The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Fuck-up,’ said Griessel.

  They walked back to the office. In the corridor they ran into Vusi Ndabeni. ‘Have you heard?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The colonel has been with the Camel since seven o’clock. Morning parade is cancelled.’

  Three months earlier Daniel Darret had read the article in the Sud-Ouest newspaper with a great deal of interest. It was about the British SAS sniper who shot dead an Isis terrorist in Mosul, Iraq, over a distance of 2.4 kilometres using the American-manufactured CheyTac M200. The bullet took three whole seconds to cover the distance before ripping through the throat of the enemy.

  The rifle was accurate to 3.2 kilometres. Seven long rounds, 408-calibre, fitted into the detachable magazine.

  He shook his head at the incredible progress in weapons technology. In the eighties he’d used the Russian Dragunov, 7.62, accurate to a distance of 800 metres. You had to be an exceptional shot to obtain good groupings over longer distances.

  Now he was lying on a carpet of rotting oak and beech leaves on the forest floor, with the CheyTac in front of him. He set it for 1000 metres; he fired only thirteen shots and was satisfied, spotting through his Zeiss binoculars that the grouping was within ten centimetres at that distance. So much easier than in the old days. Even after all these years it gave him a deep satisfaction, the feeling that this was his natural state of being, the weapon merely an extension of his body. This was one thing he could do.

  He remembered how they had discovered him, on the dust-blown shooting range in Kazakhstan, the Russian shooting instructor who couldn’t believe the evidence of his telescope, and walked the 400 metres up to Thobela’s target to make sure it was true. Then he’d hung up a fresh target and said: ‘Do it again.’

  Thobela had. He’d repeated it over longer and longer distances, wholly unconscious of how he was able to do it, to express this talent.

  They’d pulled him out of the Umkhonto training and sent him to East Germany.

  He remembered the hand of Yevgeny Fyodorovich Dragunov on his shoulder, the legendary yet humble Russian weapons designer. He’d met him in East Germany when he and the other students at the Stasi sniper school had had to help test an experimental SVDS weapon.

  Comrade Dragunov was fascinated by the black trainee with impossibly good groupings even with a cross-wind of 17 k.p.h. and the poor light of a heavily overcast winter’s day. The sturdy, ageing Russian had made a remark in his mother tongue, pushed up his thick black-rimmed spectacles with his calloused workman’s hand, then gripped the Xhosa’s shoulder as if to check he was real.

  His thoughts were on all those things as he carefully rolled the rifle in the tent, put it into the bag, hefted it onto his shoulder and began walking back to the Peugeot.

  Chapter 68

  Twenty to ten on Thursday. Colonel Mbali Kaleni came to fetch them, Griessel and Cupido, Vusi Ndabeni, Mooiwillem Liebenberg and Frank Fillander, asked them to come to her office.

  The Flower was completely wilted this morning, Cupido thought. A dried floral arrangement. He had never seen her like that. For the first time since he’d known her he felt genuine deep sympathy for her. She was muted, beaten, defeated.

  She asked them to sit down, went over to shut the door, took up her place behind her desk. ‘Just past eleven o’clock last night, Professor Phil Pagel called me,’ she said, in a funereal tone. ‘He said he had received the results of the blood tests from the private laboratory. There is absolutely no indication of any anaesthetic agent in Menzi’s blood. There is no trace of any substance in his stomach contents that might have been used to camouflage such agents in a drink or food. The professor also did a comprehensive autopsy late yesterday afternoon, spent a lot of time trying to find evidence of defensive wounds, or the symptoms of an insulin overdose. There were none. He told me he has absolutely no reason to believe that Menzi’s death was anything but suicide. This corroborates the evidence gathered by Gerber, about the blood spatter and gunshot residue. So, I have made a big mistake. I have allowed a personal relationship to interfere with my good judgement, and I have involved all of you in this foolishness, for which I apologise unconditionally. My behaviour was absolutely unacceptable.’

