Trackers (33 page)

Authors: Deon Meyer

BOOK: Trackers

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He was uncomfortable in his nakedness, exposed, his red eyes
showed he had been drinking. There was still dark bruising on his slightly
swollen mouth and nose from our previous encounter.

'Sit,' I said.

He sank slowly to his knees, keeping his hands high.
Sensible. He sat down, instinctively angled so that his private parts were
shielded.

He looked at me with calm hatred. 'You are a dead man.'

'That's one of the things we must talk about Julius. No one
needs to know about this ... uncomfortable moment between us. Oh, before I
forget...' I took out the camera, aimed so that the barrel of the gun and
Inkunzi were in the picture and took another photograph.

He cursed, colourfully and at length.

'If I ever get the idea you are looking for me, or for anyone
that I know, I will put these up at the Bull Run, the Sandton police station, I
will put them on your X5's windscreen, I will send them to the tabloids and to
every rival and accomplice you have, and I will put them on the Internet. And I
will tell everyone who wants to know how easy it was to tame the Bull in his
own
kraal.
On the other hand, if you want to
keep our chat confidential, you have my complete cooperation.'

I let him chew over that, but didn't get a positive response.
His face showed only hatred.

'Come on, Julius, you have a reputation to uphold. Especially
after Flea van Jaarsveld, also known as Cornel, fooled the both of us.'

I saw his recognition at the name.

'The diamonds were on the lorry,' I said.

Surprise. 'You lie.'

'Remember the sores on the rhinos, those sickly pink growths?
Plastic, all along, Inkunzi. The diamonds were inside them. I had to go all the
way to Zimbabwe yesterday before I could work it out. But you knew about the
cargo. The important thing is, I want you to ask yourself why I went to all
this trouble to come here tonight if I already knew about the diamonds. Why
would I lie? The truth is, Flea has taken something from me, and I want it
back. You want the stones. We can help each other.'

He digested this, straightened up a little. 'Give me my
bathrobe,' he said, his voice reasonable, pointing at a white garment hanging
from a hook against the wall. Negotiation is give and take. I tossed it at him.
He draped himself in it. 'How can we help each other?' The change of gear was
too rapid. I didn't trust him.

'Help me track her down.'

He laughed without humour.

'Funny?'

'Impossible.'

'Nothing is impossible. How did you know about the diamonds?'

'Let me get dressed first.'

'That is not going to happen.'

'Then it will be a long night.'

'Only if you have lost interest in the diamonds.'

'I don't negotiate in a shower.'

I liked the shower. It reduced his options. But I would have
to let him restore some dignity. As long as I kept him away from the gun safe
in the walk-in wardrobe. 'Come,' I said, 'but slowly.'

He rose, and put the bathrobe on. I walked backwards into the
big bedroom. He followed me.

'I want a smoke.' He gestured at his bedside cabinet where a
pack of Camels and a Zippo lighter lay beside a bunch of keys.

I nodded, keeping the MAG trained on him, and moved across to
the couch against the window. Inkunzi had closed the curtains behind it. I sat
down. He tapped out a cigarette, lit it, sat on the bed.

'The ashtray ...' He pointed at the coffee table in front of
me, where there was a heavy glass one.

'Use the carpet.' I didn't want to give him anything he could
throw at me.

He blew smoke through his nose. Angry.

'How did you know about the diamonds?'

He drew deeply on the cigarette, stared at it, seeming deep
in thought. 'I hear a lot of stories.'

'It's a story you must have heard in great detail, because
you knew exactly where to find us.'

'There are Zimbabweans on my team.'

My team. The sport of organised crime.

'And they heard about Flea and Johnson Chitepo?'

He gave me a look, impressed. 'You know a lot.'

'Not enough.'

He rested his elbows on his knees, bent over away from me, as
if he were thinking. Drew on his cigarette, blew the smoke out in a long slow
stream. 'We heard about a deal. Chitepo and some others. The first story was it
was coming through the Kruger Park. Then, a day before the time, we heard it
was one Cornel van Jaarsveld behind the plan, and they were coming across the
border near Musina. In a Bedford truck. Later that night, they said no, it's a
Mercedes.'

'How did they know?'

'The man who Cornel hired to drive the Bedford. But first he
had to get away from you before ...'

The driver of the Bedford, the man in the yellow vest,
muscular arms, cigarette in his mouth. I put two and two together. 'She made
him wait in Kwekwe so she could stick the diamonds on the rhinos first. That's
why you didn't know.'

Inkunzi just nodded.

'And you heard nothing else? Who were the people Chitepo made
his deal with?'

'I don't know.' But he was lying. I let it go for now.

'And then you just let us go, without encouraging Flea to
tell you where the diamonds were? It doesn't make sense to me.'

He shrugged.

'Come on, Julius. Why didn't you shoot me? Why didn't you
torture Flea just a little? You're not the kind of guy who has a problem with
violence.'

He had finished the cigarette. He looked around for a place
to dispose of the stub. He wasn't keen to answer my question, which confirmed
my suspicions.

'You knew who the final buyer was, Julius. You knew where she
was going. And the only reason you were prepared to let us go was so you could
put Plan B into action. But Plan B was not as profitable or as easy as Plan A
...'

