The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  Kaleni asked her about the plot that her father had been involved in.

  She said she couldn’t tell them.

  Because she didn’t know?

  No, because her father told her that if she ever told anyone, she would certainly be killed too.

  ‘But he told you that you can trust me,’ said Mbali Kaleni.

  ‘He told me I couldn’t trust anybody with that information. I swore to him. I promised him. I will not betray him now.’

  ‘So, you faked the suicide note because you wanted us to believe it was murder?’ asked Cupido. ‘So that we’ll catch these guys?’

  ‘Yes. Because I know it was murder. I think when they came back my father told them what they wanted to know. And then they killed him. With another Russian drug. My father told me the Russians have drugs that leave no trace in the body. That’s why Lonnie’s death was seen as a heart attack.’

  ‘But you never picked up a shell casing?’

  ‘I swear to you I did not.’

  ‘And you never knew about the life policies?’

  ‘I knew about the policies because my father told me when he drew up his will. But I did not know that they won’t pay out if it was suicide. I never knew that.’

  They drove back to the office. Mbali Kaleni sat in the back again. When they turned onto the N7 she said: ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  They didn’t know what to say to her.

  ‘I’m subjective. I cannot trust my own judgement on this,’ she said.

  Griessel and Cupido still didn’t respond.

  ‘She interfered with a crime scene. And she obstructed justice,’ said Kaleni. ‘Whether we believe her about her motive, or not.’

  ‘Colonel,’ said Cupido, ‘a good advocate would plead that she was under huge stress. These state-capture people have stolen so much money, I don’t think we should waste any more on a case where a woman wrote a suicide note for a father who probably committed suicide.’

  ‘You don’t believe the Russian drug theory?’ asked Kaleni.

  ‘No, Colonel.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Griessel. ‘Because Prof Pagel would have found something. He’s a very smart guy.’

  ‘So we do nothing?’

  ‘There is nothing we can do. For now,’ said Cupido, the last words spoken with emphasis. And he looked at Griessel.

  Griessel understood. His colleague didn’t want him to say anything about the borehole.

  ‘I think there is something else you are not telling me,’ said Kaleni.

  ‘If we find anything else, Colonel, we will tell you,’ said Griessel.

  In the rear-view mirror Cupido watched the colonel cross her arms over her chest. Which meant she wasn’t happy.

  But she didn’t say a word.

  Griessel took the ring out of the desk drawer that he always kept locked. He opened the little box, stared at the contents. Tomorrow evening he had to propose to Alexa. And show this ring to her. It looked so small, so cheap. It was all he could afford. He pushed it into his pocket, then walked out.

  Cupido heard him in the passage. ‘Wait, Benna, I’ll come with you,’ he said. Then he asked: ‘How was the gig last night?’

  Griessel said it was good, until he’d phoned Arnold back. After that he’d battled to concentrate.

  In the basement parking area Cupido said quietly: ‘Partner, let’s just see if the borehole thing produces anything. Let the universe show the way.’

  ‘Okay.’

  When he got into his car, Griessel wondered what they were going to do if it produced something. What could they do?

  All the way back to his and Alexa’s house on the slope of Lion’s Head, he wondered where he was going to keep the ring tonight. The last thing he wanted was for her to discover it tomorrow. He still wasn’t sure he would find the courage to ask her. He felt the fear deep inside. It was like an ultimatum for everything in his life. The enforcement of a final deadline. Make or break.

  But shouldn’t he rather just drop it?

  Daniel stood on the pont de la Tournelle as the sun set over Notre-Dame Cathedral, the western horizon red as blood.

  Somewhere in the city was his prey, perhaps enjoying a pleasant cocktail, chortling and chatting to French-government people, countrymen and embassy staff. The president’s last sundowner, his last sunset, his final night. Tomorrow he would be killed by an old comrade.

  In the name of the Struggle.

  His preparations were now almost complete. He studied the weather forecast, so he knew how strongly and in which direction the wind would blow tomorrow. He had measured the distance as well as he could. This afternoon he’d bought a light aluminium ladder and an array of cleaning materials.