  ‘Colonel,’ said Griessel, ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘No, Benny, please. Let me speak. I have spent the morning with the brigadier. I have told him everything, and I have tendered my resignation. He refuses to accept it, but I have asked him to think it over. I have assured him that your involvement in the matter has been on my orders, and that none of you should be held accountable for the serious breaches in procedure and protocol. He agreed that this was indeed the case. I will open the appropriate docket, indicating that this was suicide, and I will take it to the Mowbray station commander right after this. I’ll tell him that I will fully understand if he wishes to proceed with a formal complaint against me. I have already telephonically apologised to Professor Pagel for involving him. I will also personally apologise to Forensics. That is all, thank you. Please proceed with your other cases.’

  ‘Colonel, may I speak now?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘Benny, there is nothing more to be said. Please.’

  He wanted to say that she had involved them – and herself – in the case in good faith. She needn’t feel bad. He would have done the same. But her tone was pleading. He said nothing.

  She rose to her feet. ‘I have a lot to do.’

  Cupido walked with Griessel down the passage. They watched as Mbali Kaleni walked towards the stairs. When she had disappeared, Cupido said: ‘Benna, we can’t drop this thing.’

  Griessel just nodded, preoccupied.

  ‘It’s these state-capture mofos, Benna. I don’t know how they did it, but it’s them. I mean, the missing bullet casing, the secret room, the forged suicide note, the mystery fingerprints, the X5 with fake number plates, three official-looking men paying him a visit. It’s them. It’s SSA monkey business. That Okapi and the biltong – it haunts me, say what you want. I’m not going to let those people get away with “suicide” again.’

  Griessel stopped. ‘Mbali isn’t going to allow it.’

  ‘Mbali doesn’t need to know. Until we have something. If we don’t get anything, no harm, no foul . . .’

  ‘There’s nothing left to find, Vaughn.’

  ‘We have to find a way to process those prints, Benna. We have to go back to the umadala’s house. We must take our time. You must go and stand there, and then you do that thing you do. And I’ll put it all together. I have the feeling we missed something. And you know my intuition . . . Just one more go at this. Please.’

  ‘Vaughn, I—’

  ‘Come on, partner. At least we have to try.’

  ‘Vaughn, they will fire our butts. I can’t propose to Alexa on Sunday if I’m unemployed. It’s just not . . . right.’

  Cupido sighed. ‘Fair enough. I forgot about that one.’

  ‘If we had more . . .’

  ‘It’s okay, Benna. I’ll go it alone on this one.’

  ‘You’re not going to drop it?’

  ‘How can I, Benna? How can I when that Donovan laaitie looks at me with his doubting eyes? I couldn’t look him in those eyes and say, “No, we’re not captured.” You know that saying “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing’’? If I did nothing, then I’m as good as captured. Maybe not on the payroll of the three fat Indians, but captured nonetheless. One day I’m going to ask Donovan’s mommy to marry me. Not today, not this year, but somewhere down the line, inspired by your senseless marital bravery. And I want to be able to tell Donovan that his stepdad didn’t stand back and do nothing. He stood up for what is right. He risked his career. He did the spirit of the Hawks proud. Even if by then I’m working as a mall cop in Brackenfell.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Fuck what?’

  Griessel walked a few steps down the corridor, and stopped.

  ‘F
uck what, Benna?’

  Griessel wrestled with his thoughts, came back shaking his head. ‘Fuck, Vaughn, you’d better get me a mall-cop job too if they fire us.’

  ‘You’re in?’

  ‘I’m in.’

  ‘I love you, man.’

  Daniel Darret deposited the rent for the Paris flat at a bank in Rheims. When he sent on the proof of payment by email, he saw there was a message from Vula.

  From: vula@protonmail.com

  Subject: Re: Supplies bought

  To: inhlanhla@protonmail.com

  Dear Dr Inhlanhla

  We are happy that you have the supplies. Let us know when you are safely in Paris.

