by Deon Meyer
He hurried to the small bathroom. The shirt was lying on top of the pile they had tipped out. The man with the predatory face, the one whose arm he had shot up, would remember it, the colour, design and the bloodstains.
Daniel swore.
They knew it was him. And they knew where he lived.
He jogged back to the front door that he had secured as best he could. He’d buy a bolt tomorrow morning. Two – one outside, one inside. Not that that would stop anyone who was prepared to break in and not care about causing a ruckus. But something. Before he left for Paris.
He’d have to sleep in a hotel in Bordeaux tonight. Because they would come back. Pack a bag now, find a hotel, take the train tomorrow. Early.
Hurry.
With renewed urgency he crossed the sitting room to the kitchen to put away the tools. He thought of what else he should take with him. The rucksack, the money . . . He’d have to leave the pistols as they had a scanner at the station.
He packed away the tools and took out the broom to sweep up the sugar, flour and oatmeal. Then something struck him, and with it a wave of panic. He dropped the broom, went instinctively back to the sitting room, looked through the mess they had left behind.
The bowl. The little green clay bowl he kept on the mantelpiece was empty.
Élodie Lecompte’s letter had been in it. With her address. He tried to suppress the panic, picked up cushions and chairs, looked under the couch. It was nowhere to be found.
That was when he ran.
First to the cours Victor-Hugo, then east. The pistol chafed his back. He was desperate – it was Saturday night, there had to be a taxi.
He spotted one approaching from the wrong direction. He had to get across the dual carriageway, through dense traffic. The cars hooted. He was just in time to attract the driver’s attention. He gave him Élodie Lecompte’s address, said, ‘Très vite, très vite, s’il vous plaît,’ his voice so urgent that the man made a U-turn with screeching tyres, then zigzagged at high speed across the lanes of the broad street to loud protests from other drivers.
It felt so slow, like an eternity, as the worry ate away at him. And the self-reproach – he should have thrown the letter away the moment he’d spotted Lonnie. By then he’d known it spelled trouble.
The taxi dropped Daniel in the cours Georges Clemenceau, the nearest point to her appartement that allowed vehicle traffic. He gave the driver fifty euros. ‘Keep the change, thanks.’ He ran the last two blocks, his biker boots clattering on the cobblestones.
He turned the corner of rue Montesquieu, saw the ambulance and the police vehicles, the crowd of onlookers, and knew he was too late.
He pushed through the curious to the front. There was a cordon; he tried to pass but a policeman stopped him. ‘What’s happened?’
The officer didn’t answer.
‘A break-in,’ said a woman behind him.
‘Burglary,’ said a man beside her. ‘Most likely jewellery thieves. Rich people live here.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’ Daniel asked, still addressing the policeman, who looked up at him now, alert to the urgency in his voice.
And then the ambulance stretcher came out of the front door of Élodie Lecompte’s apartment building, and despite the oxygen mask and the paramedics crowding around her, he could see it was her. He could see the blood that had run from her hair across her temple, nearly dry now. He could see her hand dangling from under the blanket, the blackening blood on it.
He cried out to the heavens in Xhosa, feeling a fierce surge of rage at the president, the man he was going to kill. Now, for the first time, the desire was there, clear, overwhelming and final.
He became aware of eyes on him, an instinctive sensation, and looking up he saw Predator Face, the one with the injured arm, facing him on the other side of the barriers. The man was staring at him, his eyes boring into him, seeing his anxiety, his urgency, doubt slowly changing into recognition. Beside him was a massive bear of a man, the one Mamadou Ali had described, his left ear deformed by thick scar tissue, as if a piece had been bitten out of it.
Predator nudged Big Man, pointed a finger at Daniel. Shouted to the left. Another two standing there, lean and wary. Pointed his finger again, shouted to the right. There were more of them.
They moved towards him, at least six men.
