The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  ‘And if you take the president out, the kompromat is useless.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘How do the Russians know about you?’

  ‘I’m coming to that.’

  He watched Lonnie eat. Oysters first. ‘Jeez, this is good.’

  Then the cul de poule. Lonnie wanted to know what that meant, when Daniel recommended it. ‘Literally the hen’s backside,’ he said.

  ‘Chicken arsehole?’ He laughed.

  ‘Cul de poule is actually a mixing bowl you use in the kitchen. But here it’s a play on words. It’s chicken salad. François just wants to make his customers smile.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Lonnie.

  When he tasted it: ‘Jeez, this is fantastic.’

  ‘You should come in the winter, when he makes pig’s cheeks.’

  A shadow crossed Lonnie’s face. ‘I wish I could.’

  He ate with the same gusto and focus as he had decades ago, when Daniel had met him over a pot of porridge in an Angolan training camp. And with the same hearty satisfaction.

  Chapter 33

  Lonnie in Angola. Busy, dedicated Lonnie. A lifetime ago. The MK training camp was the Wild West. An ants’ nest of activity, organised chaos, perpetual movement. Adrenalin, the constant sense of fear and urgency. And testosterone: a thousand young men living together in the African bush with meagre facilities. A sea of black faces, a hum of African languages. And then there was Lonnie. White and English-speaking, a lawyer from Parkhurst, Johannesburg, though not a very good one, rumour had it.

  They called him Ubu. After ububhibhi. The Meerkat.

  Just like a meerkat, Lonnie could never sit still. He was the cheerleader, the nurse, the are-you-getting-enough-to-eat-you’re-far-too-thin mother-hen figure, even though he himself was still only in his mid-thirties. Open, chatty, he talked to everyone. Darting about, he helped everywhere: in the kitchen, the sick bay, with the induction and processing of new recruits. Some of the few whites among them were real arse-lickers, over-obsequious, riddled with white middle-class guilt, but not Lonnie. He supported the Struggle with all his heart. He let it be known far and wide that he didn’t follow any religion or ism or ideology, he had only one goal, to which he was dedicated heart and soul: that everyone in his motherland should be equal. He wasn’t a leader. But he was a dedicated, enthusiastic and loyal follower.

  Lonnie was taken into the intelligence structure because he was clever and sober. And because he had no appetite for warfare. He served with distinction, although he was no star, by no means the brightest bulb in the chandelier. He was just Ubu, the busy one.

  Above all, you could trust Lonnie with your life.

  They talked in Au Bistrot’s cellar for more than nine hours, Lonnie as loquacious as ever.

  ‘Lonnie, you’re white. Why send you?’ Daniel asked. Lonnie had never been part of the elite cadre, the true inner circle.

  Lonnie was clearly expecting that question: he understood the implications because he knew the structures inside out, the way things were done, the long-standing traditions and the unwritten rules. ‘Because I was the only one who wasn’t closely watched.’ He took a sip of wine, looked Daniel in the eye and said: ‘You’ve no idea what things are like at home. Like Stalin, Tiny, without the killing. It’s death by a thousand lies, betrayal by a thousand spies. They know the only way to protect their kleptocracy is to buy and bribe more and more people. You can’t trust anyone. You have to be so careful. They suspect . . . they expect, they know, that some of us fought a different Struggle, and want a different kind of country. They know that some time or other we’re going to stop twiddling our thumbs. So they keep tabs on the dangerous ones. But I was never seen as a danger to anyone.’

  It was Lonnie’s honesty that touched him.

  Chapter 34

  Half past midnight. Daniel sat at the table, arms folded, head bowed, dog tired from the struggle – the effort of the sanding and the wrestling with the past. His cheap cell phone rang – the one that Madame Lefèvre had given him, the number that only she had, for the deliveries. And now Lonnie had it too. He’d given him the number in the restaurant, reluctantly. ‘I just want to phone you once, tomorrow or the day after,’ Lonnie had said. ‘Just one last time, Thobela. Just to hear if you won’t change your position.’

  His position.

