by Deon Meyer
“Joan van Heerden.”
“Ma, I have to speak to Tiny Mpayipheli.” Tension in his whispered voice.
“What’s the matter, Zet?” Worry.
“Ma, just get Tiny, please.”
“He’s sleeping. I’ll get Billy.” And then she was gone and he swore. He didn’t want to speak to September: he needed the big sniper.
“Yo?”
“Billy, wake Tiny and tell him to come to Hout Bay. We’ve got Schlebusch. He’s still sleeping, but I don’t know for how long. Get a pen because I want to explain the route.”
A moment’s silence and then September said, “Ready.”
He kneeled behind the tree, calmer now. Schlebusch must be sleeping late this morning. How would you hunt a prey who hunted you? You crept up to the place where he slept, fucker. He wished he had binoculars. How long did it take from Morning Star to Hout Bay? Forty minutes if you drove like hell, but the N1 and the N5 were nightmarish at this time of morning—an hour perhaps. He looked at his watch: 7:42. Mpayipheli should be here by 8:00, perhaps by quarter past. It was getting light fast, the truck’s faded cream clearly visible. Where would the house of the neighbor who had telephoned be? Schlebusch’s place lay low down in the valley. What was wrong with the vehicle as he remembered it? The problem was he couldn’t simply rush in and shoot, he needed him alive. Quarter past was going to be too late, Schlebusch wouldn’t sleep that late. Why was it so quiet down there? Lights should be going on, coffee time for a hunted man— no, he should have been awake long before now.
He heard vehicles behind him, a deep droning, looked, but the road ran behind the rise. Probably a smallholding truck. Footsteps, exclamations, he looked round, something was wrong, many feet, they came running over the crest of the hill, soldiers, steel helmets and rucksacks and R5 rifles held in front of them. They saw him, fell flat. “Throw down your weapon.” Not anxious voices, certainly not, authoritarian. He slowly stood up, the Heckler & Koch in front of him, put it down on the ground. Where the fuck had they come from? Two jumped up, R5s aimed at him, bulletproof vests, reaction team, grabbed his machine pistol. “Lie down. Now!” He moved slowly, heart beating, lay facedown, heard the others coming nearer, many boots, felt hands on him, taking the cell phone. “He’s clean.” And he smelled the dew-sodden grass, the earth, heard more footsteps. “Only the cell phone.”
“Get up, Van Heerden.” Bester Brits.
Rage engulfed him when he recognized the voice, the insight too late. He jumped up in one movement. “You cunt,” he screamed, grabbing the Military Intelligence officer’s throat, soldiers dragging him away, forcing him onto his knees.
“You bugged my telephone, you cunt.”
Brits laughed. “You think you’re so clever, Van Heerden.”
“He’s mine, Brits.”
“The two of you stay here with him. If he doesn’t behave, kneecap him.” He lifted a two-way radio to his mouth. “Alpha, are you ready?”
“Alpha ready.”
“Bravo ready?”
“Bravo ready.”
“Let’s go in.”
“I hope you have armored-car backup and air support, Brits.”
“If he’s going to lie here talking shit, put a bullet through his knee,” Bester said, and then they were gone, down the steep gravel road, the sharp sound of assault rifles being cocked. Van Heerden looked up at the two soldiers staring down at him, sharp, watchful faces. He waited for the rifle shots from the house, angry. He should’ve thought, but what could he do? It wouldn’t have helped to change the number. Jesus, what a first-class cunt. Why was it so quiet at the house, Schlebusch still sleeping? Minutes ticked past, he sat up, the soldiers kept their weapons trained on him.
“Since when have you been on alert?”
They ignored him.
“Could I have my cell phone back?”
No reply.
He got up, looked down the road, shifted a few steps to see better.
“Stand still.”
He stood still. He could see the truck, the garden area. Soldiers kneeling at the front door, at the truck, all at the ready, the door open. Why didn’t they shoot? Why didn’t Schlebusch shoot? Someone came out, a soldier came up the road, comfortable jog, no hurry—something wasn’t right. The soldier came up to them.