Daniel turned, crashing against the woman who’d spoken about the break-in. She protested. The policeman called a warning to him. He shoved through the people. They were aware of him now, and stepped back, opening a path for him to race through. He didn’t look back, dodged east, towards the old city. It was his best chance, the maze there. The narrow streets. He knew it well – he would have to lose them there, use his advantage, as they had still to get through the crowd.
In the silence of the impasse Fauré he stood in the hollow of a doorway at a kink in the long alley, took out the pistol. He was breathing hard and his lungs burned from running for a quarter of an hour, back and forth through the streets. He couldn’t keep up this tempo much longer.
They would be bunched together in this narrow place. He would wait for their footsteps, step out of the shadow and fire. He tried to control his breathing to hear better. Sirens were sounding somewhere. He would be caught on the cameras now, the big black man running away from the scene of the crime.
He didn’t hear any footsteps. He stood for one, two, three minutes.
Nothing.
Deep breath.
He couldn’t go home. They knew where he lived.
He had to get to Paris. They would be watching the station now, and the airport. The motorbike was registered in the name of Daniel Darret. They were sure to establish that sooner or later, within the next twenty-four hours. They would be able to hack into French databases and traffic cameras. He had to think carefully.
He took stock. He had his wallet in his pocket. His driver’s licence and ID card. The rucksack with the money was on the motorbike. His helmet was there, but his jacket was at home. A hotel in Bordeaux was no longer a good idea. He had to get out of the city. In a direction that would not betray his plans.
He stayed there for another five minutes, until he was absolutely certain he had shaken them off. Then he walked to the river to toss the cell phone into the water at the quai Richelieu, as they would find that number on the database as well. It was in his name. And if they had it they would be able to track him down.
Chapter 44
In the restaurant that night Lonnie May had asked him: ‘Why Bordeaux?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s . . . Why didn’t you settle in Paris? I mean it’s . . . Paris. Big. Busy. Beautiful. And the women, ooh, là là! Or at least the sunshine and blue sea of Nice? Or Provence, lavender fields and sunflowers and old farmhouses . . . That lifestyle. I wouldn’t mind disappearing there.’
Daniel said it was something he found hard to explain.
‘Oh, come on. Humour me.’
Daniel put his fist over his heart: ‘It’s here.’
Lonnie raised his eyebrows sceptically.
Daniel said Paris was like a lover. She was beautiful and exotic, exciting and wild. She delighted and tempted you, and in the moments of ecstasy you wanted to possess her with all your heart. But she was not to be owned. Unless you were native-born, her child. He’d lived there decades ago when he was on loan to the Stasi and KGB, young and fearless. Back then he could do the flirtatious dance with her. But when he’d returned, ten years ago, he’d tried it again, sought to reignite the old spark of passion. It was different. No, he was different, and what he wanted was different. So he’d moved on, riding his motorbike, without a plan, from place to place. Eventually he arrived in Bordeaux. His first visit. He had no expectations or premonitions. Late in the afternoon he’d found a room in a chain hotel on the rue Martignac, unpacked and wandered through the oldest part of the city looking for a place to eat. At the place Saint-Pierre, at a little table under the gaily lit branches of a gia
nt tree in front of the old church, he had fallen in love. Inexplicable, unexpected, as true love should be. ‘I found the bride,’ he told Lonnie with a smile, ‘who could love me in return, despite my origins.’
Lonnie laughed. ‘Never took you for a romantic.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘No, I’m an old pragmatist. You’re underestimating the charm of this city. There are a lot of incomers here. In Chartrons there are a lot of British expats.’ And then: ‘Bordeaux has a thing for strangers. Have you heard the Stahlschmidt story?’
‘No,’ said Lonnie.
