The White Lioness

by Henning Mankell

  One more possibility, he thought. Same word. But in Afrikaans. He keyed in spriengboek.

  Immediately the screen started flashing. Then a list of contents appeared.

  He had cracked it. He had found his way into van Heerden’s world.

  He noticed he was sweating. The elation of a criminal when he’s just opened a bank vault, he thought.

  Then he sat down to read the screen. Afterwards, at nearly one in the morning when he came to the end of the texts, he knew two things. In the first place he was now certain van Heerden had been murdered because of the work he was doing. Second, the premonition of imminent danger he had felt previously was justified.

  He leaned back in his chair and stretched.

  Then he shuddered.

  Van Heerden had compiled the notes recorded on his diskette with cool precision. He could see now that van Heerden was a deeply split personality. The discoveries he made in connection with the conspiracy had reinforced the feeling he had earlier, that his life as an Afrikaner was based on a lie. The deeper he penetrated into the reality of the conspirators, the deeper he penetrated his own. The world as depicted in the loose sheets of paper, and the cool precision of the diskette, existed in the very same person.

  It occurred to him that in a sense, van Heerden had been close to his own destruction.

  He stood up and walked over to the window. Somewhere in the distance he could hear police sirens.

  Just what have we believed? he asked himself. That our dreams of an unchanging world were in fact true? That the small concessions we made to the blacks would be sufficient, although they did not really change anything?

  He was overcome by a feeling of shame. For even if he was one of the new Afrikaners, one of those who did not regard de Klerk as a traitor, the many years of passivity on the part of Judith and himself had enabled the racist policies to continue. He too had inside himself the kingdom of death van Heerden had written about.

  It was ultimately this silent acceptance that formed the basis of the conspirators’ intentions. They were counting on his continued passivity. His silent acceptance.

  He sat down at the screen once more.

  Van Heerden had done good work. The conclusions Scheepers was now able to draw, and which he would pass on to President de Klerk the very next day, were impossible to miss.

  Nelson Mandela, the self-evident leader of the blacks, was going to be murdered. During his last days van Heerden had worked feverishly to try and find the answers to the crucial questions of where, and when. He had not found the answer when he switched off his computer for the last time. But the indications were that it would be very soon, in connection with a speech given by Mandela to a large public gathering. Van Heerden had drawn up a list of possible locations and dates over the coming three months. Among them were Durban, Johannesburg, Soweto, Bloemfontein, Cape Town and East London, with dates attached. Somewhere abroad a professional killer was making preparations. Van Heerden had managed to discover that a former KGB officer was hovering indistinctly in the murderer’s background. But there were a lot of other things to be clarified.

  Ultimately there was the most important question. Georg Scheepers read one more time the section where van Heerden analyzed his way to the very center of the conspiracy. He spoke of a Committee. A loose collection of people, representatives of dominant groups among the Afrikaners. But van Heerden did not have all their names. The only ones he knew about were Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan.

  Georg Scheepers was now convinced the chameleon was Jan Kleyn. On the other hand, he had not identified Franz Malan’s code name.

  He realized van Heerden regarded this pair as the chief actors. By concentrating on them, he hoped to be able to figure out who the other members of the committee were, and just what they were intending to achieve.

  Coup d’état, van Heerden had written at the end of the last text, dated two days before he was killed. Civil war? Chaos? He did not answer the questions. He merely asked them.

  But there was one more note, made the same day, the Sunday before he went into the hospital.

  Next week, wrote van Heerden. Take it further. Bezuidenhout. 559.

  That’s his message to me from the grave, thought Georg Scheepers. That’s what he would have done. Now I have to do it instead. But what? Bezuidenhout is a suburb of Johannesburg, and the number must surely be part of the address of a house.

  He suddenly noticed he was very tired and very worried. The responsibility he had been given was greater than he could ever have imagined.

  He switched off the computer and locked the diskettes in his filing cabinet. It was nine o’clock already, and dark outside. Police sirens were wailing non-stop, like hyenas, keeping watch in the darkness of the night.

  He left the deserted prosecutor’s offices and walked to his car. Without really having decided to do so, he drove toward the eastern edge of the city, to Bezuidenhout. It did not take him long to find what he was looking for. Number 559 was a house bordering the park that gave Bezuidenhout its name. He parked by the curb, switched off the engine and put out the headlights. The house was white, in glazed brick. A light was on behind drawn drapes. He could see a car in the drive.

  He was still too tired and worried to think about how he should proceed next. First of all, the whole of this long day would have to sink into his consciousness. He thought of the lioness lying motionless by the riverbank. How she stood and came towards them. The wild beast is clawing at us, he thought.

  It suddenly dawned on him what was the most important thing.

  The murder of Nelson Mandela would be the worst thing that could happen to the country just now. The consequences would be horrific. Everything they were trying to achieve, this brittle attempt to reach a settlement between blacks and whites would be demolished in a fraction of a second. The dikes would be breached and the flood would rage over the whole country.

  There were people who wanted this apocalyptic flood to take place. They had formed a committee to open the floodgates.