“Van Heerden?”
“Yes.”
“The colonel wants you down there.”
He started walking, only the one soldier accompanying him. “You let Schlebusch get away.”
Silence. Crunch-crunch on the unpaved road, the soldier’s boots loud, his trainers soft. The smallholding opened out ahead of him, neglected, the white paint on an outside building peeling off, long grass, climbing plants growing wildly against a stone wall, weeds in the orchard. As he walked past the truck, he looked. Something wasn’t right with the fucking truck? What was it? The soldier walked to the veranda, nodded at the front door.
“First door to the right.”
He walked in. Bester Brits stood there, arms folded. On the carpet lay Bushy Schlebusch, half on his face, or what was left of it, the blood a reddish brown irregular pool on the parquet floor, eye and nose lost in the exit wound, hole in the back of the head, hands tied behind the back.
He looked, flabbergasted, made the connections, one shot, execution-style, in the back of the head, and then he knew what was wrong with the truck as he remembered it on the N7. Schlebusch had climbed out on the left-hand side. He had assumed it was a left-hand drive, like Kemp’s imported Ford, but Schlebusch wasn’t the driver: there was another one, or more than one. He swore, he should’ve thought, it wasn’t the neighbor who phoned—how the fuck could a neighbor remain anonymous? It was —
“You killed him, Van Heerden.”
“What?”
“The photo in the newspaper this morning. They couldn’t afford to let him live.”
He stuttered, a thousand thoughts in his head. Nothing made sense. Schlebusch was the one, the leader, that was how he’d seen it. Schlebusch was his prey. He struggled with the new information. “They. Who are ‘they,’ Bester?”
“Do you think I would be standing here if I knew?”
He took a step forward, drew a finger through the blood—it was thick and sticky but it wasn’t dry. Lord, it must’ve happened a few hours ago. And then he saw the events in his own head: they must’ve waited for the newspaper, somewhere, waiting to see, every morning since the first copy, made plans. They must’ve shot Schlebusch this morning and then phoned, the voice on the phone, so calm, so innocent. They knew he would come—and then the fear came like a paralysis, his mother, his mother, his mother, and he screamed, “Jesus!” and he ran, out of the door, back to the soldiers who had his cell phone, swearing furiously at his own lack of insight.
“Van Heerden,” Bester called after him.
“My mother, Bester,” he screamed, hearing this morning’s call in his ears, that calm, assured voice. Not the voice of a hate-filled psychopath, but of a calm strategist, which was worse, much worse.
Billy September saw them coming and he grabbed the AK-47 and realized he had to protect the women in the house first: Carolina de Jager in the bathroom, Wilna van As in the kitchen, Joan van Heerden outside somewhere, at the stables. Four men coming from the front, from the road, weapons in their hands, openly moving between trees and shrubs, full of self-confidence, blatant, secure in the knowledge that Joan van Heerden was alone. He screamed at Wilna van As, “They’re coming, get to the bedroom, lie flat,” hammered at the bathroom door, “Trouble, now, come on out.” Wilna van As’s eyes white, he pointed at her: “Look there, please stay in the bedroom.” He ran to the kitchen, looked out toward the stables, didn’t see Joan van Heerden, ran to the living room, looked through the big window. They were closer. The bathroom door opened, Carolina de Jager in a pink dressing gown. “What’s the matter?”
“They’re here, madam, four with guns. Go to the bedroom, lock the door, lie flat.”
“No,” said Carolina de Jager. “Get me a gun.”
He ran up the sloping road, Bester Brits pounding behind him. “Van Heerden!” He ran on. Tiny Mpayipheli was on his way here, only September and the women, and they, whoever they were, knew that. He reached the soldiers. “The cell phone.” He grabbed it out of the man’s hand, kept running, heard the soldiers behind him, heard Bester say, “Leave him, let him go,” pressed the buttons, held the instrument against his ear, ran. He realized he needed his weapon, turned, tried to take the Heckler & Koch, but the soldier jerked it away. The telephone ringing, ringing, ringing.
