The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  The passenger tugged against his bonds. Daniel, half inside the Sprinter cabin, jerked the injured arm and the man screamed in agony. He found another cable tie that had dropped between the two men, and fastened the last arm.

  He rifled through the men’s pockets, found two cell phones and shoved them into his back pockets.

  He went to pick up the pistol that was lying in the road, then ran across the tram tracks, taking out his cell phone. He phoned Lonnie. ‘Come on, Lonnie, run.’ He shoved the cell phone back into his pocket, took out the pliers.

  At the fence. He began cutting, from the top down. He heard Lonnie’s hurried footsteps.

  ‘Thobela!’ Lonnie was panic-stricken.

  ‘Here.’ He snipped, snipped, pushed the wire aside, wormed through the hedge. Lonnie was standing there, suitcase in hand, fear written on his face. ‘Come on!’

  Lonnie obeyed. Daniel helped him through the foliage, and through the gap in the wire fence. Lonnie looked at his hands and arms in horror. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘It’s not my blood. Come, Lonnie.’

  They began to run towards the Peugeot that was parked around the corner. In passing Lonnie spotted the pair inside the Sprinter. He looked the other way.

  They drove away. Daniel unrolled the cloth from his head, looked in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Lonnie, do you have a British visa?’ He had to raise his voice above the rattle of the Peugeot.

  Lonnie was still catching his breath. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘They will be watching Méringnac airport. And Bordeaux train station. You’ll have to fly from Bergerac. It’s a small airport. Most of the flights are to Southampton, Stansted or Amsterdam.’

  Lonnie thought. ‘Amsterdam,’ he said. And then: ‘Thank you, Tiny.’

  ‘Those are their pistols,’ he said, and pointed in the direction of the firearms. Lonnie had seen him put them in the toolbox. ‘They were going to shoot you.’

  Lonnie’s eyes widened. ‘I told you they wanted to get me.’

  ‘And they’re not afraid to cause an international incident.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is this just about the nuclear-reactor money, Lonnie?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘You have to understand, there are major forces at work. The rise of China, America on the wane. And in the middle there’s a vacuum waiting to be filled. It’s a new world coming. And Putin . . . You can say what you like about him, but he’s smart. Cunning. He’s playing the long game, positioning himself and his country. Do you know what he’s doing in Central Africa?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Congo, a whole bunch of countries . . . Their presidents don’t have democratic mandate, and Putin has given them two thousand five hundred highly trained forces to serve as personal bodyguards. To keep them in power. Why, do you think? Out of the goodness of his heart? No, Tiny, it’s about influence, about power, getting his hands on the minerals and the diamonds. China’s approach is different. China buys up countries’ debts and gains possession that way. Look at Venezuela, the most oil-rich country on the planet . . . But Putin is playing another game. Russia is the biggest kleptocracy in the history of the world. Their government is in a semi-official coalition with organised crime. What’s good for one is good for the other. Politically South Africa presents a foothold on the continent. A port of entry. For Putin’s ambitions to become a superpower again. For his New Russia. We’re still the jewel in the crown, the biggest, sweetest, juiciest fruit in Africa, even if things are going badly for us. He wants to own us before the Chinese can. He has our president in his pocket, the best leverage. He doesn’t want to lose that. He would do anything. And then there’s the Mafia that comes with the nuclear contract . . .’

  They drove in silence over the Garonne at the pont d’Aquitaine, then south on the N230.

  ‘Why did you laugh when I thought you were bleeding?’ Lonnie asked.

  Daniel laughed again. ‘They showed Predator, just a couple of weeks ago,’ he said. He could see Lonnie didn’t understand. ‘Predator. The Schwarzenegger film where he has to kill the alien in the jungle.’

  ‘Oh. Yes . . .’

  ‘There’s a scene with the one soldier who is with Schwarzenegger at the beginning – he’s big and strong, you think he’s invincible. They have this skirmish with rebels, and the tough soldier is wounded. His comrade says to him: “You’re bleeding.” And he answers: “I ain’t got time to bleed.” I was laughing at myself, because I felt like saying: “I ain’t got time to bleed.” Like a Hollywood-soldier cliché. It made me laugh because . . . It’s the euphoria after adrenalin – it makes you think you’re invincible. But I’m not.’

