“So it’s gone that far,” he said when Scheepers had finished. “We’ve been expecting this. But we really thought some crazy Boer would first try to slit the throat of that traitor de Klerk.”
“A professional killer,” said Scheepers. “No face, no name. But he might have cropped up before. Not least in the vicinity of Jan Kleyn. Those ravens you were talking about could perhaps do some listening. The man could be white, he could be black. I’ve found an indication that he could be due for a lot of money. A million rand, perhaps more.”
“It ought to be possible to identify him,” said Steve. “Jan Kleyn only picks the best. If he’s a South African, black or white, we’ll find him.”
“Find him and stop him,” said Scheepers. “Kill him. We have to work together.”
“No,” said Steve. “We’re meeting now. But this is the only time. We’re going from two different directions, both on this occasion and in the future. Nothing else is possible.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t share each other’s secrets. Everything is still too unsure, too uncertain. We avoid all pacts and agreements unless they are absolutely essential. Don’t forget we’re enemies. And the war in our country has been going on for a very long time. Although you don’t want to recognize that fact.”
“We see things differently,” said Scheepers.
“Yes,” said Steve. “We do.”
The conversation had lasted only a few minutes. Even so, Steve got to his feet and Scheepers gathered it was all over.
“Miranda exists,” said Steve. “You can contact my world through her.”
“Yes,” said Scheepers. “She exists. We have to stop this assassination.”
“Right,” said Steve. “But I guess you are the ones who are going to have to do it. You are still the ones with the resources. I have nothing. Apart from a tin hut. And Miranda. And Matilda. Just imagine what would happen if the assassination came off.”
“I’d rather not think about it.”
Steve stared at him for a moment in silence. Then he disappeared through the door without saying goodbye. Scheepers followed him into the bright sunlight. Matilda led him back to the car without speaking. Once again he sat in the back seat with a hood over his head. In the darkness he was already preparing what to say to President de Klerk.
De Klerk had a recurrent dream about termites.
He was in a house where every floor, every wall, every piece of furniture had been attacked by the hungry insects. Why he had come to the house, he had no idea. Grass was growing up between the floorboards, the windowpanes were shattered, and the furious chewing of the termites was like an itch in his own body. In his dream he had a very short time in which to write an important speech. His usual shorthand typist had disappeared, and he had to do the work himself. But when he started writing, termites came pouring out of his pen.
At that point he usually woke up. He would lie in the dark, thinking how the dream might anticipate coming reality. Maybe everything was too late already? What he wanted to achieve, to rescue South Africa from disintegration while still preserving the influence and special status of the whites as far as possible, could well be already too far out of step with black impatience. Only Nelson Mandela could convince him there was no other course to take. De Klerk knew they both shared the same fear. Uncontrolled violence, a chaotic collapse that no one could control, a breeding ground for a brutal military coup intent on revenge, or various ethnic groupings that would fight each other until nothing was left.
It was ten at night on Thursday, May 21. De Klerk knew the young lawyer Scheepers was already waiting in his anteroom. But de Klerk did not feel ready to receive him just yet. He was tired, his head bursting with all the problems he was constantly being forced to try and solve. He got up from his desk and went over to one of the high windows. He sometimes felt petrified by all the responsibility resting on his shoulders. He thought it was too much for one man to bear. He sometimes felt an instinctive urge to run away, to make himself invisible, to go straight out into the bush and simply disappear, to fade away into a mirage. But he knew he would not do that. The God he found increasingly difficult to talk to and believe in was maybe still shielding him after all. He wondered how much time he still had. His mood was constantly changing. From being convinced he was already living on borrowed time, he could start believing he had another five years after all. And time was what he needed. His grand design—to delay the transition to a new kind of society for as long as possible, and meanwhile to entice a large number of black voters into his own party—needed time. But he could also see that Nelson Mandela would refuse to allow him time that was not used to pave the way for the transition.
It seemed to him there was an element of artificiality in everything he did. I too am really an upholder of the impossible dream, that my country will never change. The difference between me and a fanatic madman who wants to defend the impossible dream with open violence is very small.
Time is running out for South Africa, it seemed to him. What is happening now ought to have happened many years ago. But history does not follow invisible guidelines.