  Tonight he would eat in the BigLove Caffè, up in the rue Debelleyme. It had looked good to him this morning when he’d walked past, the ham and sausage hanging in the window. Hospitable, friendly and intimate. That was what he needed tonight. To be among people who were laughing and talking and carefree.

  It might be his last supper.

  And after that he would go and clean the rifle one more time.

  He waited on the bridge till the sun disappeared.

  Chapter 76

  Sunday, 3 September

  Day Zero.

  For Benny Griessel.

  And for Daniel Darret.

  Daniel was awake before four in the morning. The prospect of the task that lay ahead fuelled his insomnia. He had to suppress the impulse to get up and go for a walk along the Seine. That was what he used to do, back then, in the hours before a hit. Walk to calm down, clear his head, to focus. Head down, kilometre after kilometre. To see the killing in the context of war, part of the Struggle. To build up a kind of rage, but above all, to visualise his plan, each step, every possible risk. And, finally, his escape routes.

  But this time he didn’t get up, because he knew there was a long day ahead and he wasn’t the young man of three decades before. He had to conserve his strength.

  So he exercised his imagination: the preparation, walking with the ladder and the rifle, over the wall, up the stairs beside the scaffolding, the selection of the best vantage point. Waiting. Aiming, following the president when he exited the vehicle: through the leaves, wait, wait . . . patiently waiting, until that instant, the two metres of clear sight between the last step and the hotel door, two seconds, maybe three, as the old man wasn’t as nimble as he’d once been. Then pulling the trigger. And escape. The same route: there was only one route in, one route out.

  Time and again he replayed it in his mind, until he heard the rumble of traffic, Paris awakening, and he finally got up to make coffee.

  Donovan came to wake them up.

  It still felt awkward to Cupido, in bed beside Desiree Coetzee on a Sunday morning and the kid walking into the room. It was the same every weekend, the boy up and about early as if he was still jealous of his mother’s attention. Or he might be wishing his biological father was there. Or maybe he just didn’t want him there.

  Now he said: ‘Mommy, can we make crumpets?’ And Desiree groaned, she wanted more sleep, and Cupido said nothing, just lay there looking at Donovan. Wondering what else he could do to normalise the situation.

  ‘Yes, lovey.’

  ‘But you have to get up then, Mommy.’

  ‘Mommy will, just now. Get the ingredients ready.’

  Donovan was reluctant to leave the room, though he did so eventually.

  Desiree shifted her beautiful warm body under the winter blanket, snuggling right up against Cupido, and kissed the curve of his neck. ‘Just a little bit more of a cuddle with my boyfriend . . .’

  He moved his arm so it wrapped around her back, squeezed her tight.

  ‘Mmm, that’s good, hey?’ she said.

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘You’re good.’

  ‘You’re gooder.’

  ‘You’re the goodest.’

  ‘True, that.’

  She giggled, kissed him again
, behind his ear.

  ‘You stay here. I’ll go make the crumpets,’ he said. ‘Bond with Donovan a bit.’

  ‘You couldn’t make crumpets to save your life.’

  ‘How hard can it be?’

  He got up, went to the bathroom to relieve himself – and to weigh himself secretly on Desiree’s bathroom scales.

  He was one kilogram down. He pumped his fist in the air. A small victory.

  On Sundays they listened to music, Alexa Barnard and Benny Griessel. First he went to buy the newspapers and a fresh loaf of bread for her. When he came back, she would be playing Aretha Franklin, Shirley Bassey, Joan Baez or Janis Joplin on the hi-fi.

  Now, in the chill of early spring, he would rekindle the fire in the hearth and make sure it was burning strongly. In the kitchen they would make toast, coffee for him and rooibos chai for her, grate the cheese, put out the butter and jam, set the table with knives and plates.

