Deon Meyer (8 page)

 

 

Next decision: which bike? Lord, the things were big. Would he be able to manage with his Honda 200 experience? He had never been allowed to ride them, he had to push them outside, wash and polish, rub till they shone, push them back in again. Tonight he must get onto one and ride to Johannesburg; but which one?

 

 

He felt the weight of the bag dragging at his hand.

 

 

The 1200 RS was the fastest, but what about the bag? The LT has luggage space but it was gigantic. The GS demonstration model in the display room had fixed baggage cases on either side of the rear wheel. The machine stood there, chunky and crouched, orangey yellow. The key, he knew, hung in the spares room.

 

 

Lord, they were so big.

 

 

* * *

Despite the concrete walls topped with razor wire and the high gate, despite the early-warning system of human eyes all down the street, and despite the eight men with their collection of weapons inside, it took only seven minutes for Tiger Mazibuko and his Reaction Unit to take the house.

 

 

They came through the darkness in three teams of four, four, and five. The two unmarked cars dropped them one block south of the house, and they moved unerringly through gardens and over walls until they could scale the wall of the yard on three sides, quietly and easily cutting the rusty razor wire, their hand signals visible in the light from the street.

 

 

The windows were burglarproofed but the large panes were unprotected, and that is how they entered. With smooth, practiced movements of break, dive, and roll, in three separate places, within seconds of one another. When the people inside scrambled to react, panic-stricken, it was too late. Fearful figures with thick welts of camouflage paint, in combat fatigues, forced them adroitly to the floor, pressing chunky Heckler & Koch machine pistols to their temples. Moments of chaos and confusion suddenly turned to quiet, till only one man’s voice was heard, clear and in control.

 

 

Mazibuko had the captives brought into the front room and forced down on their bellies on the floor with their hands behind their heads.

 

 

“Weyers, Zongu, watch the street.” Then Mazibuko focused on the bundle of bodies on the floor. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

 

 

Facedown, one or two of the bodies trembled slightly. Seconds passed with no answer.

 

 

“Shoot one, Da Costa,” said Mazibuko.

 

 

“Which one, Captain?”

 

 

“Start there. Shoot him in the knee. Fuck up his leg.”

 

 

“Right, Captain.”

 

 

Da Costa loudly pulled back the slide of the HK and pressed the barrel against a leg.

 

 

“You can’t shoot,” said a voice in the bundle.

 

 

“Why not?”

 

 

“There are rules for the SAPS.”

 

 

Mazibuko laughed. “Shoot, Da Costa.”

 

 

The shot was a thunderbolt in the room; the man made a deep, curious noise. The smell of cordite filled the room.

 

 

“Here’s some bad news, assholes. We are not police,” said Mazibuko. “Let me ask you again: Who is the chief gangsta here?”

 

 

“I am,” said the man in the middle, anxiety creasing his face.

 

 

“Stand up.”

 

 

“Are you going to shoot me?”

 

 

“That depends, Gangsta. That depends.”

 

 

* * *

Janina Mentz developed her policy on transcripts systematically. The challenge was to secure information, which in this country leaked like water from an earth dam, through the cracks of old loyalties and new aspirations, filtering away through a sandy bottom of corruption and petty avarice. If something gave off the smell of money scavengers would emerge from the oddest holes.

 

 

From the beginning her method was to trust nobody too much, to lead no one into temptation, to dampen the smell of the money.

 

 

Rahjev Rajkumar had coached her in the vulnerabilities of electronic information. Easy to copy, easy to distribute: floppy disks, zip disks, CD-ROM, FTP, hard drives smaller than half a cigarette pack, e-mail, hacking— because if it was linked it was crackable. If they could get into others’ databases, sooner or later with some new ingenious programming, others would get into theirs.

 

 

There was only one way to secure information. One copy, on paper: fileable, controllable, limited.

 

 

That is why Rajkumar had an extra section to manage. The typists. Four women who played their old-fashioned electric IBM typewriters like virtuosas. Who fingered the keys at the speed of white light in a single video-monitored room on the sixth floor. Who would sign out each digital and magnetic tape, transcribe it, and sign it back in with the single copy on white paper. Paper that would not yellow or decay. So that Radebe and his team could analyze it and then file it away in the access- and temperature-controlled document library, together with the magnetic tapes. The digital tapes were deleted.

 

 

By the time the transcript of the interview with Orlando Arendse reached her, forty-seven minutes after it had taken place in Milnerton Ridge, Janina was already familiar with the crucial content.

 

 

* * *

Transcript of interview by A. J. M. Williams with Mr. Orlando Arendse, 23 October, 21:25,55 Milnerton Avenue, Milnerton Ridge

 

 

w
: I represent the state, Mr. Arendse. I have a few questions about Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli and a Miss Monica Kleintjes… .

 

 

A
: I don’t work from home. Come and see me at my office in the morning.

 

 

w
: I am afraid it can’t wait that long, Mr. Arendse.

 

 

A
: Where are your credentials?

 

 

w
: Here, Mr. Arendse.

 

 

A
: Drop the “mister”; I can see you don’t mean it. This card says nothing. Come see me in the morning, thank you.

