by Deon Meyer
‘Benny and I walked through the train this morning,’ said Cupido. ‘We think leaving the dining car, walking an old lady to her door and saying goodnight might have taken five minutes, max.’
‘So, Johnson says goodnight to Mrs Scherpenzeel, and now he’s walking to his own compartment, towards the front of the train,’ said Griessel. ‘This will take him past the doors of Faku and Green.’
‘Johnson made the call to Kagiso Dimba at seven minutes past nine.’
‘So we have twelve minutes in which something happened that connected Faku, Green and Johnson,’ Kaleni mused.
‘A connection,’ said Cupido, ‘that had two consequences.’
‘The first was something that made Johnson call Dimba, a man he had not spoken to in many months, a man he used to work with,’ said Griessel.
‘The second was that Green and Faku needed to kill Johnson Johnson,’ said Cupido.
‘We think they had to do it together, because Johnson was young and fit,’ said Griessel.
‘Our team contacted just about all the passengers on that train. Nobody heard anything like an argument or a scuffle. So, Johnson walked past the compartments of Faku and Green, and maybe stopped by to say a few words. Or he saw something. Or the two phantoms recognised him as a danger or some such.’
‘It took us just over four minutes to walk from Mrs Scherpenzeel’s compartment past Faku’s to where Johnson would have slept. But with other passengers in the passage, let’s stretch that to more than five minutes,’ said Griessel.
‘And,’ said Cupido, ‘let’s say we add another minute for Johnson to finally enter his own compartment, take out his phone, find the number and make the call, we still have about four minutes unaccounted for.’
‘Maybe Johnson just stood in the passage, looking out of the window,’ said Griessel
‘Or in his compartment, opening the window. Or taking a leak. But he didn’t take off his jacket. Or lock his door. Which makes us think maybe he called the moment he entered his compartment.’
‘So, he’s talking to Dimba,’ said Griessel. ‘The sliding door is very quiet, and he’s on the phone, and the train is making a noise on the tracks, so he doesn’t hear them . . .’
‘They must have followed him, or how else would they have known where his compartment was? Something must have happened, something to make them follow him. Something more than just saying a few words . . .’
‘And they come in, and stab him with brute force in the back of the head.’
‘Brute force. So something must have made them very angry,’ said Cupido, ‘to use an Okapi biltong knife in such a way. Or very desperate.’
‘We have this one little piece of evidence,’ said Griessel, ‘that ties Faku to the Okapi. Forensics found traces of coriander and red wine vinegar on the blade, and Faku’s hostess confirmed that he carved biltong in his compartment.’
‘If you take the fake IDs, their behaviour and the biltong, it’s likely they were the perpetrators.’
Chapter 31
‘Now, here’s another interesting thing,’ Griessel said, as he paged through his notebook. ‘We got hold of the train’s log book. It records when the train stopped, where it stopped, and for how long. At the time the murder was committed, the train was moving, about seventy kilometres south of Beaufort West. But then, at nine thirty-four, it stopped at Beaufort West station, until five minutes past four the next morning . . .’
‘So these two guys, the two phantoms, knew they had a dead body in a compartment and they were scheming how to get rid of it for six hours,’ said Cupido.
‘Because they knew an investigation would tie them to Johnson. Somehow. Or at least their false IDs would make them suspect. But the fact that they sat with that body for six hours and then decided to dump it out the window, along with the cell phone, and maybe take his laptop . . . It does say something.’
Kaleni had been listening attentively. Then she nodded, took out three plates and set places for them on the counter.
‘Johnson’s ex-wife says he did mention a few things about the Indian businessmen who are now suspected of corruption and state-capture activities,’ said Cupido. ‘That he witnessed some late-night shenanigans with politicians. Johnson was bodyguard to the minister of state security at the time, Mr Dumisa.’
Kaleni clicked her tongue. ‘He’s a Zulu, that one. He should be ashamed of himself.’ She put a tea-towel over the loaf, picked up a bread knife and began to slice it carefully and skilfully.