  Vula

  Was that all? No news of the president’s activities on Sunday? It was in two days’ time, as today was useless, too far gone. He needed at least two days from when he received a schedule to recce the area, to find a place to lie in wait with the rifle, scope out entry and exit routes.

  He wondered who was on the other side of the email, which of Lonnie May’s aged veteran comrades. Did they know what they were doing?

  Daniel wrote back:

  Dear Vula

  I am concerned about the time available to prepare for the operation. It is an intricate procedure and needs careful planning. Please supply all available information at your earliest convenience.

  Yours,

  Dr Inhlanhla

  He waited for half an hour. There was no answer.

  Then he set off, travelling on regional roads and through small towns to avoid the A4 and any possible police presence.

  There was a possibility that Mbali Kaleni had already been to Forensics and frozen the case. It was Griessel who had to call fat Arnold of PCSI and ask him to be part of the new conspiracy. Cupido explained: ‘They think I’m too full of myself. They like you more, Benna.’

  And they think I’m a drunk, Griessel suspected, but he phoned and asked, ‘Arnold, has Mbali been there?’

  ‘Not yet. Why would she want to come here?’

  Griessel said their commander wanted to apologise and stop the whole case.

  ‘What for? We were just starting to have fun. That soil sample of yours . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Interesting. It’s not your normal result.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve never seen anything like it. It’s . . . Okay, I must remember I’m talking to a Hawk, so I’d better simplify.’

  ‘Ja, ja . . .’

  ‘So here’s the story. The soil samples we usually get come from footprints and tyres, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And footprints and tyres run on tar roads and dirt roads or topsoil, or maybe on ploughed land or a bed that’s been dug over. Then the tests show you you’ve got your soil, and your seeds and pollen, maybe fertiliser, bird shit, motor oil, all the usually above-ground possibilities.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘And our tests are usually comparative by nature, two separate samples. To prove a suspect was in a specific location, or that the sample corresponds with soil that was on a victim’s shoes. You know . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ He would have to be patient. Arnold wanted to impress him, blind him with science first, as always.

  ‘In this case we don’t have anything to compare it to. We have to analyse and try to say where it originated. We have to guess on the grounds of three things: sediment, colour and structure. Are you still with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Griessel had heard them testifying in court, so he was aware of most of what Arnold was saying. But it was best to let him talk, because Griessel had a big favour to ask.

  ‘The colour seemed odd to us from the start. Unusual. We put the sample under the microscope, and then we did a density test, in what we call a density-gradient tube. Your density-gradient test separates the different layers and gives you a base profile. And then we went to the spectrometer to find the minerals. To make a long story short, we haven’t seen this combination of colour, texture and mineral composition in our regular tests. We think it comes from a mine. Or something.’

  Chapter 69

  ‘A mine?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘There’re no mines around here, are there?’

  ‘We checked. There’s a whole bunch of open-cast mines. Granite, sandstone, building stone . . . You have your clay mines for brickmaking, your building-sand mines, your limestone mines. There are guys who take heavy metals out of the dunes near Saldanha, and towards Dwarskersbos. But this sample doesn’t match open cast. The texture and origin is definitely deeper underground. I can give you the scientific basis for our argument—’

  ‘No, I believe you. So that doesn’t help us at all?’

  ‘Look, your PCSI, your elite Provincial Crime Scene Investigation Unit’s members are generally a notch or two above your average genius. It’s common knowledge. We know it, you know it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But even we, Benny, don’t know everything. Hard to believe, strange but true. If you say Mbali wants to shut this thing down, you’ll have to take the data yourself and talk to a geologist. There’s a chap at the university in Stellenbosch. A Professor Ian Ford. If anyone can figure out what’s going on here, he can.’

  ‘Thanks, Arnold. Send the data when you can. And, please, don’t say a word to anyone. Especially Mbali. She doesn’t know Vaughn and I are going on with the case . . .’

