The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Okay,’ said Griessel. He pulled his Z88 service pistol out of the leather holster on his belt. He got out and began jogging, keeping his eyes on the house windows. If the black X5 was parked there, they were inside.

  Cupido held his Glock and walked to the front door.

  Griessel disappeared around the corner.

  At 17.26 Daniel Darret was lucky enough to find parking in the rue Lauriston. He was ten minutes too early, but he could use the time to check emails again. He pulled off the gloves to tap the screen.

  There was nothing from Vula, which meant there was no change in the president’s schedule.

  He turned off the phone, took out the sim card. He wiped both with a cloth and cleaning fluid. Then he pulled the gloves back on, got out, walked to a rubbish bin and dropped it all in. He went back to the Peugeot, switched on the last of the phones, put it into the pocket of his workman’s jacket.

  Then he sat and waited for the clock on the instrument panel to move on to 17.40.

  Cupido had to hammer loudly, four times, on the front door.

  ‘Go away,’ a voice eventually growled from inside, deep and authoritative.

  ‘I am Captain Vaughn Cupido of the Hawks. I am investigating a murder case and I am ordering you to open this door.’ He stood beside the door, his pistol in front of him.

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to kick it in, sir.’

  A curse from inside, and the door opened. Cupido stepped in front of the door, pointing his pistol at the man’s head. He was massive, just under two metres, and obese, his belly hanging over his trousers, the expensive light blue button-down shirt gaping and exposing his navel. The face was sneering and contemptuous.

  A man by the name of Zungu. A big man, my father said. Very big. A very dangerous man.

  ‘Hallo, Zungu, you sexy thing, you,’ said Cupido.

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Zungu, but his face registered surprise that Cupido knew his name.

  Cupido shoved his pistol into the considerable belly and pushed his way in through the door. ‘Not going to happen, butterball.’

  Zungu retreated a step. Then came the furious saliva-spraying scream: ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  ‘Are you stupid or are you deaf? I said I am Captain Vaughn Cupido of the Hawks.’

  Zungu stood with his back against the front hallway wall. ‘I am a deputy director of the State Security Agency,’ he shouted. ‘I order you to put down the weapon now. You are interfering with official state business!’

  ‘I don’t care if you are the deputy fairy godmother, you fat fuck. Where are your two friends? Tell them to come in here, with their hands on their heads.’

  A voice spoke to Cupido’s left. ‘Put down the gun, you idiot, or I’ll blow your head off.’

  Cupido looked. Another agent stood there, pointing a pistol at him. Unlike his fat colleague, he was an athletic man.

  Daniel shoved the pistol into his belt, under the workman’s jacket. Then, leaving his keys in the ignition, he got out, walked around to the boot, opened it. He put on his yellow hard hat. He had tied the tent bag to the ladder, so he could carry them as a unit. He pulled the bundle out now, pushed the door shut, and began walking. He deliberately left the Peugeot unlocked. Perhaps he would get lucky and someone would steal it. He walked in the direction of the Arc de Triomphe.

  On the corner of the rue de Presbourg he turned right.

  His heart rate quickened. The greatest risk was now, here, when he had to turn right again, into the avenue Kléber. It was only ten metres till he reached the sheet-metal fence, where it joined the wall of the restored building. The only place where the security cameras would not be looking down on him. The only place he could prop up the ladder and climb over.

  If he was seen then, if someone raised the alarm, it would all be over.

  He turned the corner.

  A bunch of teenagers were loitering right there, leaning unsuspectingly against the fence.

  Chapter 78

  Cupido lowered the Glock, and Zungu hit him against the ear, a tremendous blow that made his head ring, made him stagger, made him completely lose his temper, all the frustration and rage and loathing let loose inside him, so that he bounced back off the wall, swinging his pistol like a truncheon, with fierce intent. He hit Zungu below the eye, splitting the skin. Blood sprayed. But the massive man barely moved. He grabbed at Cupido with both enormous hands, eyes wild. He was clumsy and slow. Cupido sidestepped the attack and kicked Zungu as hard as he could between the legs. The big man uttered a surprisingly shrill sound and crashed to the floor, an impressively swift collapse for someone of his size.