'I want to put this down,' he waved the stub at the bedside
cabinet.

'Slowly.'

He stretched out an arm, put the stub down carefully beside
the bunch of keys so that it stood upright, the glowing end upwards. Then he
pressed a finger on something in the bunch of keys and the alarm began to wail
in the roof above us and he looked at me and said, 'You're fuckin' dead.'

He threw the keys at me and jumped up, moving towards the
wardrobe.

I ignored his projectile, pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Unless one is an
excellent marksman and knows exactly when and where to shoot an animal, it may
be better not to shoot at all, since there is nothing more dangerous than a
wounded animal.

The Art of
Tracking: Dangerous animals

The MAG's safety catch is on the left of the trigger, but it
also has a locking catch on the grip below the barrel. That is the one I had
forgotten, accustomed to my missing Glock, which has no safety mechanism bar
the stiffness of the trigger.

In feverish haste I press the chunky shotgun's locking catch
as I jump up, aim, see Inkunzi jerk open the louvre door to the wardrobe. He
dives, I shoot, too soon. Splinters, dust, big hole in the wood. Run, have to
get him before he opens his gun safe, precious seconds.

Must count my shots, just six rounds in the magazine. Five to
go.

He's at the door, big Smith & Wesson Model 500 in his
hand, I drop flat, he shoots. Ear-splitting thunder, a miss. He must have had
it hidden under a shirt. I dive, roll, aim for the light in the centre of the
ceiling, pull the trigger, keep rolling.

Four left.

Still too light in the room. The TV. I turn, shoot it out,
roll.

Sudden darkness. Three left.

The telephone starts ringing. Security company.

His revolver thunders, bullet cracking beside me. I roll
towards the bed, knowing I'm in trouble, both his companions will be coming,
the passage door is not an option, the security company will be on the way if
no one answers the phone. Only one choice: take Inkunzi out, use the sliding
door to the swimming pool.

They hammer on the door to the passage, shouting. I turn,
shoot through it, a henchman screams on the other side, falls.

I only have two shots left.

Roll behind the bed, jump upright fast, beam of light through
the hole in the door, see Inkunzi as he sees me, no choice, shoot him in the
chest. He falls, pulling off a shot, it hits the ceiling.

I swing the MAG at the passage door, there is one more out
there.

One shot left.

I hear Julius choking, gurgling. This is not what I wanted.

Voice from down the passage. 'Inkunzi?'

I crawl over the bed.

The Bull lies there, big hole next to his heart, blood
pumping onto the carpet. That terrible rattling in his throat.

Then he is quiet.

'Inkunzi?' Urgently.

I point the gun at the door, nothing to be seen.

He would crouch or kneel, stay out of sight.

I have to get away from here. I clamber over the bed, take
the Smith & Wesson out of Inkunzi's hand, can't remember how many times he
fired. I jump up, towards the curtains, pluck them aside, unlock the sliding
door.

The passage door splinters behind me, I spin around, shadow
rolling in, I shoot. He bellows. Got him.

I throw the empty MAG to the right, against the wall. He
shoots at it. Swap the revolver to my right hand, lift its weight, see him
struggle upright. I pull the trigger, two shots. He drops.

I run to the sliding door, push it aside. The alarm and the
telephone clamouring inside. How much time do I have?

Stop and think. Black bag still in the toilet. Inkunzi's keys
on the floor. I snap the Smith & Wesson's cylinder open. All five rounds
fired. Throw it down, go back in the room. Silent inside. I climb over the
bodies, slipping in the blood. Find the keys, pick up the henchman's handgun.
Smaller revolver, looks like a Colt. Out through the passage door. The one
lying there is not dead. His right arm is shot away, he holds the stump with
his left hand, trying to stem the blood.

'Help me.'

It's the one who helped kick me during the hijacking. He
stares at me, his eyes narrow. He recognises me. Reaches quickly for his pistol
on the carpet.

'No,' I say.

He knows this is about survival, his fingers wrap around the
grip.

I shoot him in the heart.

Then I throw the Colt away in revulsion and rage, because I
didn't plan it like this, this is not what I intended.

I run down the passage, into the toilet, grab my bag, head
out. Look for the garage, find a door leading out of the spacious, modern, spotless
kitchen.

Telephone stops ringing. Bad sign.

Look for the remote control on the keys. Four buttons. Press
the red one. Alarm stops.

Press the other buttons one by one. Hear the gate slide open.
Then open the garage door. I jump into the BMW, push the key in, switch on.
Automatic gearbox, put it in reverse. Drive.

Unarmed. If the response team arrives ...

Out of the gate, jam the X5 into gear, pull away, accelerate.

A security van approaches from the front, siren wailing.

I put my foot down. Pull my cap down.

Past them.

Watch him in the rear-view mirror.

He turns in at the Bull's house.

'Fuck,' said Jeanette Louw. Disgust in her voice.

In my hotel room I held the cellphone to my ear, but said
nothing.

'Where is the fucking BMW now?'

'In front of the Bull Run.'

Her voice softened. 'You know you're trouble.'