  As they ate she would take each newspaper in turn, sometimes she would read snippets out loud – especially when his name or something about the Hawks was mentioned – but he didn’t really want to hear about all the death and murder, politicking and state capture. He just wanted to bask in this warmth.

  She might sing along to the music in the sitting room, with that velvet voice of hers, her favourite choruses ringing out with passion. He would grin with delight, because she was so damn good.

  ‘I’m so looking forward to tonight,’ she said, when she closed the last newspaper.

  ‘Me too,’ Griessel lied.

  He had left the ring in his jacket. First thing this morning he had felt the pockets to make sure it was still there.

  Jeez.

  Day Zero.

  From: vula@protonmail.com

  Subject: Ready?

  To: inhlanhla@protonmail.com

  Dear Inhlanhla

  Please confirm you are good to go.

  Vula

  The email came in just before nine.

  He wrote back: Yes. Good to go.

  Their communication was much less playful now. The tension on their side must be just as unbearable. That made him feel better.

  He tried to relax in the flat until after ten. But he couldn’t stand it any longer. He walked to the river, walked along the right bank, slowly, deliberately slowly. He looked at all the people, the walkers and runners and cyclists, the sitters, the smokers, the anglers, the shipping traffic. But his mind kept returning to those two or three seconds between the steps and the hotel door.

  The call came at 16.09.

  Griessel was at the Waterfront Pick ’n’ Pay with Alexa. She was walking down the aisle with her list. He was pushing the trolley. She bought everything she needed to cook supper for him in the coming week: chicken-and-broccoli soup, spaghetti Bolognese, fish cakes, peas, mashed potato and Friday night’s curry. Nothing for Thursday, when they went to Alcoholics Anonymous, and had a ready-made Woollies microwave dinner to heat up afterwards.

  In the pasta aisle his cell phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number. ‘Benny,’ he answered.

  ‘I’m looking for the captain of the Hawks,’ said a man’s voice, rough, with a Namaqualand accent.

  ‘That’s me. Benny Griessel.’

  ‘This is Herman. From Swartland Drilling. You’re looking for the place with the black X5.’ It was a statement.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Ja, look, this week we were drilling other side of Clanwilliam – there’s no cell phone reception. I only got the message now.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Alexa was walking back with a packet of spaghetti. Griessel stood in the middle of the aisle, all his attention fixed on the call.

  ‘Now, we finished Tuesday late the other side of Philadelphia, on the old Malmesbury road. A small farm, or a big plot, it’s hard to say. I smelt a rat, you understand me, it’s not racist, but I smelt a rat. I mean, if there was only one man among them who looked like he knew anything about farming, but there were these three, three unfriendly okes, didn’t want to really talk, you know?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Black okes.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And the BMW. Black BMW. Now don’t tell me you wouldn’t smell a rat too. The place was so-so, not very well looked after, there was actually nothing going on there, but the fancy car, and the three unfriendly okes, wouldn’t even let us boil a kettle in their kitchen. They were in that house all day long, then drove off. Then they were back in the house, curtains closed. Tell me you wouldn’t smell a rat too. Probably these cash-in-transit robbers, am I right, hey, am I right?’

  Chapter 77

  When Griessel called, Cupido asked him: ‘Are you coming along, partner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  A brief silence registered Cupido’s surprise. But then: ‘Let’s go nail some state-capture mofos,’ he said, louder than was strictly necessary, and Griessel realised that the boy, Donovan, must be within earshot. That was Cupido’s motivation for all of this.

  They arranged to meet in front of the church in Philadelphia, and drive together from there. As close to five o’clock as possible.

  We can confirm that your target will be at the South African ambassador’s residence on the rue Cimarosa on Sunday afternoon, from 16.00 to 18.00. From there he will travel to the Hôtel Raphael, 17 avenue Kléber. We have firm intelligence that this will happen between 18.00 and 18.30. He will stay at the hotel until it is time to leave for the airport.

  Daniel had memorised the contents of the email: timing was going to be one of the most important factors in his success. If he was too early, there was the danger that a watchman would discover him on his rounds. If he went too late, he would be hurried, make errors of judgement. Or he could miss his target completely.