  Lonnie didn’t laugh. He just stared ahead.

  Eventually the Meerkat said: ‘Here’s one chicken you saved.’

  Chapter 36

  In the long hours in Au Bistrot, Lonnie had kept trying to persuade him to act as an assassin for hire, and he had kept refusing. Lonnie, the former lawyer at work, had many counter-arguments and pleas.

  Daniel had reached his wit’s end. So he said he wanted to tell Lonnie about the chickens.

  This made Lonnie frown, as they were discussing very serious matters.

  Daniel told him anyway, about the first job he had found in France. It was on a giant poultry farm in Bretagne, near picturesque Morlaix. He was paid a pittance, since he was there illegally, still on his South African passport. His responsibility was to rescue the last of the chicks. It was the least popular job on the farm, hence it was given to him. The conveyor-belt came from the brood boxes. Other hands took the thousands of chicks off as they hatched, for sorting and transfer.

  He was at the end of the line, where the last of the chicks – the weakest – struggled out of the shells, the conveyor-belt thick with the yolk of unviable eggs, congealed like glue. The frail chicks stuck fast in it.

  When the belt began to move, he could keep up, as only a few chicks reached his station. But as the pace picked up, the numbers increased, with more and more of the struggling little birds for him to pick out of the mess and put aside.

  He worked as fast as he could. The little chicks, so feeble and fragile and pretty . . . There inevitably came a time when he simply wasn’t fast enough. Then he had to choose which chicks would live and which would die. Those that went past him, went down to the rolling mill, were crushed for bone meal, fertiliser and pet food. It gnawed at him, that job. Horribly.

  It reminded him of his last year in South Africa, Daniel said. His voice became hoarse, because he didn’t want to remember it. He sat and looked at the yellow-white sandstone wall, his eyes running over the joins of the large cut stones, but his mind was back in the Eastern Cape. That was the time after he lost his stepson, he said. Pakamile, eight years old, shot by that scum during an armed robbery at a filling station in Cathcart. His second great loss. Miriam, the love of his life, dead two years before. And he’d gone crazy back then. He’d wanted to save all the children. He’d wanted to protect them. He’d wanted revenge. He hunted people down and killed them, people who raped, abused and harmed children. He’d wanted to save them all.

  Lonnie laid a hand on his arm. ‘I know.’

  That was when Daniel had realised his eyes were wet. He pulled himself together. The chicks, he said, had taught him this: You can’t save everyone. No matter how hard you try and how pure your motives are, you can’t save everyone.

  He’d lost the desire to be prosecutor, judge and, most of all, executioner. He didn’t want to be the one trying to save everyone. They would have to get someone else to take out the president.

  Chapter 37

  It was just a hundred and twenty kilometres from Bordeaux to Bergerac’s small airport, but in the rattletrap Peugeot on the narrow back roads that Daniel chose it was a two-hour trip.

  Near Castillon-la-Bataille Lonnie was on his phone searching for a flight.

  Daniel asked the question that had been haunting him: ‘How did
they find you at the Novotel? Your cell phone?’

  ‘No. I made a mistake, Tiny. Novotel wouldn’t take cash. And I couldn’t remember which credit card . . . When I booked in I was in too much of a hurry. I didn’t want to seem like a . . . refugee. It was a long day, I may have had one glass too many of François’s wine. I might have used the same card for the flight from Dublin to Bordeaux. That’s all I can think of. I’m so sorry . . .’

  Lonnie. Not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. But he said nothing.

  ‘The first flight to Amsterdam is at nine twenty-five,’ said Lonnie.

  ‘What time is it now?’ The Peugeot’s flickering digital clock had stopped working ages ago.

  ‘Just past four.’

  ‘They know which identity you’re travelling on?’

  ‘I have four passports. They know about three now. I’ll have to use the last one.’

  ‘How did you get all those passports?’ But he already knew. Lonnie had been a deputy director general at the Secret Service, and he had held a senior position with the new State Security Agency, the SSA, before the president had stabbed him in the back. ‘You took precautions?’

