Deon Meyer (38 page)

 

 

He heard Little Joe toss the notes into the night like a challenge. He heard two voices join in without knowing whose they were, the song gained meaning and emotion, longing. And then another voice, Cupido’s tenor, round and high as a flute, it hung for a moment above the melody and then dove in. The final ingredient was Zwelitini’s adding his bass softly and carefully so that the four voices formed a velvet foundation for Moroka’s melody, the voices intertwining, dancing up and down the scales. They sang without haste, carried by the restful rhythms of a whole continent, and the night sounds stopped, the Free State veld was silent to receive the song, Africa opened her arms.

 

 

The notes filled Thobela, lifted him up from under that bridge and raised him to the patch of stars in his vision; he saw a vision of black and white and brown in a greater perfect harmony, magical possibilities, and the emotion in him was at first small and controllable, but he allowed it to bloom as the music filled his soul.

 

 

And another awareness grew— it had been hiding somewhere, waiting for a receptive spirit, and now his head cleared and he felt for the first time in more than a decade the umbilical drawing him back to his origin, deeper and further, back through his life and the lives of those before him, till he could see all, till he could see himself and know himself.

 

 

As the last note died away over the plains, too soon, there was a breathless quiet as if time stood still for a heartbeat.

 

 

He discovered the wetness in his eyes, the moisture running in a long silver thread down his cheek, and he was amazed.

 

 

The night sounds returned, soft and respectful, as if nature knew she could not compete now.

 

 

Wordlessly, Little Joe Moroka stood up from the circle at the helicopter.

 

 

From habit he slung the Heckler & Koch UMP submachine pistol over his shoulder and he walked.

 

 

No one said a word. They knew.

 

 

Little Joe walked down the bank. It had been a bittersweet day and he wanted to cherish the sweet a little longer, taste the emotions a little more. He walked down to the river, stood gazing into the dark water, the HK harmlessly behind his back. He did not want to stand still but walked toward the bridge, thinking of everything, thinking of nothing, the sounds reverberating in his head— damn, it was good, like when he was a kid— aimlessly wandered into the dark under the bridge. He saw the dull gleam of the stainless-steel exhaust pipe, but it did not register because it did not belong, he looked away, looked again, a surreal moment with a tiny wedge of reason, a light coming on in his brain, one step closer, another, the shiny object took shape, lines, tank and wheel and handlebars, and he made a noise, surprised, reached for his weapon, swung it around, but it was too late. Out of the moon shadow came a terrifyingly fast movement, a shoulder hit him for the second time that day, but his finger was inside the trigger guard, his thumb already off the safety, and as his breath exploded over his lips and he tumbled backward, the weapon stuttered out on full automatic, loosing seven of its nineteen rounds.

 

 

Five hit the concrete and steel, whining away into the night. Two found the right hip of Thobela Mpayipheli.

 

 

He felt the
9
mm bullets jerk his body sideways, he felt the immediate shock; he knew he was in trouble but he followed the fall of Moroka, down the steep bank to the river. He heard the shouts of the group at the helicopter but focused on the weapon— Little Joe was winded, Thobela landed on top of him, his hand over the firearm, jerked it, got it loose, his fingers sought the butt, his other forearm against the soldier’s throat, face-to-face, heard the approaching steps, comrades shouting questions, pressed the barrel of the HK against Moroka’s cheek.

 

 

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said.

 

 

“Joe?” called Da Costa from above.

 

 

Moroka struggled. The barrel pressed harder, the weight of the fugitive heavy on him; the man hissed, “Shhh,” in his face, and Little Joe submitted because where could the fucker go, there were six of them against one.

 

 

“Joe?”

 

 

Mpayipheli rolled off Moroka, moved around behind him, pulled him up by the collar to use him as a shield.

 

 

“Let’s all stay calm,” said Thobela. The adrenaline made the world move in slow motion. His hip was wet, blood running in a stream down his leg.

 

 

“Jissis,” said Cupido above. They could see now. Little Joe with the gun to his head, the big fucker behind him.