Daniel proceeded to tell him the true story of the young German marine. Heinz Stahlschmidt was trained at the start of the Second World War to defuse British underwater mines – a dangerous job: in the first two years all three of the ships he worked on had sunk. He survived each time. In 1941 they posted him to Bordeaux, to do on-shore duty. Perhaps they felt he deserved a less dangerous job, or perhaps it was just the notorious superstition of sailors – by now it was clear that Stahlschmidt didn’t have luck on his side. He lived in Bordeaux for three years, walked the streets, breathed the air. Bordeaux won his heart too. When the Nazis had to retreat in August 1944 – it might have been on just such a hot, humid night as this – his superiors ordered Stahlschmidt to blow up the docks. In the war years the harbour stretched seven kilometres downriver, in the city. The explosions would have caused the death of thousands of residents and largely destroyed his beloved Bordeaux – all those beautiful old buildings, the streets and alleys, the little squares, the warm heart of the historic city. Stahlschmidt couldn’t do it: his love for Bordeaux was too great. He blew up the German explosives magazine. They said it shook the entire city – you could see the flames and smoke from tens of kilometres away.
‘He lived here after the war. Married a Frenchwoman, and even changed his name. To Henri Salmide. He died here in 2010. That’s what this city can do to you,’ Daniel Darret said.
The Meerkat was silent for a moment.
Chapter 45
He rode the motorbike to Arcachon on the Atlantic coast. He didn’t have his jacket, and the night air was initially just cold enough to be uncomfortable, in spite of the BMW’s windshield. First he took the eternally busy E5, the main route to Spain, and kept religiously to the speed limit, then the quieter A660, where he was finally sure that no one was following him.
He thought about Élodie Lecompte. They would have rung her bell and said something about him, a shot in the dark. Maybe: ‘We have news from Daniel Darret, urgent news.’ She would have opened the door.
He didn’t want to know what they’d done to her, but he was certain it was Predator and Bear: he could tell from their body language, in those seconds when they’d stood across from him, on opposite sides of the defenceless, gentle, shy woman on the stretcher.
He would get them. When this was all done with, he would get them.
He knew where to find Henry and Sandrine Lefèvre’s Arcachon holiday home on the avenue Sainte-Marie, as he had had to go there twice to do small paint-and-repair jobs for Madame. And he knew the code for the house alarm. It was the same as the shop; le génie preferred that Madame kept things simple.
The street was luxuriant with trees and it was quiet, most of the inhabitants having left for the city after the holidays. He opened the gate, drove in, parked the motorbike at the back, away from the street. It might be weeks before anyone noticed it. Or the little window in the back door that he would have to break to get in because he was hungry, tired, grimy and cold. The breeze off the Atlantic had been cutting these last few kilometres.
He closed the gate, took the rucksack, broke the window, went in. He tapped the alarm code in, but didn’t switch on the lights. If the neighbours were at home, they would know the Lefèvres had gone back to Bordeaux today.
He waited until his eyes adjusted to the gloom of the kitchen, found galettes de maïs and a jar of confit de canard in the food cupboard, made coffee, ate. He washed up the dishes carefully before he went to shower. He felt too much of an intruder to sleep on one of the beds and made himself at home on the couch.
He was weary, but he knew sleep wouldn’t come quickly: his thoughts were on Élodie Lecompte. How serious were her injuries? How much damage had they done to her? The woman who’d held his hand while he cried over Lonnie’s death.
There had been a time, long ago, when he hadn’t concerned himself with collateral damage. When he was a warrior, a driven, focused hunter. He could justify it as the price that the world had to pay to balance the scales of justice. The goal sanctified everything. That certainty evaded him now, that ideology, the easy differentiation of right from wrong, black from white. In his anger he wanted to place the damage to Élodie Lecompte on the president’s account, and on the Russians, but it wasn’t that simple. He had played a part in it. He’d helped to topple the first domino when he’d met Lonnie at the cathedral. He’d known Lonnie would bring trouble, with his tails and secret meetings.
He would have to accept responsibility. He would limit further damage to others. He would just have to. Whatever the cost.
The damage to himself he would accept, as before. The loss. Once again. Of a life. A future. A home. The loss of Bordeaux.
He would like to tell Mandla Masondo that this city was where he had regained his isithunzi. And now he was about to lose both.