  The lean, athletic one shouted a warning, his pistol following Cupido, who dived down on Zungu, hooking his left arm around the big man’s neck.

  A shot thundered in the small space. The bullet smacked into the wall. Cupido rolled under Zungu to use him as a shield. He throttled him with his left arm, pointed his right hand with the Glock at Lean Man. He saw that the man was younger, focused, full of fire.

  ‘You motherfuckers are soft and slow,’ said Cupido. ‘Now, put down the gun, or I’ll shoot this cunt in his stupid little head.’

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ said Lean Man, deadly serious. He stepped closer, to get a better shot.

  ‘You’ve got no business here,’ said Daniel. ‘Go play somewhere else.’ He hoped his workman’s clothes, the logo on his chest and the authority in his voice would make the teenagers obey.

  They stared at him with a challenge in their eyes. But they were conscious of his size.

  One flicked a cigarette over the fence. ‘Come on,’ he told the rest.

  They wandered off, looking back at him.

  One said quietly: ‘Va te faire enculer.’

  He let it go, couldn’t afford to waste time. He watched them until they disappeared around the corner.

  He untied the tent from the ladder, scanned the area around him once. Now or never. He propped the ladder against the fence, climbed up, lowered the tent on the other side. Gently. He didn’t want to bump the scope inside the bundle. He climbed up, jumped over. Reached for the ladder, pulled it over the fence. Laid it flat on the concrete floor.

  He crouched low and tried to get his breathing and pulse back under control, all the while keeping his ears pricked, waiting for someone to sound the alarm.

  Griessel had seen the paraphernalia beside the back door – the satellite dish and the cables running through a window into a room in the house.

  The back door wasn’t locked. He found the third SSA agent, the one with the finely styled goatee beard, in the kitchen making three mugs of coffee, his back turned to the outside door. He tried to open the door silently, his Z88 at the ready, but the door scraped and creaked and Goatee turned in surprise.

  In that instant, the bellow from somewhere inside the house: ‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’

  Griessel pointed the pistol at Goatee, put his finger over his lips. The man slowly raised his hands in the air. Griessel pulled the handcuffs out of his jacket pocket. The little box with the ring fell out. Both men stared at it.

  ‘I am a deputy director of the State Security Agency,’ they heard another outburst from the front of the house. ‘I order you to put down the weapon now. You are interfering with official state business.’

  Griessel pushed the pistol against the back of the man’s head. ‘Put your hands behind your back. You are under arrest.’

  Goatee obeyed, brought his hands around. To keep his balance he stepped forward. Onto the ring box.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Griessel. He stood close to the man, kept him off balance with his shoulder, cuffed his left wrist first, then the right. He bent down to pick up the box. It was damaged but the ring inside was unharmed.

  It was a sign, he thought.

  Then he jerked the man roughly and angrily, so they could walk forward.

  Inside a shot boomed.

  Daniel waited. Two mi
nutes. Three.

  No shouts, no alarms.

  He stood up, picked up the tent and swung it onto his shoulder.

  The caretaker was on the other side of the scaffolding, at the turnstile gate to the building site. The traffic around the Arc de Triomphe was humming, but Daniel wanted to be sure that his heavy boots didn’t make a noise on the metal stairs. And he had to be quick. He was behind schedule now. He took the steps two by two. Up and up. Each time when he completed a flight, he looked towards the building office. He studied each new level for a camera.

  He kept climbing until he was at the top, on the roof. He looked instinctively in the direction of the Hôtel Raphael.

  He would have to use the northern corner, hide behind the parapet, a brick wall only thirty centimetres high. Anywhere else, and he would be too exposed, too visible. But the trajectory from there to the hotel entrance might not be perfect.

  Griessel shoved the man along in front of him, and ran into the others in the narrow space of the hallway. A wiry man had his pistol trained on Cupido, who was pinned under the frame of a very big man. That must be the big, dangerous Zungu.