  ‘We all took precautions. We could see what was on the horizon.’

  ‘I take it you have other credit cards?’

  ‘Yes. And I know now which one I haven’t used yet. I won’t make the same mistake again.’

  ‘Lonnie, the money in the rucksack. Where does it come from?’

  Lonnie grinned in the dark. ‘We stole twenty-five million back. The director general of the SSA and his cronies had so many slush funds, had embezzled so much money and hidden it in so many ways that nobody could keep track. The writing was already on the wall and we channelled it out only just in time.’

  ‘I’m going to send the money back to you. Just tell me how.’

  ‘Later,’ said Lonnie, and waved a hand as if to say it wasn’t important. ‘I take it you haven’t read the letter in the rucksack yet?’

  ‘No.’

  Lonnie nodded.

  ‘Are you going home from Amsterdam?’ Daniel asked.

  He nodded. ‘We have a safe house in McGregor. I’ll go and wait there . . .’ then he looked at Daniel, and added, in a hopeful voice ‘ . . . until you’re finished.’

  He sighed. Lonnie never gave up. ‘Lonnie, I’m not going to do it.’

  ‘You’re . . . I’m sorry I dragged you in tonight. And I’m extremely grateful that you saved me. Tiny, I know you feel I’ve used you, but you’re in it now. You’re part of it.’

  Daniel laughed quietly. ‘Nice try, Lonnie.’

  ‘You are. Think about it. You’re one of us.’

  ‘No. I was in it to get you out of the hotel because you’re my friend. They don’t know who I am. I’m carrying on with my life, Lonnie. I’ve worked hard to build it.’ He felt weary, not wanting to argue over this now – the afternoon and evening in Au Bistrot had been draining enough.

  Lonnie sighed deeply. He tapped on his phone, looked carefully through his credit cards. He picked one, booked his flight.

  They drank coffee and ate day-old croissants at a filling station near Bergerac, the conversation uneasy, chit-chat over the wellbeing of old comrades. The sun rose, put colour back into the landscape, a neat patchwork of grain, fruit and vegetables.

  Just before six Daniel dropped Lonnie May and his suitcase at the small airport.

  Lonnie embraced him outside, beside the panel van, with barely contained desperation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lonnie,’ he said.

  ‘I am, too. But it’s your right. We make our choices, and we have to live with the consequences.’

  Lonnie let him go. He looked at Daniel with the eyes of a kicked dog. Eyes that said Daniel would never see him again: he was a marked man.

  ‘Send me an SMS when you’re home. From a safe phone.’

  ‘Can I just say one thing, Umzingeli?’

  Daniel knew that Lonnie’s use of his old code name was his friend’s last plea.

  ‘I understand about the chicks you couldn’t save,’ Lonnie said. ‘It’s true. It’s impossible to save them all. Even trying seems like a lost cause from the start. But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten: all those thousands of chickens you have saved. What about them? Don’t they matter? Weren’t they worth all the effort?’

  Lonnie turned and began walking to the airport entrance, his shoulders squared as if steeling himself to face what lay ahead, a man alone.

  He drove back to Bordeaux with the sun behind him, all the fierce battle chemistry spent, tired to the very marrow of his bones. The previous day and night were fragments in his mind, fractured images and experiences, emotions and conversations that came and went, swirled and lingered. And a discontent, an unease, a dissatisfaction that he struggled to formulate and get a grip on.

  They had sent Lonnie. The conspirators, the so-called MK43. The best they could do was to send Lonnie May. White Lonnie, the Meerkat.

  You’re in it now. As if what he’d inflicted, the hammer blow of concussion and the shattered elbow had irrevocably bound him to the group and their plot. It was a cheap trick, an insult, manipulation. He was worth more than that. But that was what you got when you sent Lonnie May.

  What was it about the gods, Fate? First Madame Lecompte in the night, and now this. Only two weeks apart. Hadn’t he paid a heavy enough price for this life, here and now? Didn’t he deserve this peace after everything? After Miriam and Pakamile and all the death, destruction, betrayal and chaos?