 

 

“Put down your weapons,” said Mpayipheli. The shock of the two
9
mm rounds combined with the chemistry of his body to make him shake.

 

 

They just stood there.

 

 

“Shoot him,” said Little Joe.

 

 

“No one is getting hurt,” said Thobela.

 

 

“Kill the dog,” said Little Joe.

 

 

“Wait,” said Da Costa.

 

 

“Put it down,” said Mpayipheli.

 

 

“Please, man, shoot him,” Little Joe pleaded. He could not face Tiger Mazibuko’s anger again, no more humiliation. He writhed and struggled in the grip of the fugitive and then Thobela Mpayipheli hit him with the butt of the HK where the nerves bunch between back and head, and his knees sagged, but the arm locked around his throat and held him up.

 

 

“I will count to ten,” said Mpayipheli, “and then all the weapons will be on the ground,” and his voice sounded hoarse and strange and distant, a desperate man. His mind was on the helicopter: Where was the pilot? Where were the men who could use the radio to send a warning?

 

 

They put their weapons down, Da Costa and Zwelitini and Cupido.

 

 

“Where are the other two?”

 

 

Da Costa looked around, betraying their position.

 

 

“Get them here. Now,” said Mpayipheli.

 

 

“Just stay calm,” said Da Costa.

 

 

Little Joe was beginning to come around and started wriggling under his arm. “I am calm, but if those two don’t get here now …”

 

 

“Captain,” Da Costa called over his shoulder.

 

 

No answer.

 

 

He’s using the radio, Mpayipheli knew; he was calling in reinforcements.

 

 

“One, two, three …”

 

 

“Captain.” There was panic in Da Costa’s shout.

 

 

“Four, five, six …”

 

 

“Shit, Captain, he’s going to shoot him.”

 

 

“I will. Seven, eight…”

 

 

“Okay, okay,” said the pilot as he and his colleague walked over the rim of the riverbank with their hands up.

 

 

“Stand away from the weapons,” said Mpayipheli, and they all moved back a few steps. He shoved Little Joe up the bank so he could see the helicopter better. The soldier was unsteady on his feet but still mumbled, “Shoot him,” and Mpayipheli said, “You don’t want me to hit you again,” and the mumbling stopped.

 

 

They stood, the fugitive with his hostage, the other five in a bunch.

 

 

In his head a clock ticked.

 

 

Had the pilot got a message out? How much blood had he lost? When would he feel the light-headedness, the loss of concentration, and the loss of control?

 

 

“Listen carefully,” he said. “We have a bad situation. Don’t make it worse.”

 

 

No response.

 

 

“Is his name Joe?”

 

 

Da Costa was the one to nod.

 

 

He felt the armor of the Kevlar vest under Little Joe’s shirt. He chose his words carefully. “The first shot goes in Joe’s shoulder. The second in his leg. You understand?”

 

 

They did not answer.

 

 

“You three”— he gestured with the barrel—“get the motorbike.”

 

 

They just stood there.

 

 

“Hurry up,” he said, and pressed the barrel against Little Joe’s shoulder joint.

 

 

The soldiers moved down to the bottom of the bridge.

 

 

“You haven’t got a chance,” said the pilot, and Thobela knew then for sure the man had used the radio.

 

 

“You have thirty seconds!” he screamed at the three at the motorbike. “You”— he motioned to the copilot—“fetch the helmet and my suit. They are over there. And if I think you are wasting time …”

 

 

The man’s eyes were wide; he jogged off, past the men struggling to push the motorbike up the incline.

 

 

“Help them to get it in the helicopter,” he said to the pilot.