He thought about the cat. Wackett would have to take care of herself. The animal had been a stray before she had made herself at home in his flat. She would quickly charm children next door for food. Or insinuate herself with someone else. Wackett would survive.
He thought about the task ahead. He’d been gasping for breath in the impasse Fauré. Just fifteen minutes of running and he was knackered. It was the adrenalin, the tension. How was he going to do this? At fifty-five? He was too old to be a hired executioner.
On the brink of sleep, around two in the morning, he wondered who would meet him in Paris. An old comrade? Which one? Who could risk going to Paris if MK43 were being watched, if they knew about Lonnie, and now about him?
Just before nine he awoke with a start. The sun was making long, striped patterns through the shutters. He sat up, listening, heard only the birds singing outside, surprised that he’d slept past daybreak. Exhaustion. The best remedy for insomnia.
Then, as if the revelation came to him in his sleep: the painting of him in Élodie Lecompte’s home. Photorealistic. If they’d seen enough of him outside her apartment to make the connection, they would go back and take a photo. So that everyone hunting him would know what he looked like.
That spurred him on, drove him to get washed and dressed. He patched the broken window in the back door, put the alarm on again, took the rucksack and set off on foot. At the gate he was cautious, making sure there was no traffic, and then he walked east, towards the town centre. He only began to unwind as the street began to get busy. He ate breakfast in a café to still his gnawing hunger, while he read the Sud-Ouest newspaper. There was a short article on Élodie Lecompte on page two. They called her ‘the local artist’. She was admitted to hospital with serious injuries, but her condition was stable. The police suspected it was a burglary gone wrong when she’d fought back. No suspects had been identified yet.
Serious injuries. Her condition was stable.
What sort of people caused serious injury to a defenceless woman?
But she was alive, he was thankful for that.
He went shopping on the cours Lamarque de Plaisance. He bought clothes, durable items: a quality pair of grey trousers, two blue shirts with collars, a smart navy jacket, black shoes, socks, underwear. Then a pair of jeans, two T-shirts, two polo shirts, in dark colours. And two baseball caps, one red, one blue.
He bought a travelling toilet bag, razor and shaving cream, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant.
A suitcase of good quality that everything would fit into, including the rucksack with money and firearms. In the toilets of Hôtel La Perla he packed
the items into the case, put on the jacket and walked out.
It took him twenty minutes to walk to the small harbour. There were nearly fifteen hundred yachts, pleasure- and fishing-boats moored to the quays in orderly rows. Rich people’s toys bobbing in the hot summer sun. Dotted about, signs offered boat rides in the bay and to Cap Ferret. That wasn’t what he was interested in.
He found what he was looking for at the loading area east of the harbour, past the workshops and boat dealers: the older, more weathered boats at the cheap mooring spots. He saw two men hunched over an outboard engine at the second quay. He went over to ask if they knew of anyone who could take him up the coast.
They looked him up and down, cigarettes in their mouths, hands smeared with oil. Father and son, perhaps.
‘How far up the coast?’ asked the father, and put a screwdriver down.
‘Gijón?’ He deliberately gave a destination in the opposite direction.
They looked sceptical.
‘San Sebastián?’
‘Why don’t you drive by car?’
‘Or take the train?’ asked the son.
Daniel said, ‘Merci,’ and turned away.
‘Wait,’ called the father.
He looked back at them.
‘Try Olivier.’ The man pointed a dirty finger. ‘Quai Cinq.’ The fifth quay. ‘His boat’s called L’Ange Fou.’
He thanked them and left, the wheels of his case click-clacking over the concrete joins of the quay. He knew they were staring after him. They would remember him, but he doubted if anyone would ask.
L’Ange Fou was the furthermost boat on Quay Five, white fibreglass in need of a lick of paint, two seats on the deck, a torn canvas sunshade on the frame of dirty stainless steel. Not a boat that inspired great confidence.
Daniel stopped beside the boat and called: ‘Allô!’
He heard a cough from the cabin. Then silence. He called again.