  Frustrated, uneasy, discontented because Lonnie had come and unleashed it all. The memories. Of more than thirty years ago. When he’d run away to join the Struggle, only seventeen years old. Swaziland and Mozambique, Angola and Tanzania. His youth, his adult life, his best years sacrificed.

  Memories of Saraktash, memories of Moscow and East Berlin and the Wall. Of the war years, victims in his sniper’s scope in Munich and Barcelona, Hamburg and Maastricht. He had pulled the trigger with deep ideological conviction, barely aware of the slow harm he was doing to himself. In service of MK, deployed in Europe; a lease agreement with the KGB and Stasi, their comrades-in-arms. An exercise in public relations, his code name Umzingeli, the Hunter. Lord, he’d loved it so much back then. What a boost to a young man’s ego.

  But now that world order was almost forgotten. Today’s children considered it ancient history, were unable to comprehend, to understand it.

  All the sacrifices he’d made. And so little to show for it.

  Above all the memories of Miriam and Pakamile were let loose, so that the physical pain blossomed again deep inside, revived after nearly a decade of the daily struggle to dull it a little.

  All those thousands of chickens you have saved. What about them? Don’t they matter? Weren’t they worth all the effort?

  No, Lonnie, he thought, they don’t count. Because they’re sentenced to be battery hens or go to the abattoir regardless. Ultimately he’d made no difference. It was the story of his life. He’d fought for democracy, and gained a kleptocracy. He’d fought for justice for children, and he’d had to flee his motherland, branded a vigilante, a murderer. He’d saved Lonnie from his hotel, but he couldn’t protect him any further. It wasn’t his conspiracy; it wasn’t his doing. He could save the Lonnie chicken tonight, but the roller mill would just keep on grinding.

  Not again. Never again. This wasn’t his fight, not any more. He wanted to live in peace. Make beautiful things. Forget.

  Daniel Darret drove back to the hotel at the lake. There were no police barriers or a crime scene. There was no sign of the fight with the Russians. Just the gap in the fence, undiscovered.

  He considered the irony. Thirty years ago the Russians had been his brothers-in-arms.

  He was vigilant, keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror, eventually parking the Peugeot two blocks from his flat. He saw nothing suspicious.

  Wackett was standing at the front door, her deep miaow plaintive and resentful. She
rubbed herself up against the frame and begged for food, as if she’d last been fed a week ago. He put out food, which she ate, but she kept casting him dirty looks.

  He took a long shower, scrubbing off the blood, sweat and memories with soap.

  The rucksack of cash was still in his sitting room. And the letter.

  He left it there. He would deal with it later.

  He walked to La Boulangerie in the rue des Faures. Pretty Marla was at the counter. She greeted him with her big smile, saying, while she packed his usual order into the brown-paper bag: ‘Daniel! Tu as du retard ce matin.’ You’re late this morning.

  ‘Oui, oui, un peu,’ he said. Just a little. He breathed in the aromas of baking, and bought his fresh croissants and his favourite chocolatines, and when he walked to the Peugeot, he thought, yes, this was where he wanted to be. At the place where they knew him, the humble labourer, and what his order would be. The usual. Where they greeted him by his French name, with a smile.

  He would do nothing to place that in jeopardy.

  Chapter 38

  In the cellar of Au Bistrot, dinner over, Lonnie, cheeks rosy with contentment, had held a glass of François’s red wine from Burgundy.

  ‘How did you find me, Lonnie?’ Daniel asked.

  Lonnie smiled. ‘We’re not stupid.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘First rule of intelligence. Follow the money . . .’

  Daniel had always known that was the one way they could trace him. If they really wanted to.

  ‘I found you,’ Lonnie said, with a measure of pride. ‘The money for your farm.’

  The farm on the banks of the Cata River in the Eastern Cape. Cata meant ‘add a bit’, because the river was the confluence of a hundred little streams that added to the river one by one. He’d bought the place two years before Pakamile’s death. It was dilapidated, run down, but they had fixed it up in the same way the river had been formed, little by little.