 

 

w
: Maybe you should—

 

 

A
: Maybe nothing. It’s outside my office hours, and you don’t have a warrant.

 

 

w
: I do.

 

 

A
: Then where is it?

 

 

w
: Here.

 

 

A
: That’s a cell phone.

 

 

w
: Just take the call.

 

 

A
: Good-bye, my brother.

 

 

w
: It’s from a house in Mitchell’s Plain that belongs to you.

 

 

A
: What?

 

 

w
: Take the call.

 

 

A
: Hello. Yes … Yes … The bastards … Yes … Williams, who the hell are you?

 

 

w
: Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr. Arendse?

 

 

A
: What do you want?

 

 

w
: Just some information.

 

 

A
: Said the spider to the fly. Come in, we will sit in the back.

 

 

w
: Thank you.

 

 

A
: You shot my man, Williams.

 

 

w
: We wanted to get your attention.

 

 

A
: You can’t just shoot. There are rules of engagement.

 

 

w
: I am sure most of the government departments would agree with you.

 

 

A
: So who are you?

 

 

w
: We need some information about a Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli and a Miss Monica Kleintjes.

 

 

A
: I don’t know the lady.

 

 

w
: And Mr. Mpayipheli?

 

 

A
: He no longer works for me. Not for two years …

 

 

w
: What sort of work did he do?

 

 

A
: Now I must ask you to excuse me while I phone my lawyer.

 

 

w
: I am afraid that will not be possible.

 

 

A
: Do you imagine, my brown bro, that I will sit here and feed you incriminating evidence because you hold a barrel to my troops’ head? My men know the score; they know they can get hurt in our line of work.

 

 

w
: Mr. Arendse, we know you are involved in organized crime, and the fact of the matter is that we don’t care. That is the problem of the SAPS. Do you really think that our actions in Mitchell’s Plain, which are hardly in line with the laws of criminal procedure, are part of a plan to bring you to justice?

 

 

A
: Why do you talk like a whitey? Where are your roots, my bro?

 

 

w
: Mpayipheli. What did he do for you?

 

 

A
: Go fuck yourself.

 

 

w
: Mr. Arendse, my people at the Mitchell’s Plain house say there is two hundred kilograms of cocaine in various stages of processing. I am sure it’s worth something to you, even if your personnel are not.

 

 

[Inaudible]

 

 

w
: Mr. Arendse?

 

 

A
: What is your problem with Tiny?

 

 

w
: Who?

 

 

A
: Mpayipheli.

 

 

w
: We just need some background.

 

 

A
: Why?

 

 

w
: Routine investigations, Mr. Arendse.

 

 

A
: At ten o’clock at night? Pull the other one.

 

 

w
: I am not in a position to discuss our interest in Mr. Mpayipheli with you.

 

 

A
: Did he go into business for himself?

 

 

w
: How do you mean?

 

 

A
: He must have done something to attract your attention.

 

 

w
: What did he do for you?

 

 

A
: He was my enforcer.

 

 

w
: Enforcer?

 

 

A
: Yes.

 

 

w
: Could you describe that more fully?

 

 

A
: Jirre, you talk fancy. The government has taught you well.

 

 

w
: Mr. Arendse …

 

 

A
: Okay okay but don’t expect a saga, it’s more of a short story. Tiny was firepower and physical intimidation, that’s all. He rode shotgun. Sharpshooter like you wouldn’t believe. And he was big and strong and he was a mean bastard. You could see it in his eyes— there was a hawk there, he would watch you and look for weakness.

 

 

w
: How long did he work for you?

 

 

A
: Six years? I think it was six years.

 

 

w
: And before that?

 

 

A
: You should know. He was a soldier in the Struggle.

 

 

w
: Umkhonto we Sizwe?

 

 

A
: Exactly

 

 

w
: With respect, Mr. Arendse, there are few MK soldiers in Mitchell’s Plain.

 

 

A
: Too true, my bro, they stick to their own. But I got lucky. There was a vacancy and you know how it is— word gets out and the next thing I know this huge Xhosa is standing at the door and he says the vacancy is now filled. Best appointment I ever made.

 

 

w
: And he told you he was ex-MK.

 

 

A
: Exactly I was a bit skeptical, so we drove down to Strandfontein for a proper job interview and we gave him an old AK-47 and a lot of Castle beer bottles at two hundred yards. It may not sound far to you, my brother, but those dumpies were small and he blew them apart with monotonous regularity till the other troops gave him a standing ovation, you understand me?

 

 

w
: Did he ever use his talents in your service?

 

 

A
: Speak plain, my bro. Do you want to know if he ever shot someone?

 

 

w
: Yes.

 

 

A
: It was never necessary. His hawk look was enough. His mother loved him, but everyone else was scared shitless of him.

 

 

w
: Where did he serve with MK?

 

 

A
: How would I know? He never talked about it.

 

 

w
: Never?

 

 

A
: Hardly a word. Six years and I never knew him. Kept to himself, always a bit apart like Colin Wilson’s Outsider, but who cares, he was a jewel in my crown.

 

 

w
: Colin who?

 

 

A
: Literary reference, my bro. You wouldn’t understand.

 

 

w
: And then he left your service?