‘We know that the VIP Protection Unit tried very hard to find out where Johnson was. That tells us the call to Dimba was interrupted, probably by the murder,’ said Griessel. ‘Because I’m sure if he had the time, Johnson would have told Dimba exactly where he was. And if he had done so, someone would have been waiting at the Rovos station in Pretoria when the train arrived. They – and we think it was the VIP Protection Unit – went to fetch Johnson’s luggage at the station only after he was reported missing and IDed. They were in a big hurry to do that, so they must have been worried about something that would incriminate a politician. Or the unit. Or something like that. Maybe Johnson’s laptop, which disappeared from the train. Perhaps there were photos on it . . .’
‘. . . of the corruption shenanigans,’ said Cupido. ‘Photos or other evidence.’
‘Okay,’ said Kaleni. She put slices of fresh baked bread on a plate and pushed it towards them.
‘Johnson recognised either Faku or Green—’ Griessel said.
‘Or both of them,’ said Cupido.
‘—because he knew them from his days at the VIP Protection Unit. How do we know this? Because he called Dimba. Of all people. Which could mean that Faku and Green worked for the state, or maybe they worked for one of these anti-corruption organisations.’
‘And we were thinking,’ said Cupido, ‘the reason he called could have been because he saw the two old guys together. Maybe it was the combination of them that rang alarm bells.’
‘Strange bedfellows,’ said Kaleni.
‘Yes,’ said Griessel. ‘Maybe he recognised just one of them in the dining car, then saw them together and made some sort of connection. As I said earlier, the two phantoms didn’t know that Johnson would be on the train because they made their booking months before Johnson knew he was going to be Mrs Scherpenzeel’s bodyguard. It must have been coincidence, one way or another. Bad luck . . .’
‘Come, eat,’ she said, and sat down opposite them.
They thanked her.
‘Why did they have to kill him?’ said Griessel. ‘That’s the big question. It doesn’t make sense. They used false IDs, but they arrived at the station together, they dined together. They must have known someone might recognise them.’
‘Maybe,’ said Cupido, ‘they thought there would only be foreigners on the train. But that’s a little stupid, and I don’t think they’re stupid. If we look at the way they made the payment for the trip, the passport numbers . . . I don’t think they’re stupid.’
‘Something happened when Johnson went back to his compartment,’ said Griessel.
‘And only three people know what that was,’ Cupido added.
‘If we can’t question Dimba, we’ve got nothing,’ said Griessel.
‘If we can’t use this photo to identify Green, we’ve got nothing,’ said Cupido.
‘There are just too many maybes,’ said Griessel.
‘We really have nothing,’ Cupido admitted.
‘Yes,’ said Colonel Mbali Kaleni. ‘That’s true. But the bones must be thrown in three different places.’
They stared at her.
‘It’s an old Zulu proverb. “The bones must be thrown in three different places before you can accept the message.” It means you have to look at a question many times before you can come to a conclusion.’
‘We’re not allowed to look anywhere else,’ said Cupido.
‘Not now,’ said Kaleni, and spread fresh butter on the bread. It melted into the slices. ‘N
ot now. But we will wait. And we will keep looking . . .’
Part III
Chapter 32
August, Daniel Darret, Bordeaux
Night-time in the workshop. He’d stripped off his shirt, his chest shiny with perspiration as he sanded the table by hand, back and forth, back and forth. He didn’t smell the fine sawdust, didn’t see how it sifted and billowed, because he was preoccupied with Lonnie May and the conversation they’d had: it had lasted until ten o’clock that night.
Afterwards they’d climbed up the stairs of Au Bistrot, out of the atmosphere of tension, isolation and intensity, to find the restaurant upstairs cheery and bustling. It was like moving from one universe into another.
Before they left, Lonnie went over to compliment François on a magnificent dinner, saying he hoped he could come back some time. Outside, Lonnie embraced Daniel, shedding awkward tears, impatiently wiping them on his sleeve, as if they were shameful.
‘Why are you crying, Lonnie?’
‘I won’t see you again.’