  That was as far as he got in his thoughts. Then he saw a man leave the house and get into the car. At the same time one of the drapes was pulled back in a window. He could see a black woman, and another one behind her, younger. The older woman waved, but the one behind her did not move a muscle.

  He could not see the man in the car. It was too dark. Even so, he knew it was Jan Kleyn. He crouched down in his seat as the other car passed. When he sat up again, the drapes were back in place.

  He frowned. Two black women? Jan Kleyn had come out of their house. The chameleon, mother and child? He could not see the connection. But he had no reason to doubt van Heerden. If he had written that it was important, then so it was.

  Van Heerden had stumbled upon a secret, he thought. I must go down the same track.

  The next day he called President de Klerk’s office and asked for an urgent appointment. He was told the president could see him at ten that night. He spent the day writing a report on the conclusions he had drawn. He was superficially nervous as he sat waiting in the president’s antechamber, having been welcomed by the same somber security guard as before. This evening, however, he was not forced to wait. At exactly ten o’ clock the security guard announced the President was ready to see him. When Scheepers entered the room, he had the same impression as last time. President de Klerk seemed to be very tired. His eyes were dim and his face pale. The heavy bags under his eyes seemed to weigh him down to the ground.

  As briefly as possible he reported what he had discovered the previous day. For the moment, however, he said nothing about the house in Bezuidenhout Park.

  President de Klerk listened, his eyes half-closed. When Scheepers was finished, de Klerk sat there without moving. For a brief moment he thought the president had fallen asleep while he was talking. Then de Klerk opened his eyes and looked straight at him.

  “I often wonder how it is that I’m still alive,” he said slowly. “Thousands of boere regard me as a trait
or. Even so, Nelson Mandela is the one picked out in the report as the intended victim of an assassination attempt.”

  President de Klerk fell silent. Scheepers could see he was thinking hard.

  “There is something in the report that disturbs me,” he said. “Let us assume there are red herrings laid out in appropriate places. Let us imagine two different sets of circumstances. One is that it’s me, the president, who is the intended victim. I’d like you to read the report with that in mind, Scheepers. I’d also like you to consider the possibility that these people intend to attack both my friend Mandela and myself. That doesn’t mean I’m excluding the possibility that it really is Mandela these lunatics are after. I just want you to think critically about what you are doing. Pieter van Heerden was murdered. That means there are eyes and ears everywhere. Experience has taught me that red herrings are an important part of intelligence work. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes,” said Scheepers.

  “I’ll be expecting your conclusions within the next two days. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more time than that.”

  “I still believe Pieter van Heerden’s conclusions indicate it’s Nelson Mandela they intend to kill,” said Scheepers.

  “Believe?” said de Klerk. “I believe in God. But I don’t know if he exists. Nor do I know if there is more than one.”

  Scheepers was dumbfounded by the response. But he understood what de Klerk meant.

  The president raised his hands, then let them drop on his desk.

  “A committee,” he said thoughtfully. “That wants to frustrate all we’ve achieved. Dismantling in a just way policies that have gone wrong. They are trying to open the floodgates over our country. They will not be allowed to do that.”

  “Of course not,” said Scheepers.

  De Klerk was lost in thought once more. Scheepers waited without saying anything.

  “Every day I expect some crazy fanatic to get to me,” he said circumspectly. “I think about what happened to my predecessor Verwoerd. Stabbed to death in parliament. I am aware the same could happen to me. It does not scare me. What does frighten me, though, is that there isn’t really anybody who can take over after me.”

  De Klerk looked at him, smiling slightly.

  “You are still young,” he said. “But right now the future of this country is in the hands of two old men, Nelson Mandela and me. That’s why it would be desirable for both of us to live a little bit longer.”

  “Shouldn’t Nelson Mandela get a greatly increased bodyguard?” asked Scheepers.

  “Nelson Mandela is a very special man,” replied de Klerk. “He’s not particularly fond of bodyguards. Outstanding men rarely are. Just look at de Gaulle. That’s why everything will have to be handled very discreetly. But of course I have arranged for his guard to be strengthened. He doesn’t need to hear about it, though.”

  The audience was at an end.

  “Two days,” said de Klerk. “No more.”

  Scheepers got to his feet and bowed.

  “One more thing,” said de Klerk. “You mustn’t forget what happened to van Heerden. Be careful.”

  It was not until he had left the government building that what President de Klerk said really sunk in. Unseen eyes were watching over him as well. He broke into a cold sweat as he got into his car and drove home.

  One again his mind wandered to the lioness that had seemed almost white in the cold, clear moonlight.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Kurt Wallander had always imagined death as black.

  Now, as he stood on the beach shrouded in fog, he realized that death did not respect colors. Here it was white. The fog enclosed him completely; he thought he could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the shore, but it was the fog that dominated and strengthened his feeling of not knowing which way to turn.