He grabbed at the weapon again. “Give me the fucking thing.” They surrounded him threateningly and he heard Bester’s voice, just as breathless as his: “Give it to him.”
He grabbed, the phone rang, rang, rang. Lord, let them answer. He saw the BMW between the army troop carriers—the fuckers had parked him in. Three soldiers with a big black man, Tiny, the Mercedes-Benz ML 320. Tiny saw him coming.
“We’ve got to move,” he yelled. “Schlebusch is dead. This morning.” Mpayipheli just nodded, couldn’t catch the words, only the urgency. He ran to the car as the telephone rang and rang and rang.
She jumped, startled when the telephone rang. She was working, had fetched her files to work next to the telephone. The phone was quiet this morning and she had thought about Van Heerden’s replies to her questions and then it suddenly rang.
“Hallo.”
“Is that Hope Beneke again?”
She recognized the voice, the same male voice. “Yes.”
“How did you get that photograph of Bushy?”
“We… why do you want to know?”
“Have you got photos of all of us?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to publish them?”
“If it’s necessary.”
“Necessary for what?”
“To get the will.”
“But I have nothing to do with the will.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Billy September heard the telephone ringing, ran to the bedroom where he had slept and grabbed his carry bag from under the bed, hauled out the Remington 870 shotgun by its stock, chambered one shell, gripped the gun in his hand, ran back, gave the weapon to Carolina de Jager. “There are four shots in the magazine, one in the breech. Wait until he’s close.” She took the gun, obviously not a first for her. He looked out of the window, the telephone still ringing. Who would phone now? The four armed men were just twenty meters away—he would have to shoot now. Where the fuck was Joan van Heerden? He ran to the back door, looked out toward the stables, saw nothing—wait, there she was, carrying a pail, wearing green gum boots, on her way back to the house, but he couldn’t shout, they were too close. He ran to the living-room window, telephone ringing, aimed the AK over the burglarproofing, lined up the one with the beret, drew a bead on his lower body, pumped out three shots, saw him fall, the others scattering. Suddenly not so calm anymore, suddenly frenetic. He laughed, high and tense, as the window in front of him exploded in a thousand pieces, holes in the plaster, Wilna van As screaming in the bedroom. He fell flat, blood dripping—the glass had cut him. He saw Carolina de Jager behind the couch with a small smile on her lips and the Remington in front of her, putting out her hand to the telephone. He pushed the AK’s barrel through the window, pulled the trigger a few times, crept to the front door, hearing the automatic fire outside. He knew he’d got one. Jesus, Billy September, you’re an expert in unarmed combat, look at you shooting the whiteys now.
Bester Brits ran into the door of the Mercedes and banged on the closed window with his hands. “Van Heerden! Wait!”
He wound down the window, telephone against his ear, still ringing. Tiny Mpayipheli started the engine. “What is it?”
“Where are you going?”
“My mother. They’re going to attack my mother.”
“How do you know?”
“I know, Bester. It was… a trap.”
“I have a helicopter, Van Heerden.”
“Where?”
“In the air. Behind Karbonkelberg.” Bester waved his hand toward the west.
“Carolina?” he screamed into the cell phone, hearing gunshots in the background, knowing he was right.
“There are four of them,” she shouted. “Four of them.” And then the phone went dead and he threw it against the front window of the Mercedes with all his might and roared something indecipherable and jumped out and grabbed Bester by the chest. “Are there soldiers in the chopper, Brits? Tell me!”
“Yes,” said Bester, softly and calmly, and pulled Van Heerden’s hands away from his jacket. “There’s a radio in the Unimog.”
Hope Beneke tried to remember the names on Van Heerden’s list because the man at the other end was one of them, and she wrote: “Red. Manley. Porra.” She couldn’t remember more than that.
“Have you got all the new names?” he asked.
“Sir, I’m not authorized to share the information with anyone over the telephone.”
“Please, I understand that. I just want… I have nothing to do with the will. How can I prove it?”
“By coming to talk to us, sir.”
“They’ll kill me.”
