The Serpentine Road (30 page)

‘It is a gift. Power like hers cannot be bought; it can only be given.’

‘Thank you.’

She leads him down the spiral staircase, back to the yard.

‘Visit again when you are passing. Maybe I will still be here.’

‘I hope you will be.’ He bows at her. ‘Thank you again.’

‘Thank you for thinking about me,’ she tells him. ‘I am not used to that. You have made me happy today.’

He looks at her swollen eyes, recalls the story she has told him, cannot believe this could bring happiness.

‘If that is the case,’ he tells her, ‘that is a gift I usually seem to lack.’

When he reaches home, he approaches his house with caution, checks the alarm, paces his house with his gun drawn. Finally satisfied that he is safe, he puts his damp clothes by the washing machine, takes a long, hot shower and changes into a work suit. There are fallen branches in his garden, the flat roof above his stoep is leaking and his own car is covered in damp leaves. The rain continues to fall from cloud so low and thick he cannot even see the Mountain from his window. He feels exhausted and anxious, wonders who was prepared to threaten, perhaps kill him; how they knew where he would be. He tries to form an image of the man in the crowd who, twice, he saw looking at him. He was, it seemed to him, a Cape Coloured or pale black man, but there is no one feature about the man’s face around which he can form an image.

Ben Thwala seems to be shouting above the sound of a storm.

‘Major Mabena is in a liaison between the Police Ministry and senior SAPS officers. My friend tells me that he is also politically active and that he has some connection to an ANC . . . I do not know if this is the right term, sir? Steering committee.’

Water splashes against the French windows to the back of the house. De Vries looks up, sees the trees and shrubs bending first one way, then the next, as the swirling wind catches wet branches.

‘I have not seen him, sir, but I am told that he is considered to be a confidante to several high-ranking members of the government within, or connected to, the Police Ministry.’

De Vries scribbles notes on what Ben Thwala is telling him, his brain racing to compute this new information.

‘This friend: he is trustworthy?’

‘Yes, sir. I believe him to be. I worked with him and we were friends when I was here. I have told him that this is top secret.’

‘What can he tell you about Nkosi?’

‘This is where it is not clear. He told me he had searched for this name, but it did not appear in the files.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There is no Sam Nkosi working for the SAPS. Not according to the records. However, my friend found that this name was recognized, but as a cover name for an officer.’

‘An undercover alias?’

‘Maybe, sir. I do not have anybody else I can approach unless I visit the unit at which this name appeared.’

De Vries thinks, shakes his head, says: ‘No, Sergeant. Definitely, no.’ He hesitates, knowing that Thwala is closer to the answers than he by thirteen-hundred kilometres. He is decided: he will not risk the safety, career, the life, of another officer. ‘Collect your belongings, go to the airport now, Sergeant. That’s an order.’

As he climbs Hospital Bend on the way into town, the wind blows in pulses of even heavier rain. He slows, wipes the inside of his windscreen with his cuff, pushes on. As he turns towards town on De Waal drive, his car is buffeted from side to side by the wind. There is a rock-fall by the road, a thick orange morass runs from the slopes across the carriageway. Cars brake, swerve around the boulder, idle through the stream of muddy water, pick up speed again as the road drops towards the sharp turn off onto Mill Street or the descent into the CBD on Roeland Street.

By the time he reaches the car park beneath his building, he feels drained. He travels up to his floor alone, stalks down the corridor, crosses the squad-room without acknowledging anyone, slams his office door. He slumps in his chair, head in his hands. No one knocks on his door; no one even approaches. They have worked with him long enough to know when it is right to look busy.

At 2 p.m., Norman Classon strolls into the squad-room and knocks on his door, lets himself in.

‘You disappeared.’

De Vries looks up at him.

‘That was the idea . . . Sit down. Keep your voice down.’

Classon sits sheepishly.

‘Heavy night?’

‘In many ways,’ De Vries tells him.

‘I spoke to General Thulani yesterday. He told me that it was over. The message got through that you were winding it all down and moving on.’

‘Good.’

‘You know more now than yesterday?’