  He didn’t have to say a word, just aimed at the lean one. The man sighed and lowered his pistol.

  Lean Man said: ‘You are interfering with a very, very important operation of the State Security Agency. You will die in jail.’

  ‘No,’ said the fat man lying on Cupido. ‘I’m going to kill them. Slowly.’

  ‘You’re going to kill me slowly with your fucking weight,’ said Cupido, and wriggled out from under Zungu.

  ‘Put the gun on the floor,’ Griessel said to Lean Man.

  He obeyed, then said: ‘I’m telling you for the last time. We are senior SSA agents. We are involved in an operation of vital national security. This is a crucial junction in that operation. If you don’t release us right now, you will sabotage it completely. That is high treason, for which you will go to jail. My jacket is in the bedroom. My ID card is in the inside pocket. Before you proceed, I implore you to take a look. Now.’ His voice was urgent, pleading almost.

  Cupido put cuffs on Zungu’s wrists, then stood up. He kept his Glock trained on the fat man. ‘You’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer and for operating a motor vehicle with a false registration number. That provides us with probable cause to search these premises.’

  ‘For what?’ demanded Lean Man.

  ‘Stolen goods,’ said Cupido. ‘Menzi Dikela’s computers, for instance. And if we find them, we’ll have evidence of murder. So, don’t try to bullshit me with this high-treason stuff.’

  That shut all three SSA agents up.

  Until Lean Man said: ‘We’re running out of time.’

  And Zungu: ‘There was no murder. Menzi shot himself. The fucking traitor.’

  Six o’clock.

  Daniel lay on the roof, behind the parapet, binoculars to his eyes.

  The CheyTac lay beside him, out of sight. It was too dangerous to set it up on the parapet, because there were buildings opposite the street that were one storey higher. They were offices and it was Sunday, but he couldn’t take the risk of being spotted with the rifle.

  He would have to wait until he saw the presidential vehicle, when it drove up from the south in the avenue Kléber.

  He visualised his movements – putting down the binoculars, grabbing the CheyTac, placing the two stabilising legs. Aiming, waiting for the shot. The soft squeezing of the trigger. With hands that were delicately trembling. Then getting up, abandoning the rifle there, walking to the stairs, running down, picking up the ladder, climbing over the wall. Getting rid of the jacket, the hard hat and the cell phone. Down into the Métro system.

  Seconds lagged, time stood still.

  Chapter 79

  Zungu’s face looked bad. Blood kept trickling down his cheek and chin. It dripped onto the expensive pale blue shirt. He sat upright in the front hallway, his hands cuffed behind him. ‘Menzi sat right in front of us, and he shot himself,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ Griessel wanted to know.

  ‘What time is it?’ asked Lean Man.

  ‘Why did Menzi kill himself?’

  ‘What is the fucking time? Tell me now!’

  ‘Seven minutes past six.’

  ‘Jesus. Listen to me. You’re going to ruin months of work. You’re going to wilfully sabotage an operation to prevent an assassination attempt on—’

  ‘Don’t tell them,’ said Zungu.

  ‘We have no choice. We have no time.’

  ‘Why did Menzi kill himself?’ Griessel asked again.

  ‘Because he has a daughter,’ said Zungu.

  ‘You threatened him with his daughter?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’ asked Cupido. ‘What do you tell a man about his daughter that will make him shoot himself? You pervert. You piece of shit.’

  Zungu just sniffed blood up his nose.

  ‘We had to get him to divulge his conspiracy secrets,’ said Lean Man, defensively. ‘Now, please, we have to resolve this very quickly.’

  ‘The secrets that Johnson Johnson overheard on the train?’ asked Cupido.

  The three agents exchanged looks, but hid their surprise well.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lean Man.

  ‘What was it about? We’re not going to release you unless you tell us.’

  ‘Time is running out,’ Lean Man told Zungu, the big man clearly the leader of the trio. ‘Tell them. They know half of it anyway. You have to tell them right now. We can’t waste a second.’