  When he had been higher up on the training ground, surrounded by invisible sheep, and it was all over, he did not have a single clear thought in his head. He knew Victor Mabasha was dead, that he himself had killed a human being, and that Konovalenko had escaped yet again, swallowed up by all the whiteness surrounding them. Svedberg and Martinson had emerged from the fog like two pale ghosts of themselves. He could see in their faces his own horror at being surrounded by dead bodies. He had felt simultaneously a desire to run away and never come back, but also to continue the hunt for Konovalenko. Afterwards he recalled what happened in those few moments as something peripheral to him, seen from a distance. It was a different Wallander standing there, waving his guns around. Not him, but somebody who had temporarily possessed him. Only when he yelled at Martinson and Svedberg to keep their distance, then skidded and scrambled up the slope finding himself being alone in the fog, did he slowly begin to understand what had happened. Victor Mabasha was dead, shot through the head, just like Louise Åkerblom. The fat man had started back and flung his hands in the air. He was also dead, and Wallander had shot him.

  He yelled out, like a solitary human foghorn in the mist. There’s no turning back, he told himself desperately. I’ll disappear into this fog. When it lifts, I won’t exist any more.

  He tried to gather the last vestiges of reason he thought he still had left. Go back, he told himself. Go back to the dead men. Your colleagues are there. You can continue the search for Konovalenko together.

  Then he walked away. He could not go back. If he had one duty left, it was to find Konovalenko, kill him if that could not be avoided, but preferably catch him and hand him over to Björk. Once that was done he could sleep. When he woke up again, the nightmare would be over. But that was not true. The nightmare would still be there. In shooting Rykoff, he had done something he would never be able to shake off. And so he might just as well go hunting for Konovalenko. He had a vague feeling he was already trying to find some way to atone for the killing of Rykoff.

  Konovalenko was somewhere out there in the fog. Maybe close by. Helplessly, Wallander fired a shot straight into the whiteness, as if trying to split the fog. He brushed aside the sweaty hair that was sticking to his forehead. Then he saw he was bleeding. He must have cut himself when Rykoff shattered the window panes on Mariagatan. He looked down at his clothes, and saw they were soaked in blood. It was dripping down onto the sand. He stood still, waiting for his breathing to calm down. Then he continued. He could follow Konovalenko’s tracks in the sand. He tucked the pistol in his belt. He held the shotgun cocked and ready, at hip level. It seemed to him from Konovalenko’s footprints that he had been moving quickly, running perhaps. He speeded up, following the scent like a dog. The thick fog suddenly gave him the impression he was standing still while the sand was moving. Just then, he noted that Konovalenko had stopped and turned around before running off in a different direction. The tracks led back up to the cliff. Wallander realized they would disappear as soon as they came to the grass. He scrambled up the slope and saw he was at the eastern edge of the training ground. He stopped to listen. Far behind him he could hear the sound of a siren fading away into the distance. Then a sheep bleated, very close by. Silence once again. He followed the fence northwards. It was the only bearing he had. He half-expected Konovalenko to loom up out of the fog at any moment. Wallander tried to imagine what it must be like to be shot through the head. But he could not feel anything. The whole purpose of his life just now was to follow that fence along the perimeter of the training ground, nothing else. Konovalenko was somewhere out there with his gun and Wallander was going to find him.

  When Wallander hit the road to Sandhammaren, there was nothing to see but fog. He thought he could make out the dim shape of a horse on the other side, standing motionless, ears cocked.

  Then he stood in the middle of the road and urinated. In the distance he could hear a car going by on the road to Kristianstad.

  He started walking towards Kaseberga. Konovalenko had disappeared. He had escaped yet again. Wallander was walking aimlessly. Walking was easier than standing still. He wished Baiba Leipa would emerge from the whiteness and
come towards him. But there was nothing. Just him and the damp asphalt.

  A bicycle leaned against the remains of an old milk pallet. It was unlocked, and it seemed to Wallander someone had left it there for him. He used the baggage rack for the shotgun and cycled off. As soon as possible he turned off the road onto the dirt roads criss-crossing the plain. Eventually he came to his father’s house. It was dark, apart from a single lamp outside the front door. He stood still and listened. Then he hid the bicycle behind the shed. He tiptoed carefully over the gravel. He knew his father had a spare key hidden underneath a broken flowerpot on the outside stairs leading down to the cellar. He unlocked the door to his father’s studio. There was an inside room where he kept his paints and old canvases. He closed the door behind him and switched on the light. The brightness from the bulb took him by surprise. It was as if he expected the fog to be here as well. He ducked under the cold water tap and tried to rinse the blood off his face. He could see his reflection in a broken mirror on the wall. He did not recognize his own eyes. They were staring, bloodshot, shifting anxiously. He heated up some coffee on the filthy electric hot plate. It was four in the morning. He knew his father generally got up at half past five. He would have to be gone by then. What he needed just now was a hideaway. Various alternatives, all of them impossible, flashed through his mind. But in the end he decided what to do. He drank his coffee, left the studio, crossed over the courtyard, and carefully unlocked the door to the main house. He stood in the hall, and could smell the acrid, oldmannish aroma in his nostrils. He listened. Not a sound. He went cautiously into the kitchen where the telephone was, closing the door behind him. To his surprise he remembered the number. With his hand on the receiver, he thought about what he was going to say. Then he dialed.

  Sten Widen answered almost right away. Wallander could hear he was already wide awake. Horsey people get up early, he thought.