  So, he’d packed and tidied, prepared everything, and at four o’clock he showered. Then he dressed in the workman’s gear. Carried his bag down to the Peugeot. Came up to collect the tent with the rifle.

  Just before half past four he drove to the Éléphant Bleu in the avenue de la Porte de Clichy, a filling station and car wash under the freeway that encircled Paris.

  He would unpack everything in the car, and vacuum the seat covers and carpets thoroughly. He would sterilise the interior carefully with his cleaning products. He wanted to limit DNA evidence as far as possible and remove all fingerprints. Then he would pack the camping gear, the ladder and the tent bag with the rifle back in. He would pull on the workman’s gloves, so as not to leave more fingerprints. And drive.

  To the avenue Kléber.

  When Griessel arrived at the church, Cupido was leaning against the front of his car, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing his winter coat, the long one that hung down to his knees, the one that made him look a bit like Batman when it flapped as he walked. He knew it made him cut a pretty impressive figure. ‘The Hawk in Winter’, he called this outfit.

  Griessel got out and walked over to his colleague. He asked the question that he had been struggling to answer in the past hours: ‘Why are we here, Vaughn?’

  ‘Well, Benna,’ he said, as he straightened up from the car bonnet, ‘we are captains of the Hawks. Elite law-enforcement officers. So, we are going to enforce the law. In a very elite manner. There’s the stolen property. We have reason to believe that they took Menzi Dikela’s computer equipment from a crime-scene nogal. And they will say they are government officials, and we will say cool, cats, but where’s your search warrant? That’s interference with a crime scene. There’s obstruction of justice. There’s operating a vehicle on national and provincial roads with forged number plates. And, pappie, there’s the very strong evidence that collectively and individually you’re a bunch of cunts. Shall I go on?’

  ‘And our strategy?’

  ‘Partner, I know and you know we’re not going to make anything stick with what we have. But I’ve seen enough of these fucktards to know they feel entitled, they’re arrogant and they’re a law unto t
hemselves. So, I scheme we’re going to piss them off. I’m going to show you the Big V that you always wanted to see. I’m going to taunt them. I’m going to tease and provoke. I’m going to out-arsehole these arseholes. And then, when they react – and they will react, I guarantee you – then I’m going arrest their butts for attempted assault of a member of the Hawks. And let’s see where it goes. Maybe we’ll involve the media, make a stir, a dent in the armour of the state-capture brigade because we are good men. We didn’t stand by and do nothing. That is all I have, and if you tell me now, “Vaughnie, you’re soft in the head, let’s go home,” then this court will seriously consider your motion.’

  ‘Vaughnie?’

  Cupido smiled. ‘Use it, don’t use it. Just a thought. To show the world I can be self-deprecating and humble too.’

  ‘The media, so Desiree’s Donovan can read how his future stepfather struck a blow against state capture.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Griessel stared at the wheat fields in the distance. He shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say: ‘Come on, Vaughnie. Let’s go and piss our collective and individual careers away.’

  ‘That’s my boy,’ said Cupido. And then, wagging a finger in Griessel’s direction, he said: ‘Don’t think I don’t know why you’re ready to commit career suicide. You want an excuse. Banggat Benny, the reluctant bridegroom.’

  At 17.23 they drove in at the farm entrance. There was a weathered signboard, nearly illegible, showing the property’s name. Kleingeluk.

  A rutted dirt road headed past deserted livestock camps, drooping wire fences, some completely down in places, a windmill with four missing vanes, and then the farmhouse, an uninspiring tin-roof building from the sixties. The X5 was parked under a lean-to. Still sporting its false number plates. The borehole’s tied-off pipe, with the mud of De Hoek limestone and other rock drillings, lay in a dried-up stream between the house and the BMW.

  ‘I’ll take the front door, you take the rear?’ Cupido asked, when they stopped a few metres from the building.