  The pressure, the urgency, the struggle between frustration and inevitability rippled across Zungu’s face. He seemed swollen with conflicting emotions.

  ‘Jesus, Chief, please!’ shouted Lean Man. ‘Tell them. Now.’

  Zungu spoke in short, barking sentences: cryptic, abbreviated, blood and saliva spraying, heated and hurried and, above all, with contempt for them and the conspirators, while the Lean Agent kept urging him to hurry, hurry.

  Zungu said Johnson Johnson overheard the traitor Lonnie May and someone else on the train conspiring to murder, in cold blood, the honourable and noble president of the country, the hero of the Struggle and the darling of the nation. And Johnson had enough time to share part of the information with his colleague at the VIP Protection Unit, before he was murdered in such a shocking way. The problem was, Johnson hadn’t mentioned the second man’s name before he died. The VIP Protection Unit contacted the SSA, and the SSA began to look for Lonnie May. They found him easily. In his home in Rondebosch, only a day later, when Lonnie returned from his train trip. And then they began tracking him, tapping him. They broke into his house, searched it thoroughly. Eavesdropping equipment was planted. He never used his registered cell phone or his laptop computer in an incriminating way.

  They could have arrested him, interrogated him, but then the others – and the SSA knew there had to be others – could have taken steps to hide or destroy their treachery.

  But on 22 August Lonnie May made his first mistake.

  A call to a travel agent to book a flight to London. With a false passport. Lonnie had been standing outside on his back veranda. He used a burner phone, but he was just within hearing distance of an SSA microphone.

  They obtained the credit-card details from the airline, and asked their good comrades the Russian SVR for help because the Russians had British and European presence, the ability, the manpower, the technology and the will to begin following Lonnie in London and, in so doing, protect a friend of Putin.

  The SVR had tracked Lonnie to Bordeaux, France, and identified a black African named Daniel Darret as the person he went to see. Darret was a shadowy figure with a false name, a man without friends or a past. Without doubt an assassin, a trained agent, judging by the way he was able temporarily to overcome the SVR agents. They followed Darret’s tracks to a boat captain in a French harbour town, but he disappeared. Lonnie, too. By then, however, the SSA and the SVR were re
asonably certain: the president would be targeted during his visit to France. To cancel the visit, or to ask the French for additional security, would be humiliating for a head of state of his stature.

  The Russians picked Lonnie up again on video material at Schiphol, and they were able to establish that he took a KLM flight. When Lonnie landed in Cape Town, the plan was to inject him with a drug. A drug they had obtained from their ‘good friends’, a drug that was meant to make Lonnie collapse. The SSA had an ambulance standing by. Agents pretending to be paramedics. They were planning to take him away for questioning because time was running out; matters were increasingly urgent. But Lonnie’s heart failed. It might have been a blood clot after the long flight, or the drug dosage was too much for the old man.

  The phone in Lonnie’s jacket pocket was the saving of the SSA. He’d made a single call from it only minutes after his plane landed.

  That number led them to an address. Nuttall Street in Observatory. Home of the traitorous Menzi Dikela.

  They went to see Menzi on Friday. Told him they knew everything. They searched his house for the cell phone, for proof. They found nothing. And Menzi continued to deny everything.

  Zungu was there in person. He saw that Menzi Dikela was in a state of extreme distress. Close to breaking point. Just a question of time. They ran the risk of another inconvenient heart attack. So they withdrew. Temporarily. To confer directly with the director-general of the SSA. A team was left to watch Menzi’s house. The director-general cautioned them to proceed slowly. We’ve got Menzi. We’ve got a starting point, leverage. We’ve got a few days to manoeuvre. We want to strike a decisive blow, break open this whole ants’ nest. Menzi is a marked man, and he will make mistakes. Come, let’s watch him closely for a day or two. Let’s consider how we can use these things to our best advantage.

  That afternoon Menzi’s daughter came to visit. That had sparked the idea. They had found Menzi’s Achilles heel. On Tuesday morning they struck. Bringing photos of Thandi, at work, at home. Inside her home. It shook Menzi. And then they told him what they were going to do to her.