 

 

“You’re fucking insane, man. I’m not flying you anywhere,” and that is when Little Joe suddenly jerked out of his grasp with a drop and a twist of the shoulders and dove toward the pile of weapons on the ground. Thobela followed him with the Heckler’s barrel as if in slow motion, saw him grab a machine pistol, roll over, fingers working the mechanisms with consummate skill. He saw the barrel turn toward him, saw everyone else frozen, and he said softly to himself, once, “No,” and then his finger pressed the trigger as the choice was no longer to shoot or not, but to live, to survive. The shots cracked; he aimed for the bulletproof vest, and Little Joe jerked backward, Mpayipheli moved toward Little Joe, right leg caving in (how much damage?), and jerked the weapon out of the young soldier’s hands, threw his own down, looked up. The others still stood transfixed; he looked down, three shots were harmlessly to the chest, and one was in the neck, ugly, blood spurting.

 

 

He took a deep breath; he must control himself. And them.

 

 

“He needs to get to the hospital. You determine how fast,” he said. “Load the bike.”

 

 

They were shocked now.

 

 

“Move. He will die.”

 

 

Little Joe groaned.

 

 

The GS was at the open door of the Oryx.

 

 

“Help them,” he said to the pilot.

 

 

“Don’t shoot,” said the copilot, coming up the bank with the helmet and clothes.

 

 

“Put it in.”

 

 

The four battled with the heavy machine, but the adrenaline in their arteries helped them lift first the front and then the back.

 

 

“Do you have first aid equipment?”

 

 

Cupido nodded.

 

 

“Put a pressure bandage on his neck. Tight.”

 

 

He walked to the Oryx, his steps wobbly, the pain in his hip throbbing and sharp, demanding. He knew he was nearly out of time.

 

 

“We must go,” he said, looking at the two air force pilots.

 

 

 

34.

I
n the second Oryx, which stood beside the R.64, halfway between Dealesville and Boshof, Captain Tiger Mazibuko was the one who heard the emergency signal. “Mayday Mayday Mayday. They are shooting here below, I think we’ve found him…”

 

 

And then it was quiet.

 

 

First, he shouted outside where the helicopter crew stood around, smoking and chatting to the other members of Team Alpha. “Come!” he screamed, and then over the radio: “Where are you? Come in. Where are you?” But there was silence and his heart began to race and frustration was the bellows of his rage.

 

 

“What?” said the pilot, now beside him.

 

 

“They’ve found him; someone called in Mayday,” he said. “Come in, Mayday, where are you, who signaled?”

 

 

The officer had his headset on in the control cabin.

 

 

“Rooivalk One to Oryx, we heard it, too.”

 

 

“Who was it?” asked Mazibuko.

 

 

“Sounded like Kotze, over.”

 

 

“Who the fuck is Kotze?”

 

 

“The pilot of the other Oryx.”

 

 

“Come!” yelled Tiger Mazibuko, but his pilot had the engines running already. “I want all the Rooivalks, too,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Do you know where Kotze and them are?”

 

 

“Negative, Oryx, over.”

 

 

“Fuck,” said Mazibuko, struggling with the map in the dark cabin.

 

 

“Show me,” said the copilot. “Then I’ll give the coordinates.”

 

 

“Here.” He jabbed the map with his index finger. “Right here.”

 

 

* * *

They tore over the landscape and the pilot shouted, “Where?” and he shouted back above the racket, “Botswana,” and the captain shook his head.

 

 

“I can’t cross the border.”

 

 

“You can. If we keep low, the radar won’t pick us up.”

 

 

“What?”

 

 

The pain in his hip was enormous, throbbing; his trousers were soaked in blood. He had to have a look. But there were more urgent things.

 

 

“I want a headset,” he said, and gestured.

 

 

The copilot got it, hands trembling and eyes on the HK in Mpayipheli’s hands. He got earphones and passed them over, plugging the wire in somewhere. Hissing, voices, the Rooivalks were talking to each other.

 

 

“Tell them about the wounded man,” said Thobela Mpayipheli in the microphone to the copilot, “and nothing else. Understand?”

 

 

The man nodded.

 

 

Thobela searched the instrument panel for the compass. He knew Lobatse was north, almost directly north. “Where’s your compass?”

 

 

“Here,” said the pilot.