‘A little, but we’re playing with fire. These people have the better of us, and they have powerful allies.’

‘No one to trust . . .’

‘Occupational hazard for all of us. Ever since ’94. When you are all one side in a war, that brings you together. Now, you have old and new enemies mixed together. What do you expect?’

‘Still enemies?’

‘That’s what they think. You think fifty years of the system were forgotten by a few hearings? Truth and reconciliation? There’s plenty of fight left in these people.’

‘You think that’s what this is?’

‘In broad terms, probably. In detail, who knows? But I’ll tell you this: pieces are falling into place for something bad. Those pieces are made up of the Police Ministry, the government – I don’t know, maybe something else to do with a secret operation.’

‘What is that?’

‘I don’t know, but there’s talk of undercover identities, people walking around who should not exist.’ He turns to the lawyer. ‘I hope you’re at the top of your game, Advocate Classon, really at the fucking top, because I may have very dire need of you any minute now.’

‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

De Vries chuckles.

‘When was the last time I said something you people liked?’

Ben Thwala towers above the short security guard. He has to duck to pass through the metal scanner at the airport. His hand luggage is scanned and appears on the conveyor belt at the other side. He collects it and turns. Then, beneath him, he sees the guard.

‘Your ID, sir?’

Thwala holds his breath, produces his ID card, watches the man read it. The guard pockets it, says: ‘Come with me, please sir.’

‘Why?’

‘There is a message for you at Security.’

Thwala notices a second guard. He walks between them, across the crowded departure hall and through a key-coded door. The guard ahead of him stops, opens a door to a small waiting room, ushers him inside.

‘Colonel Vaughn de Vries, Senior Investigator, Special Crimes Unit, Western Province. It really sounds quite impressive.’

De Vries stands in front of Eric Basson. He is in an office, formerly grand but now faded, in the centre of an anonymous building, somewhere between the SAPS Central Headquarters and the High Court.

‘It isn’t.’

Basson smiles dryly.

‘No, it isn’t, is it?’

He offers his hand. They shake over a wide polished ebony desk, their hands reflected back in the rich shine of the surface.

De Vries says: ‘Why haven’t we met before?’

‘I really don’t like meeting people.’

‘I sympathize.’

‘I know.’ Basson gestures for him to sit, then sits himself, runs his left hand over his right arm, straightens his cuff.

‘Are you one of us? You work for the SAPS?’

‘Yes and no,’ Basson says. ‘I am a conduit to the past.’

‘Meaning?’

‘If we heeded the lessons of history, we might avoid the mistakes of today.’

‘Unless it’s too late.’

‘Of course it’s too late.’

De Vries studies the man. He reminds him strangely of Bheka Bhekifa: a sharp mind in a small human form.

‘How do you know John Marantz?’

‘I don’t,’ Basson says, holding up his hands. ‘I met him only once.’

De Vries leans forward.

‘Let’s get something clear from the beginning. I appreciate what you may have to give me, but I’m not into games. John Marantz worked – maybe still works – for the British Government. I’m aware of how many British companies still operate in Southern Africa and how, therefore, there will be – how shall we put this nicely – “representatives” down here. But I won’t deal with them; I can’t deal with them. So, before we begin: what is your status?’

Basson’s expression remains entirely calm.

‘You can be reassured on that score. I’ve worked for my country my entire life. Thirty-two years in the SAPS. In fact, when you were a lowly Captain in Observatory, I was a Colonel right next to our leaders . . .’

De Vries stares at him, wonders whether the reference to his position in the Observatory Station refers to what happened in 1994, realizes that it must, that the man in front of him uses information as a weapon. That is what he and Marantz have in common. He says quietly: ‘That was a long time ago. Everything has changed.’

‘Less than you think, Colonel.’

Basson pulls out a file from beneath his desk, places it on the table.

‘Shall we begin?’

De Vries nods.

‘I only had what Mr Marantz provided, but it proved ample. You scarcely need my help. You have unravelled the knot yourself but, if I fill you in on the background, you will reach your conclusion sooner. That, I imagine, would be beneficial?’

He brings one sheet from the pile to the top.