  He’d said nothing and Lonnie had misinterpreted his silence. ‘I’ll phone you from a burner, Tiny. Untraceable. I don’t want to put the whole operation in jeopardy. Trust me. You know you can trust me.’

  He used this phone for Madame’s calls, nothing else. He had a second-hand tablet at home that he used to read news on the internet. He didn’t want to be reachable or traceable. Hence the reluctance.

  Now the phone was ringing, and it wasn’t Madame’s number. It was Lonnie, could only be him. He didn’t want to answer. But he did.

  ‘Lonnie.’

  ‘I’m in trouble, Tiny. They found me. They’re at every exit.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘The Novotel by the dam.’

  It took him a second to decipher the South African vernacular. ‘Bordeaux Lac?’ The hotel at the lake, opposite the gigantic Expo centre.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Six. I’m sorry, very sorry, but they’re sitting there waiting for me. They want to get me, Tiny.’

  He tried to picture the surroundings. He had made deliveries in the area, had walked beside the lake. The Novotel was one of a few hotels serving the big Expo centre. A good place to hide when some major show was on. But now, in August, perhaps not the smartest choice. It stood close to the lake with only a service road between the hotel and the water. He couldn’t remember exactly what it looked like. ‘Is the hotel on open ground?’

  ‘No.’ Lonnie’s bravado, all his verbosity, had evaporated. ‘There’s a big steel fence all around. Bushes beyond it.’

  ‘How many entrances?’

  ‘There’s a through road with an entrance, and a separate exit.’

  ‘Where is the entrance?’

  ‘On the side of the dam. West. The exit is north.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are the Russians?’

  ‘Two in a car facing the entrance, two at the exit, across the street, and two in the lobby.’

  ‘What side does your room face?’

  ‘Towards the dam.’

  He was quiet for so long that Lonnie asked, voice trembling: ‘Are you there?’

  ‘The back of the hotel borders on the tram tracks, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Yes, but the fence, Tiny, there are trees and a fence. I looked, I cased the joint, as a precaution. I didn’t expect them to find me. I stayed in the city the first four nights, every night at another place, then I came here because it’s . . . I thought . . .’ He ran out of excuses.

  Daniel wasn’t listening, trying to work out how the hell to get Lonnie out of there. ‘Lonnie, listen carefully. How much luggage do you have?’

  ‘Two cases. Sort of medium-large, and small.’

  ‘Can you leave the big one?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to have to get you out through the fence at the back.’

  ‘I’m not a young man any more, Tiny. I won’t be able to climb over it.’

  ‘Lonnie, just listen. Can you get to the fence without the team at Reception seeing you?’

  ‘I can go through the restaurant – there’s a door to the garden.’

  ‘Stay in your room. I’m on my way. Pack now. Just take the little case – and be quick. I’ll call you in fifteen.’ He disconnected, swore out loud, his voice echoing through the silent workshop.

  Six of them. Heavy manpower. In a foreign country, in the current international political climate. The Russians were clearly serious about stopping Lonnie. But there wouldn’t be just the six. They wouldn’t reveal their hand so obviously. He had to work out where the othe
rs were hiding.

  He had no weapons. He fetched a tablecloth from the shop, grabbed a few tools, shoved a bunch of cable ties into his pocket, then opened the back door of the workshop. He took the Peugeot, because that was all he had at his disposal – the J5 panel van, twenty-five years old with at least three hundred thousand kilometres on the clock. The white had long since aged to a dirty yellow, Madame Lefèvre – Antiquités, Brocante still faintly legible on the sides.

  He followed the river, north along the quai des Chartrons, then east along rue Lucien Faure. The city was quiet. It worried him – he felt exposed, one of the very few vehicles moving on the police cameras. If there was trouble, if shots were fired, blood spilled, they would track him down. He rehearsed scenarios in his mind, possible outcomes, made plans, discarded them. He had to protect his identity. His very existence, his precious anonymity.

  Past Decathlon, past the big Bordeaux Lac shopping centre, over the E5 freeway, then left on the rue du Grand Barail, keeping an eye out for the hidden ones, the crew who hadn’t shown themselves to Lonnie. If they were professionals, they would be behind the hotel.