‘Of course you will.’
‘They’ll get me, Tiny. Unless I can disappear here in Europe somewhere. And I can’t do that. I love that country too fucking much.’
He suspected Lonnie was trying to manipulate him. ‘The judiciary, the courts, Lonnie. It hasn’t all been captured . . .’
‘Our judiciary. Our courts. You’re still a South African. It’s the Russians, Tiny. You know them. They don’t play games. Not when they’ve got so much to lose.’
He didn’t know what to say.
Then Lonnie shoved the little rucksack into his hands. ‘Think about it. Think carefully. You’re the only hope we’ve got. You’re our last hope.’
And Lonnie had walked away, towards the basilica. La Flèche loomed over him dramatically, the tower like a scolding finger from Heaven.
Daniel stood, now alone. And thought about The African. His brother from a forgotten era. That spot Lonnie was passing now, where in the eighteenth century, in the name of progress and development, they had dug up the graveyard beside Bordeaux’s Saint-Michel church. And found the bodies, more than seventy of them, remarkably well preserved, after centuries under the ground, mummified due to a mysterious conspiracy of soil quality and climate. The naked dead were displayed for nearly two hundred years in the church basement, propped upright, shoulder to shoulder, as a macabre tourist attraction. They were given names and descriptions: ‘The family poisoned by mushrooms’; ‘Buried alive’; ‘The General, killed in a duel’.
And ‘The African’.
A solitary black man, buried there. Ten thousand slaves were sold in that harbour and carried away on ships, but only one black man from that era had been laid to rest there. When Daniel heard the story for the first time, he felt kinship, a deep brotherly bond.
He wondered what The African’s story was. He couldn’t have been a slave. Not if he’d been buried there. Did he also flee his motherland, evading the law? In the sixteenth century, the seventeenth? Nobody knew exactly when he’d died. Did he also walk these cobbled streets and sometimes experience the physical pain of longing for the plains, mountains and valleys of his homeland, the scents and colours, the sounds and voices?
Daniel stood watching Lonnie until he disappeared around the corner beside the church square. Was it this feeling of utter loneliness that brought The African to mind?
Lonnie had brought him more than just a commission for an assassination. But he had taken the rest away with him again.
Daniel went home. Frustration gnawed at him. And rage. At Lonnie, who had burdened him in this way, who had polluted this beloved place with stories of the degradation of the land of his birth. Who was forcing him to choose. He had done what he could for so many years. He’d fought for justice and right, given the greatest part of his life for the cause and for his country, and he’d got nothing in return. Only loss. Massive, heart-rending loss.
Let them sort out their own problems.
In his sitting room he paced up and down, the turmoil churning inside him.
He opened the rucksack: 250,000 euros. And a letter.
He didn’t read it.
He walked to Chartrons to sand his table because he knew he wouldn’t sleep that night.
Sanding. Up and down, back and forth. His conversation with Lonnie driving him on.
The details of betrayal. The way the president had systematically stabbed good, loyal, honest Struggle veterans, comrades, friends, brothers, all of them, in the back. Forced them out of important positions and appointed his lackeys. A premeditated bloodless coup with only one goal in mind – plunder. In collaboration with the three Indians. And to get away with it he had contaminated the National Prosecuting Authority, SAPS, the Revenue Service, the State Security Agency and enough members of his party with money, stolen money, and the promise of more. So that he could be protected, even against the test of democracy.
‘He stitched me up, Tiny. First he smeared me. He destroyed my reputation. Totally. And then he pushed me out. From sheer greed. Me, who gave my all for the Cause. And now I know you’ll think Lonnie is wounded, Lonnie wants to get his revenge. But that’s not true. I can get over it.’ Lonnie had told him of how the president and his cronies stole. Billions and billions. Thousands of billions. Stripped state enterprises. Laundered it all overseas. With the help of those who turned a blind eye or by bribing well-known respected international auditing firms, software providers, public-relations companies and banks. British, German and American businesses. Just as greedy. Money that should have gone to uplifting the oppressed, money to create jobs and establish community organisations, rebuild the economy. Money that would have brought relief to the poorest of the poor. Africa robbed once again, raped.