‘Let us start in the past and move through history.’ He looks up at De Vries across the desk. ‘From 1959, Graeme Holt built up his company for thirty years. During that time, he fully exploited the very favourable labour conditions in our country and exported many of those ideas to his extensive business concerns throughout Southern Africa. In return for the support he received from our government, he was able to aid in the movement of currency which, under the spurious sanctions imposed, the administration might have found difficult to arrange. Graeme Holt was a very determined man. He retained seventy-five per cent ownership of his very successful company throughout his life. Upon his death, he left a committed, experienced board to run the company and limited his daughter to control only twenty-four per cent – still representing a very significant sum of money. The potential of that fortune was, we both believe, I’m sure, the motive for her death.’

‘How did Graeme Holt die?’

‘Whatever we may suspect, nobody knows.’

Basson adjusts his other cufflink, waits, looks up again at De Vries.

‘May I continue?’

De Vries nods.

‘In April 2014, Taryn Holt meets Trevor Bhekifa at a book launch. They might have been introduced and moved on without another thought, but Bhekifa mentions a think-tank, the Democratic Reform Group, and the fact that it might soon become a political party. Taryn Holt was no fan of her father’s politics, nor of the way the ANC had, to her mind, abandoned the women’s cause for which, it was originally hoped, it would fight. She attended some meetings, became interested in the politics and then, it seems, in Bhekifa himself. They had something strong in common: they were rebelling against their fathers’ politics, their fathers’ failed political ideals.’

He looks up, sees De Vries smiling.

‘You are beginning to see, I imagine?’

‘I think so.’

‘In November last year, she visits her attorney and sets in motion the work required to free up at least some of her shareholding in Holt Industries, with a view to becoming a powerful patron of this new political party. That information leaks . . . And, now, Taryn Holt is a threat.’

‘But, to who?’

Basson turns over a page.

‘Imagine if you felt oppressed by a cruel regime which you had eventually overthrown to take power. How would you feel if money accrued during that time, by the blood and sweat of your people, was about to be used against you? I imagine you do not feel happy, and someone high up, influential and powerful, makes the decision that this will not be allowed to happen.’

‘A state conspiracy . . .’

Basson clears his throat.

‘That sounds good, doesn’t it? I regret that the truth, as so often, is somewhat more prosaic.’ He smiles indulgently at De Vries. ‘Let’s proceed chronologically, shall we? Lieutenant Sam Nkosi . . .’

‘. . . Doesn’t exist.’

Basson looks up at De Vries.

‘He exists in so far as he is almost certainly your killer. But, I agree, he does not exist as such, at least until August 2014, when he was suddenly born. Up until then, he was a man called Sergeant Daza Xolani, a Zulu name which, ironically, translates as “bringer of peace”.

‘As you are aware, in August 2012 there was some trouble with workers striking at the Lonmin mine in Marikana. You can interpret the snippets of the official enquiry’s findings how you wish but, simply, a vital international company required assistance in breaking that strike. Our government complied, certain members of the SAPS mishandled the situation and thirty-four workers died. Many of the policemen involved have been questioned, some even indicted, but Sergeant Daza Xolani walked away from the massacre despite being, I am reliably informed, a man with blood on his hands. When it was decided that action should be taken on the Holt matter, Xolani was promoted to Lieutenant, re-born as Sam Nkosi, transferred to Central Division, Cape Town, and began his work to terminate the threat.’

‘Who in Central would have known about this?’

‘That, I cannot tell you now. Those in power who use the SAPS as a method of state control . . .’ He smiles. ‘Not an original idea, of course – they develop networks of ambitious like-minded individuals, through coercion, bribery or political idealism, throughout the service. Unravelling that will prove impossible. It is, as the British media always like to describe racism in their police service, “endemic”.’

‘What about this man in Pretoria I keep hearing about: Major Mabena?’

‘Mabena is a liaison between the administrators of the SAPS and the Police Ministry. I would caution you about how far you might take this. Nkosi – or Xolani – is one thing; he is disposable. But if you overreach yourself, Colonel, it will be you in the crosshairs.’

‘I’m already there.’