“Who?”
“Schlebusch.”
“You said ‘they.’”
“You know who. You know.”
“We can meet somewhere.”
“Is this line safe?”
“Of course.”
“Will you keep the photos out of the newspapers until we’ve talked?”
She had an inspiration: “I can only keep them back for today, sir. Tomorrow Die Burger will be placing everyone from 1976.”
“No,” he said, his voice filled with fear. “Please. I’ll phone again in an hour. I’ll meet you somewhere.”
The line was suddenly quiet. She smiled. This was better. Much better. Then pressed the button on the phone. She had to tell Van Heerden about this.
They. He had said “they.”
Her stomach contracted.
“The subscriber you have dialed is not available…”
On his uniform the pilot wore the badge of the Twenty-second Squadron with the inscription UT MARE LIBERUM SIT. He turned the helicopter’s nose in the direction of Robben Island. “Eleven, twelve minutes,” he said.
“It’s too slow.” Bester’s voice crackled over the radio.
“It’s an old Oryx, Colonel, with a top speed of about three hundred. It’s the best I can do.”
“Bester out.”
The pilot pressed the intercom button. “Hot insertion, ten minutes,” he said, and heard the sudden activity at the back, fourteen men of the Anti-Terrorist Unit clicking clasps, cocking weapons. Hell, he thought, at last. Something more exciting than a fishing trawler on the rocks.
46.
Her name was Nonnie and when she opened the door the wait of a lifetime was over—because I knew she was the One.
How can I describe that moment?
I’ve played it over and over in my head during the past years, that first, magical moment, that overwhelming awareness, that euphoric, immediate knowledge when I looked at her. My eyes drank her in with the thirst of thirty-four years, this gentle, gentle woman, her laughter. She stood there in a one-piece bathing suit because she had been lying next to the small, cheap plastic pool, and when she opened the door her eyes and her beautiful mouth had laughed (the one front tooth was just a millimeter askew) and her voice was sweeter than Mozart: “You must be Van Heerden.” And I looked into her eyes, deep and green and large and shining. There was so much life there, humor and sympathy and heartbreak and joy. I looked at her body, those curves—she was tall, feminine, fertile—and forgive me, but it seemed as if nature shouted out of her body, her divine hips, the handfuls of breasts, the small curve of her stomach, her legs strong, her feet small. She was a siren, irresistibly seductive, her short
brown hair, her neck, her shoulders, her eyes, her mouth. I wanted to drink her, to taste, to swallow, to slake that unbelievable thirst.
“Come through, then we’ll have something to drink at the pool.” She had walked ahead of me down the passage, my eyes on her, past the bookcases, my eyes consuming her, the guilt scurrying through my head like a nocturnal animal, out to the backyard, where a book lay. A poetry book. Betta Wandrag: Morning Star.
I knew. She knew, in those first moments.
But I couldn’t understand it.
Why?
Why should the One’s name be Nonnie Nagel?
The wife of my friend and colleague.
47.
There was a tall, narrow window next to the front door and when he raised himself off the floor to pull away the blind with the barrel of the AK, they shot Billy September. He felt the bullet breaking through his collarbone, and the violence of it slammed him back against the entrance-hall wall, more glass in his face, his arm paralyzed. Again he reached forward, looked down, blood pouring out of his chest, out of his stomach. He groaned. His body, they were messing with his body, pockmarks in the wall, deafening noise, his blood on the floor. He was going to die, suddenly he knew it, this was where he was going to die, pressing his hand against the wound in his neck. So much blood, hell, he looked at the sun that shone through the holes in the door, and then a man burst in, stood in front of him, a big white man with a stubble beard and a grin, just for a moment, then moved away, to the living room. Billy September heard the thunder of the Remington, one shot. He turned, slowly, his arm dead, his body a long way away, pain in his stomach, turned slowly, saw Stubble Beard on the living-room floor, on his back, his face blasted away. Billy September smiled: you don’t fuck with a Boervrou. Silence now, deathly silence, there were two more outside, and he had to stop the blood.