Deon Meyer (30 page)

“How are you feeling, Monica?”

 

 

“Scared.”

 

 

“There is nothing to be afraid of. Our people are already in Lusaka, and we will handle this thing.”

 

 

The colored woman looked at her with hope.

 

 

“If it is the media, say you don’t know what they are talking about. If it is the people from Lusaka, tell them the truth. With one exception: tell them you are at home. Don’t tell them we brought you here. Understand?”

 

 

“I must say I gave the hard drive to Tiny?”

 

 

“The whole truth. Tell them why you gave it to him, when you gave it to him, everything. If they ask you if it is the man who is so much in the news, say yes. Keep to the truth. If they ask you if we have contacted you, say yes, there was a man who came to question you. Admit you told him everything. If they ask how we knew, tell them you suspect your phone was tapped. Keep to the truth. Just don’t tell them you are here.”

 

 

“But my father …”

 

 

“They are after the data, Monica. Never forget that. Your father is safe as long as that is the case. And moreover, we have teams in Lusaka. Everything is under control.”

 

 

Monica’s eyes stayed wide, but she nodded.

 

 

You are not your father’s child,
thought Janina. There was nothing of Johnny Kleintjes’s quiet strength. Perhaps that will work in our favor.

 

 

“Ma’am,” said Rahjev Rajkumar, “something is brewing.”

 

 

She looked at the Indian tapping a fat finger on the computer screen of one of his assistants.

 

 

“I’m coming,” she said. “Quinn, let Monica answer if they phone again.”

 

 

“Very good, ma’am.”

 

 

As she moved toward Rajkumar, she could see the director and Radebe deep in conversation in the corner at the radio panel. She could see Radebe talking fervently waving his hands, the director small and defenseless against the onslaught, but she could not hear a single word. Let him see what she had to deal with. Let him see how she was undermined. Then there would be no trouble when she transferred Vincent Radebe to lighter duties.

 

 

The Indian shifted his considerable bulk to make room for her. On the screen was the BMW motorcycle website.

 

 

“Look at this,” he said. “We have been monitoring them all afternoon.”

 

 

She read. Messages, one after another.

 

 

This is going to be better than the annual gathering We are four guys, leaving at 13:00. See you in Kimberley

 

 

— John S., Johannesburg

 

 

I’m leaving now, will take the N
₃
to Bethlehem, then Bloemfontein and on to Kimberley. I’m on a red K
₁₂₀₀
RS. If there’s anybody who wants to come along for the ride, just fall in behind me. If you can keep up, of course.

 

 

— Peter Strauss, Durban

 

 

See you at Pietermaritzburg, Peter. We are on two R
_1150s
, a F 650 and a new RT.

 

 

— Dasher, PM

 

 

We are three guys on 1150 GSs, just like the Big Bad Biker. We will meet you at the Big Hole, will keep the beers cold, it’s just over the hill for us.

 

 

— Johan Wasserman, Klerksdorp

 

 

“How many are there?” asked Janina.

 

 

“Twenty-two messages,” said Rajkumar’s assistant. “More than seventy bikers who say they are on the way.”

 

 

“That doesn’t bother me.”

 

 

Rajkumar and his assistant looked at her questioningly.

 

 

“It’s just a lot of men looking for an excuse to drink,” she said. “Seventy? What are they going to do? Carry out a coup d’état at Northern Cape Command with their scooters?”

 

 

* * *

“Department of Psychology.”

 

 

“This is Allison Healy of the
Cape Times
again. I wonder if—”

 

 

“I told you, Dr. Van Heerden will be in tomorrow.”

 

 

“You did. But I was wondering if you could call him at home and tell him it is in connection with Thobela Mpayipheli.”

 

 

“Who?”

 

 

“Thobela Mpayipheli. Dr. Van Heerden knows him well. The man is in trouble, and if you could call him and tell him, I can leave you my number.”

 

 

“Dr. Van Heerden does not like to be disturbed at home.”

 

 

“Please.”

 

 

There was silence on the end, followed by a dramatic sigh. “What is your number?” She gave it. “And your name again?”

 

 

* * *

The Reaction Unit’s members sat around in groups defined by the shade of the acacias next to the hard-baked red and white parade ground of the Anti-Aircraft School, between the vehicles and boxes. The row of trees provided ever shifting shelter from the merciless sun and dominating heat of thirty-four degrees Celsius. Two tents had been erected— just the roof sections, like enormous umbrellas. Shirts were off, torsos glistening with sweat, weapons were being cleaned, a few of Team Alpha lay sleeping, others chatted, here and there a muffled laugh. A radio was playing.

 

 

As Captain Tiger Mazibuko approached, he heard them fall silent as a news bulletin was announced. He checked his watch. Where had the day gone?

 

 

Four O’clock on Diamond City Radio and here is the news, read by René Grobbelaar. Kimberly is the focal point of a countrywide search for MK veteran Thobela Mpayipheli, who evaded law enforcers yesterday evening in Cape Town on a stolen motorcycle. According to Inspector Tappe Terblanche, local liaison officer for the police, a joint operation between the army and SAPS has been launched to intercept the fugitive. He is probably somewhere in the Northern Cape. A similar operation is under way in the Free State.

 

 

During a news conference earlier today the minister of intelligence revealed that Mpayipheli, who is armed and considered dangerous, is in possession of extremely sensitive classified information that he has illegally obtained. In reply to a question on the nature of the information, the minister replied that it was not in the interest of national security to reveal details.

 

 

Members of the public who have had contact with Mpayipheli, or who have information that could lead to his arrest, are advised to call the following toll-free number.…

 

 

With my luck,
thought Tiger Mazibuko,
some idiot will force Mpayipheli off the road with his souped-up Opel and demand the reward, too.

