicked the mouse. Another photo, black-and-white, of a woman, slightly plump, at the open door of a car, the coarse grain of the photo indicating that it had been taken at a distance with a telephoto lens.

 

 

“This is Monica Kleintjes, daughter of Johnny Kleintjes. A typical child of exiles. Born in London 1974, went to school there, and stayed on to complete her studies in computer science in 1995. In 1980 she was the victim of a car accident outside Manchester that cost her both legs. She gets around with prosthetic limbs and refuses to use crutches or any other aids. She is any personnel manager’s affirmative action dream and currently works for the technology division of Sanlam as senior manager.”

 

 

Mentz manipulated the keys on the keyboard. “These are the major players that we have pictures of. The following conversations were recorded by our voice-monitoring team this afternoon.”

 

 

* * *

He sat with Pakamile at the kitchen table with the big blue atlas and the
National Geographic,
just as they did every evening. Miriam’s chair as always a little farther back, her needlework on her lap. Tonight they were reading about Chile, about an island on the west coast of South America where wind and rain had eroded fantastical shapes out of the rock, where unique plants had created a false paradise and animal life was almost nonexistent. He read in English as it was written, for the child would learn the language better, but translated paragraph by paragraph into Xhosa. Then they would open the atlas and look for Chile on the world map before turning the pages to a smaller-scale map of the country itself.

 

 

They never read more than two pages, because Pakamile’s attention faded quickly, unless the article dealt with a terrifying snake or other predator. But tonight it was more difficult than usual to keep his attention. The boy’s eyes kept darting to the blue sports bag resting by the door. Eventually Mpayipheli gave up.

 

 

“I’ve got to go away for a day or two, Pakamile. I have some work to do. I have to help an old friend.”

 

 

“Where are you going?”

 

 

“First, you must promise to tell nobody.”

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

“Because I want to give my friend a surprise.”

 

 

“Is it his birthday?”

 

 

“Something like that.”

 

 

“Can’t I even tell Johnson?”

 

 

“Johnson might tell his father, and his father might phone my old friend. It must be a secret between us three.”

 

 

“I won’t tell anyone.”

 

 

“Do you know where Zambia is on the map?”

 

 

“Is it in … eee … Mpumalanga?”

 

 

Miriam would have smiled, under normal circumstances, at her son’s wild guess. Not tonight.

 

 

“Zambia is a country, Pakamile. Let me show you.” Mpayipheli paged to a map of southern Africa. “Here we are,” he said, pointing with his finger.

 

 

“Cape Town.”

 

 

“Yes. And up here is Zambia.”

 

 

“How are you going to get there, Thobela?”

 

 

“I am going to fly on an airplane to here, in Johannesburg. Then I will get on another plane that is going to fly here over Zimbabwe or maybe here over Botswana to this place. It’s called Lusaka. It’s a city, like Cape Town. That’s where my old friend is.”

 

 

“How far is that, Thobela?”

 

 

“Oh, about twenty-five hundred kilometers.”

 

 

“That is very far.”

 

 

“It is.”

 

 

“Will there be cake? And cool drink?”

 

 

“I hope so.”

 

 

“I want to come, too.”

 

 

He laughed and looked at Miriam. She just shook her head.

 

 

“One day, Pakamile, I will take you. I promise.” “Bedtime,” said Miriam. “When are you going to fly?” “Just now, when you are sleeping.” “And when are you coming back?”

 

 

“Only about two sleeps. Look after your mother, Pakamile. And the vegetable garden.”

 

 

“I will. Will you bring me back some cake?”

 

 

“The wild card is Thobela Mpayipheli,” said Janina Mentz. “We don’t know why Monica Kleintjes went to him. You heard the conversations— he is also known as Tiny, works at Mother City Motorrad, a BMW motorbike dealership, lives with Miriam Nzu-lulwazi in Guguletu. We know she is the registered owner of the house, nothing else. Kleintjes went by taxi to the house, stayed just over forty minutes, and went straight home. Since then neither Mpayipheli nor Kleintjes has moved.

 

 

“There are two surveillance teams with her and one in Guguletu, with him. The Reaction Unit is on its way from Bloem-fontein and should land at Ysterplaat any minute now. They will stay there until we have more information. That, people, is how things stand.”

 

 

She turned off the video.

 

 

“Now we must jump to it. Radebe, we have only one man in Lusaka. I want four more. With experience. The Gauteng office is closest and they have enough of the right kind of people. Preferably two men and two women who can book into the Republican Hotel as couples. Discreetly and certainly not at the same time, but I’ll leave that to you. Get your phone systems running. Quinn, we need to intercept the calls to the Nzululwazi home in Guguletu. Urgently. Rajkumar, bring in your team. I want to know who Thobela Mpayipheli is. I don’t care what database you fish in; this is absolute priority. Right, people, go, go, go. Twenty minutes, please, then we are rolling.”

 

 

* * *

Tiger Mazibuko was last one off the Falcon. He let the members of Team Alpha go first, watching them, white, black, brown, each with his own story. Da Costa, sinewy descendant of Angolan refugees with the knife scar on his cheek and a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. Weyers, the Afrikaner from Germiston with bodybuilder’s arms. Little Joe Moroka, a Tswana raised on a maize farm at Bothaville, spoke seven of the country’s eleven official languages. Cupido, the shortest, the most talkative, a colored town boy from Ashton with a Technikon diploma in electronic engineering. Even a “token Royal,” as Zwelitini, the tall, lean Zulu, liked to call himself, although he was not a member of the king’s family.