Lonnie was trying to manipulate him, he thought, and said: ‘The president’s term has only a year or so left to run, not so?’
Lonnie flushed and threw his hands into the air. ‘Do you think that will save us?’ His voice rose. ‘Do you really think when he leaves, everything will just return to normal? Do you think he hasn’t put things in place? Made plans? They will destabilise, start another civil war in KwaZulu. They’ll . . . They’re a cancer, Tiny. Cut it out here, it starts up somewhere else. A Hydra – you can never cut off all the snakes’ heads. They’re a machine with a thousand gears. It’s endemic, ineradicable. You can’t wage conventional war.’
Lonnie had prepared thoroughly for the conversation.
‘What good would it do to take him out?’ Daniel asked.
‘We make a powerful statement that in this country you won’t steal, you won’t cheat, you won’t stab your comrades in the back. That’s all we have. That’s the only thing that will scare them. Death. An example, Tiny. We will make an example of him. Our plans are in place. We’ll issue a press release saying he is the first. There will be more.’
‘Who are the ‘‘we’’?’
‘MK43,’ Lonnie whispered.
‘You are a group of forty-three Umkhonto veterans?’ he guessed, as the suggestion was obvious. Lonnie was part of the former military wing of the ANC, Umkhonto we Sizwe, the Spear of the Nation. Also known as MK.
Lonnie nodded.
‘That’s terrorism. Shooting the president is a terrorist act. High treason.’
Lonnie looked at him, disappointed, as if he ought to know better. ‘It’s a freedom fight, Tiny. It’s a continuation of the Struggle. He’s a tyrant, a kleptocratic tyrant. We’re not free. Not until they’re stopped in their tracks.’
‘They? You want me to take others out too?’
‘No. Just him. We have other people we can use later.’
‘Why don’t you use some of these other people to take him out now?’
‘We considered it. We considered every angle. Everything. But the president and his clique . . . They’re not stupid. Plus they’re paranoid. They’re protecting him. They’ve built a shield, impenetrable, back home. You can’t get near him. But he’s coming to Paris in
just over a week’s time. The first of September.’
‘In a week? He’s coming in a week and you’re only making preparations now?’
‘We wanted . . . The initial date was in three weeks, but they brought it forward. And we . . . There were complications. On our side. Serious complications. In any case, when he’s here they can’t protect him as completely. There’s a protocol – they have to leave security to the French. So, that creates an opportunity. And you’re here. You know France, you know Paris, you speak the lingo, you . . . You were the best, the very best. They say at the time you were the best in the world.’
‘Flattery will get you nowhere, Lonnie. I’m not going to do it.’
‘Why are the Russians after you?’
Lonnie laughed without humour. ‘You know about the president’s . . .’ he searched for the right word ‘ . . . proclivities?’
Daniel had heard rumours about the man’s preference for young women. He just nodded.
‘They saw, the president and his Indian friends, how easy it was to steal some of the state enterprises. They hijacked Eskom, and Eskom’s coal supply, they milked the construction of the new power stations, but it was never enough. And it wasn’t an inexhaustible resource. So they hatched a plan. Build another nuclear power station. With over a trillion on the table, you could see them drooling. And the entire world was soliciting them for the contract – the Chinese, French, Russians. But Putin is no pumpkin. Two years ago, our president went to Moscow. Putin knew all about the old man’s proclivities, and he sent four snow-white gorgeous blondes to his hotel room in Moscow’s Ritz-Carlton. And the hidden cameras recorded it all. It’s not that he was caught with four white women, Thobela. It’s what he did to them. Shocking things. Sick. So I ask you, what will that do to his reputation? Who do you think will get the nuclear contract?’
‘Kompromat,’ said Daniel Darret. An old trick of the KGB.
‘Precisely. And Putin and his cronies are also going to benefit hugely from the deal. But the country can’t afford it, Tiny. It’ll be the last straw.’