 

 

He sat down beside Lieutenant Penrose. “Is Bravo ready?”

 

 

“When the signal comes, we can be rolling in five minutes, Captain.”

 

 

“If the signal comes.” He motioned toward the building behind him where the operation was coordinated. “This lot of monkeys couldn’t find a turd in a toilet.”

 

 

The lieutenant laughed. “We will get him, Captain. You’ll see.”

 

 

* * *

Fourteen kilometers south of Koffiefontein the Gatsometer gave its fine electronic scream and the officer closed the book in one flowing motion, checked the speed reading, stood up, and walked into the road. It was a white Mercedes-Benz, six or seven years old. He held up his hand and the car immediately began to brake, stopping just next to him. He walked around to the driver’s side.

 

 

“Afternoon, Mr. Franzen,” he greeted the driver.

 

 

“You got me again,” said the farmer.

 

 

“A hundred and thirty-two, Mr. Franzen.”

 

 

“I was in a bit of a hurry. The kids forgot half their stuff on the farm and tomorrow is rugby practice. You know how it is.”

 

 

“Speed kills, Mr. Franzen.”

 

 

“I know, I know. It’s a terrible thing.”

 

 

“We’ll look the other way this time, but you must please respect the speed limit, Mr. Franzen.”

 

 

“I promise you it won’t happen again.”

 

 

“You can go.”

 

 

“Thank you. Cheers,
boet.”

 

 

He doesn’t even know my name,
the officer thought.
Until I write him a ticket.

 

 

* * *

Quinn motioned for everyone to keep quiet before he allowed Monica Kleintjes to answer. She had a headset on, earphones and microphone, and then he pressed the button and nodded to her.

 

 

“Monica Kleintjes,” she said in a shaky voice.

 

 

“You have a lot of explaining to do, young lady.” Lusaka. The same unaccented voice of the first call.

 

 

“Please,” she said.

 

 

“You gave the drive to the guy on the motorbike?”

 

 

“Yes, I—”

 

 

“That was a very stupid thing to do, Monica.”

 

 

“I had no choice. I … I couldn’t do it on my own.”

 

 

“Oh, no, Monica. You were just plain stupid. And now we have a real problem.”

 

 

“I’m sorry. Please …”

 

 

“How did the spooks find out, Monica?”

 

 

“They … the phone. It was tapped.”

 

 

“That’s what we thought. And they’re listening right now.”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

“Of course they are. They are probably standing right next to you.”

 

 

“What are you going to do?”

 

 

The voice was still calm. “Unlike you, my dear, we are sticking to the original deal. With maybe a few codicils. You have forty-eight of the seventy-two hours left. If the drive isn’t here by then, we will kill your father. If we see anything that looks like an agent in Lusaka, we will kill your father. If the drive gets here and it is more bullshit, we will kill your father.”

 

 

Monica Kleintjes’s body jerked slightly. “Please,” she said despairingly.

 

 

“You should know, Monica, that your daddy is not a nice man. He talked to us— with a little encouragement, of course. We know he is working with the intelligence people. We know he tried to palm off bullshit data. That’s why we ordered the real thing. So here’s the deal for you and your friends from Presidential Intelligence: if the motorbike man does not make it, we kill Kleintjes. And we’ll give the bullshit drives and the whole story of how they abused a pensioner to the press. Can you imagine the headlines, Monica? Can you?”

 

 

She was crying now, her shoulders shaking, her mouth forming words that could not escape her lips.

 

 

And then everyone realized the connection was broken, and the director was looking at Janina Mentz with a strange expression on his face.

 

 

 

26.

H
e was doing nearly 180 when he saw the double tubes of the Gatsometer on the road in front of him and grabbed a handful of brakes and pulled hard, a purely instinctive reaction. The ABS brakes kicked in, moaned; one eye on the instrument panel, one eye on the tubes, still too fast, somewhere around 140, he saw the man run over the road, hand raised, and he had to brake again to avoid contact, realizing it was traffic police, one man, just one man, a speed trap. He must decide whether to run or stop, the choice too suddenly on him, the causality too wide; he chose to run, turned the throttle, passed the traffic officer and one car on the right, under the tree, only one car; he made up his mind, heart in his throat, and pulled the brakes again, bringing the motorbike to a standstill on the gravel verge. It didn’t make sense, a lone traffic cop, one car, and he turned to see the man jogging toward him, half apologetic, and then he was standing there, saying, “Mister, for a minute there I thought you were going to run away.”

 

 

* * *

For the first time she felt fear as she climbed the stairs with the director to his office.

 

 

In that moment when he had looked at her in the Ops Room, something had altered between them, some balance. He had made a small movement with his head and she knew what he meant and followed, her staff unknowing but silently watching them.

 

 

It was not the change in the balance of power between her and the Zulu that clamped around her heart, it was the knowledge that she was no longer in control, that perception and reality had drifted apart like two moving targets.

 

 

He waited until she was inside, closed the door, and stood still. He looked unblinkingly at her. “That is not the CIA, Janina,” he said.

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

“Who is it?”

 

 

She sat down, although he had not invited her. “I don’t know.”

 

 

“And the drive that Mpayipheli has?”

 

 

She shook her head.

 

 

He walked slowly through the room, around the desk. She saw his calm. He did not sit, but stood behind his chair, looking down at her.

 

 

“Have you told me everything, Janina?”

 

 

* * *

One man, the situation was surreal. He was moving in a dream world as he climbed off the motorbike, pulled off his gloves and helmet. “That’s a beautiful bike,” said the traffic officer.

 

 

For a moment he considered the irony: the traffic cop saw the removal of his accessories as submission; he knew he did it for ease of movement, should he need to react. Retreating from the threat of violence, he forced himself into pacifist mode. He could see the weapon in the shiny leather holster on the officer’s hip.