  ‘It’ll cost you, Benny, no such thing as a free lunch . . .’

  ‘I know we owe you big-time. And, by the way, I’ve got another favour to ask.’

  ‘Aha. Wondered why you were being so nice to me.’

  ‘The fingerprints,’ said Griessel. ‘The notepad fingerprints. Now, I hope you understand what I’m going to say. We have reason to believe it’s connected to the case that was thrown out. You know – that docket we were working on about a month ago?’

  Arnold was silent for a long time as he processed that information. Griessel waited patiently.

  ‘I think I understand what you’re saying, Benny.’ His tone was cautious now, sombre.

  ‘There could be consequences, Arnold. If there are any results. And if the results are what we think they’re going to be. If they’re monitoring access to the population register. You must think carefully. We’ll understand if you don’t want to do it.’

  ‘I don’t think they have the capability to monitor that system. In any case, Home Affairs is chaos, Benny. That database is in such a mess, like all Home Affairs systems, that a single request from us will just disappear into a deep dark hole.’

  ‘Are you sure? You can always say it was our request. Our mistake, getting mixed up with all the dockets.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. But we won’t be able to do it today. If I ask for priority now, the other guys here are going to smell a rat.’

  ‘Whenever you can, Arnold. We really appreciate it.’

  ‘Enough for us to look forward to an invitation to the Big Wedding?’

  ‘I still have to ask her, Arnold.’

  ‘But who could say no to a sweet Hawk like you?’

  Within half an hour everything changed for Daniel Darret.

  He had been relaxed, with Paris little more than forty kilometres away. He knew he would have to tackle the afternoon rush hour, but he was nearly there, the journey with his incriminating load nearly complete. And then, on the D934 just before Disneyland Paris, there was a roadblock. National Police and soldiers, a long queue of cars ahead: everyone had to stop at the control point.

  At first he swore out loud over his choice of route. He should have known. He should have taken the A1. Then he considered his options. A U-turn would attract a lot of attention – the kind of attention he could ill afford. Staying calm was his only choice, to play his role and hope for the best. He took the car’s paperwork out of the glove compartment, got his Namibian passport ready, lined up his story of where he’d been and what he was doing. He concentr
ated on his approach – be friendly, a touch subservient, a little bit of the lost-African-in-Europe.

  He thought about the luggage. The tent with the rifle in it.

  Would they make him unpack everything? Unroll it?

  When he drew close enough, he saw the soldiers searching some of the vehicles.

  He breathed. Slowly in, slowly out.

  Until it was his turn. He tried to let an African accent creep into his speech when he greeted them and offered his documents.

  ‘Your French is good,’ the policeman examining his passport said. There was a soldier, armed, standing alongside him. Another four nearby, watchful.

  ‘Merci. That’s why they sent me here,’ said Daniel.

  ‘To do what, sir?’ the policeman asked, and peered in, first at the front, then at the back, in the luggage space.

  ‘I market Namibia’s nature and game reserves – best in the world – to French tour operators.’

  ‘I see. And what is in the back?’

  ‘Camping gear. You’re welcome to look.’ He held out the key.

  ‘Why camping gear?’

  ‘I was in the Ardennes. I need to be able to compare our facilities to the best in Europe.’

  The policeman took the key, handed it to the soldier to unlock.

  Daniel forced himself not to watch the rear-view mirror. Just to sit patiently, staring into the distance, now that the policeman had moved on to the next car.

  ‘Sir, could you get out of the vehicle, please?’ the soldier asked.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, while his gut contracted. Was it going to end here, at Disney World? He, the Mickey Mouse of assassins? He got out and walked to the back.

  The soldier was standing at the open boot and pointing his firearm at the contents. ‘Can you open that for us?’ The weapon was pointed at the rolled-up sleeping bag.

  Daniel picked it up, loosened the string that held the cover closed, pulled out the sleeping bag and threw it open on the ground.

  The soldier nodded. ‘And that?’