 

 

They stood in line on the runway. The Cape summer breeze blew softly against Mazibuko’s cheek as he dropped to the tar.

 

 

“Offload now. Hurry up and wait. You know the drill.”

 

 

* * *

At the front door he put his arms around her, pressed her thin body against him, smelled the woman smell, the faint remains of shampoo and scent after a long day, the aromas of the kitchen and that unique warmth that was special to her.

 

 

“I will have to stay over in Johannesburg,” he said softly in her ear. “I can only catch a plane to Lusaka tomorrow.”

 

 

“How much money did she give you?”

 

 

“Plenty.”

 

 

Miriam did not comment, just held him tight.

 

 

“I’ll phone as soon as I get to the hotel.”

 

 

Still she stood with her face in his neck and her hands around him. At last she stepped back and kissed him quickly on the mouth. “Come back, Thobela.”

 

 

* * *

Janina phoned home from the privacy of her office. Lien, the eldest, picked up. “Hello, Mamma.”

 

 

“I have to work late, sweetie.”

 

 

“Maaa … You promised to help me with biology.”

 

 

“Lien, you’re fifteen. You know when you know your work well enough.”

 

 

“I’ll wait up.”

 

 

“Let me talk to Suthu. She must sleep over, because I won’t get home tonight.”

 

 

“Ma-aa. My hair tomorrow morning.”

 

 

“I’m sorry, Lien. It’s an emergency. I need you to help out there. You’re my big girl. Did Lizette do her homework?”

 

 

“She was on the phone the whole afternoon, Ma, and you know how those grade sevens are. ‘Did Kosie say anything about me? Do you think Pietie likes me?’ It’s so childish. It’s
gross.”

 

 

She laughed. “You were also in grade seven.”

 

 

“I can’t bear to think of it. Was I ever like that?”

 

 

“You were. Let me talk to Lizette. You must get some sleep, sweetie. You need to be fresh for the exam. I’ll phone tomorrow, I promise.”

 

 

 

5.

T
he taxi dropped him off outside Departures; he paid, took his bag, and got out. How long since he had last flown? Things had changed; everything was new and shiny, to make a good impression on the overseas tourists.

 

 

At Comair he bought a ticket with the cash Monica Kleintjes had handed him in a stack of new hundred-rand notes. “That’s too much,” he had said. “You can bring me the change” was her response. Now he wondered where the money had come from. Did she have time to go and withdraw the cash? Or did the Klein-tjeses keep that much in the house?

 

 

He sent the bag through the X-ray machine. Two pairs of trousers, two shirts, two pairs of socks, his black shoes, a jersey, his toilet bag, the remaining cash. And the hard drive, small and flat, technology that was beyond him. And somewhere in the electronic innards were unmentionable facts about this country’s past.

 

 

He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to be involved; he wanted to give the stuff to Johnny Kleintjes, see him safe, come home and get on with his life. So many plans for himself and Miriam and Pakamile, and then he became aware of the two gray suits behind him, the instinct a relic from another life, a muted warning in the back of his mind. He looked back, but it was just his imagination. He took his bag and checked his watch. Thirty-three minutes to boarding.

 

 

* * *

“What should we do?” asked Quinn, looking expectantly at Janina

 

 

with his headphones pulled down.

 

 

“First I want to know where he’s headed.”

 

 

“They’re finding out. He bought a ticket with Comair.”

 

 

“Keep me informed.”

 

 

Quinn nodded, shifted the earphones back, and spoke quietly into the mike at his mouth.

 

 

“Rahjev, anything?” she asked the extremely fat Indian seated behind his computer.

 

 

“National Population Register lists nine Thobela Mpayiphelis. I’m checking birth dates. Give me ten.”

 

 

She nodded.

 

 

Why had Monica Kleintjes chosen Mpayipheli? Who was he?

 

 

She stepped over to Radebe, who was on the phone talking to the Gauteng office. Someone had brought coffee and sandwiches. She didn’t want coffee yet and she wasn’t hungry. She went back to Quinn. He was just listening, glanced up at her, calm and competent.

 

 

An unbelievable team,
she thought.
This thing will be over before it has begun.

 

 

“He’s flying to Johannesburg,” said Quinn.

 

 

“He has only one bag with him?”

 

 

“Just the one.”

 

 

“And we are absolutely sure Monica Kleintjes is at her house?”

 

 

“She’s sitting in front of the TV in the sitting room. They can see her through the lace curtain.”

 

 

She considered the possibilities, ran through all the implications and scenarios. Mpayipheli must have the data. They could take it now and send their own team to Lusaka. Better control, with the RU as backup. Perhaps. Because it would be difficult to get Mazibuko and company into Zambia. Too many diplomatic favors. Too much exposure. The director might have to test his Reaction Unit some other time. The main issue: Keep it in the family. Keep it safe and under control.

 

 

“How good is the team at the airport?”

 

 

“Good enough. Experienced,” said Quinn.

 

 

She nodded. “I want them to bring Mpayipheli in, Quinn. Low-profile, I don’t want a confrontation at the airport. Discreet and fast. Get him and his bag in a car and bring them here.”

 

 

* * *

He sat with his bag on his lap, and the awareness of isolation crept over him. He had been living with Miriam for more than a year now, more than a year of family evenings, and suddenly here he was alone again, as he had been in the old days.

 

 

He searched for a reaction in himself. Did he miss it? The answer surprised him, as he found no satisfaction in this privacy. After a lifetime of depending on himself, in twelve months they had changed his life. He wanted to be there, not here.