  They were. He spotted the Mercedes Sprinter twenty metres from the crossroads, just in front of the gate of the Hôtel le Provençal. Two men in front, the passenger window open, cigarette smoke drifting out.

  He drove past, glancing at Lonnie’s hotel to his left, beyond the tram tracks. The men in the Sprinter had a perfect view of the rear side, right where he wanted to bring Lonnie out. He would have to neutralise them. Without drawing attention.

  He searched for the CCTV cameras. All the hotels would have them, mostly at the entrances, but he didn’t see any from the city police. That helped.

  He drove around the block, came back. At the Hôtel Mercure he switched off the Peugeot’s lights. He parked in front of the Hippopotamus restaurant, the dancing hippo on the big advertising board blaring: Laissez vos envies de viande s’exprimer. Let your craving for meat express itself. He reached behind him, picked up the dark blue tablecloth and wound it around his face, like an Arab headscarf, so that only his eyes showed. He picked up the heavy claw hammer. Took a deep breath, phoned Lonnie.

  ‘Tiny! You said fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Are you ready, Lonnie?’

  ‘Yes. What must I do?’

  ‘Go down to the restaurant, and stand at the door. When I phone, run towards the fence. You’ll see me. But you have to wait until I call. Understand?’

  ‘How long is it going to take?’

  ‘Between five and ten minutes. If I haven’t phoned you in twenty minutes, phone the police and say you want an escort. Let them take you to safety.’

  ‘No!’ Lonnie’s voice was shrill, panicky. ‘Why would it—’

  ‘Lonnie,’ Daniel kept his voice calm and soothing, ‘there is another team of them, two in a panel van behind the hotel. I’m going to try to neutralise them, but anything could happen. I’m rusty, fifty-five years old. They’re young and professional.’

  ‘Jesus, Tiny . . .’

  ‘Go and wait at the door. And keep your fingers crossed.’

  Silence. Then: ‘Okay. See you now.’

  The Mercedes Sprinter was parked in the open. There was nowhere to hide, no room for any cunning tricks and no margin for error. These were the only possibilities: speed, surprise, overwhelming force. He got out, hammer in hand, scarf around his head, pliers and cable ties in one trouser pocket. He locked the Peugeot, put the key into his other pocket. Took a deep breath. The night was silent, the breeze off the lake cool, the streets deserted. Bordeaux was asleep.

  He stood still, thoughts racing through his mind.

  Violence begets violence, and there would be violence here now. Forces would be unleashed, dominoes would fall. Hammer in hand, but he felt naked. His shoulders lacked the comforting weight of the short stabbing assegai, the spear he had carried to war on his back in days gone by.

  This was the end of an era. It was the end of the life he’d built here, with so much trouble and pain and loneliness. He felt the loss like a physical agony. What are you doing, Daniel Darret? he thought. What are you doing?

  He felt the tingling.

  He took off, at full speed.

  Chapter 35

  He ran towards the back of the Sprinter, his trainers light on the tarmac. He prayed that the pair wouldn’t look in their rear- or side-view mirrors, that their gaze would be fixed on the hotel, that they would be bored, drowsy, inattentive.

  Adrenalin pumped, the distance narrowed.

  He had to reach the left-hand door, the driver, the one with the keys, the lights, the hooter, the one with less room to manoeuvre behind the steering wheel and, most likely, the senior member of the two-man team.

  He was at the Sprinter, running down the side. The window was closed. He raised the hammer, smashed the glass. The driver ducked instinctively and Daniel struck again, hard, fast, with the hammer head. The metal struck the man on the forehead, bone cracked, blood spurted. The man’s head dropped forward.

  His partner recovered from the shock, reached for his gun, tucked under his arm. Daniel saw the driver’s pistol lying on the dashboard, an MP-443 Grach with a silencer, beside a small two-way radio. They were planning to shoot Lonnie.

  He let go of the hammer, grabbed the firearm with his left hand, and hooked his right arm around the injured driver’s neck, dragging him closer. He held the man between him and his mate, pressed the safety catch off, and rammed the pistol barrel hard against the driver’s temple. ‘Polozhite pistolet,’ he said, in the little Russian he could remember. Put down your weapon.

  The passenger stared at him, took out his pistol, swung it round at Daniel. He was young, in his early twenties, with the face of a predator, but still stunned by the unexpected violence.

  Daniel jammed the Grach even harder against the driver’s head. ‘Polozhite!’ But his hand was shaking from adrenalin, and the dread that he could lose everything here, that he was past it, too old for this deadly game.

  The driver made a sharp, bewildered noise, his eyes blank.

  Number Two’s pistol had stopped moving, but as he sat there, the shock dissipated and his training started to kick in. He looked at Daniel’s hand; Daniel knew he would notice it trembling.

  Daniel swung the Grach a few millimetres and fired off a shot into the dashboard, just to the right of the passenger’s knee, a muffled bang. The man moved his hand between his legs, slowly to the floor, put the pistol down. He looked back at Daniel.

  Daniel let go of the driver’s neck, took a handful of cable ties out of his pocket. ‘Tie him to the steering wheel,’ he said in English. He tossed the ties onto the passenger’s lap, moved to get hold of the driver’s neck again.

  The passenger’s eyes measured him now, gears revolving, risks weighed.

  ‘I hear the prospects for SVR agents with shot-up knees are not that great,’ said Daniel, and swung the Grach towards the man’s leg.

  There was no response to confirm that he worked for Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki, the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, but he picked up the cable ties and leaned over to grab his comrade’s right wrist. Slowly, calmly, he tied it to the steering wheel. The driver pulled his arm back. Daniel tightened his grip around the man’s neck, choking him. The reaction weakened. ‘Tighter.’

  The passenger pulled the cable tie tight, took the other hand and secured that too. He looked at Daniel. ‘Now, your right hand.’

  The passenger hesitated, looking in the direction of the hotel, to the radio on the dashboard, and back at him. There was intelligence behind the wary eyes. Daniel knew the man was asking himself: Why doesn’t he simply shoot us? That was what the SVR would have done. He would work it out – the attacker had a scarf around his head to hide his identity, so that he couldn’t be recognised in future. That meant he was reluctant to kill them. To avoid the scandal of an international incident, maybe, and the consequent intensive search for the gunman. The man would persuade hims
elf he stood a chance.

  ‘Fuck you,’ the passenger said.

  Then the radio crackled, a voice spoke in Russian, a query.

  Daniel pulled the trigger. The radio shattered in pieces with a clapping sound, the passenger jumped.

  ‘You have ten seconds to tie your right hand to the steering wheel or I will finish your career.’

  Later he would wonder if it was the ambition and ego of a young man. The fear of a blot on his record so early in his career?

  The passenger reached for his pistol.

  Daniel fired, shooting him in his right elbow, the nine-millimetre round wreaking havoc. Blood and bone splinters sprayed across the door. The man screamed in pain and shock. Daniel shoved the pistol into his belt, pulled open the door and heaved his upper body over the driver’s bound arms. He grabbed the passenger’s sound arm and took a cable tie from the man’s lap.

  The agent reached with his barely usable right hand for the pistol on the floor, bellowing from the effort.

  Daniel swore in Xhosa, instinctively. He dropped the healthy arm, grabbed the man’s right hand – he had to get the pistol.

  The driver’s face was against his; the man bit him through the material, in the neck. Daniel concentrated on the pistol, twisted it out of the passenger’s hand, hit the driver with his elbow. He threw the passenger’s pistol out of the Sprinter. It clattered onto the ground. He punched the man with all his strength, with his clenched fist, full in the face. He wrenched the sound arm closer, struggling to fix the cable tie around it. The man twisted and kicked. Daniel hit him again and again, as he tried to fend him off with his right forearm. The driver moaned. Daniel grasped the accomplice’s arm and pulled it to the steering wheel, keeping his elbow ready to strike again as he wrestled with the wrist and the cable tie, his hands slippery with his opponent’s blood. He pulled the cable tie tight, aware that the radio voice had been expecting an answer. He knew he didn’t have much time.