He returned to his desk and rang the bell. Shortly afterwards Scheepers came in. De Klerk had come to appreciate his energy and thoroughness. He overlooked the streak of naive innocence he also detected in the young lawyer. Even this young Afrikaner had to learn there were sharp rocks under the soft sand.
He listened to Scheepers’s report with half-closed eyes. The words that got through to him piled up in his consciousness. When Scheepers had finished, de Klerk looked searchingly at him.
“I take it for granted everything I’ve just heard is true,” said de Klerk.
“Yes,” replied Scheepers. “No doubt about it.”
“None at all?”
“No.”
De Klerk thought for a moment before proceeding.
“So they’re going to kill Nelson Mandela,” he said. “Some miserable contract killer selected and paid by the executive branch of this secret committee. The murder will take place in the near future when Mandela is making one of his many public appearances. The consequence will be chaos, a bloodbath, total collapse. A group of influential boere are waiting in the wings to take over the government of this country. The constitution and the social order will be overturned. A corporate regime will be imposed, consisting of equal parts from the military, the police and civilian groups. The future will be one long, drawn-out state of emergency. Is that right?”
“Yes,” said Scheepers. “If I may be allowed to venture a guess, I would say the assassination attempt will be on June 12.”
“Why?”
“Nelson Mandela is due to speak in Cape Town. I have received information to the effect that the army information office has being displaying an unusual amount of interest in the plans made for dealing with the occasion by the local police. There are also other indications which suggest this is the case. I am well aware it is only a guess. But I’m convinced it’s an informed guess.”
“Three weeks,” said de Klerk. “Three weeks in which to stop these lunatics.”
“If that is in fact right,” said Scheepers. “We can’t ignore the possibility that June 12 and Cape Town are a red herring. The people involved in this are very cunning. The assassination attempt could easily take place tomorrow.”
“In other words, at any time,” said de Klerk. “Any place. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
He fell silent. Scheepers waited.
“I must speak with Nelson Mandela,” said de Klerk. “He has to know what’s afoot.”
Then he turned to Scheepers.
“These people must be stopped without delay,” he said.
“We don’t know who they are,” Scheepers pointed out. “How can we stop something we don’t know about?”
“What about the man they’ve hired?”
“We don’t know who he is either.”
De Klerk looked thoughtfully at him
.
“You have a plan,” he said. “I can see it in your face.”
Scheepers could feel himself blushing.
“Mr. President,” he said. “I think the key to all this is Jan Kleyn. The man in the intelligence service. He has to be arrested immediately. Of course, the risk is he won’t talk. Or he might prefer to commit suicide. But I can see no alternative to interrogating him.”
De Klerk nodded.
“Let’s do that,” he said. “In fact we have quite a few skillful interrogators who can usually force the truth out of people.”
Out of blacks, thought Scheepers. Who then die in mysterious circumstances.
“I think it would be best if I could conduct the interrogation,” he said. “I know most about it, after all.”
“Do you think you can handle him?”
“Yes.”
The president rose. The audience was over.
“Jan Kleyn will be arrested tomorrow,” said de Klerk. “And I want running reports from now on. Once every day.”
The shook hands.
Scheepers left, nodding to the old security guard waiting in the antechamber. Then he drove home through the night, with his pistol on the seat beside him.
De Klerk stood at his window for a long time, deep in thought.
Then he worked at his desk for a few more hours.
Outside in the antechamber, the old guard ambled round straightening out folds in the carpets and smoothing cushions on chairs. All the time he was thinking over what he had overheard with his ear to the door of the president’s private office. He realized the situation was extremely serious. He went into the room that served as his own modest office. He removed the telephone from the plug routed through the switchboard. Behind a loose wooden panel was another socket only he knew about. He lifted the receiver and got a direct line out. Then he dialed a number.
The answer came almost immediately. Jan Kleyn was not yet asleep.
After his conversation with the guard at the president’s private office, he could see this was going to be a sleepless night.
Countdown to a Vacuum
Chapter Twenty-nine
Late in the evening Sikosi Tsiki killed a mouse with a wellaimed throw of a knife. By then Tania had already gone to bed. Konovalenko was waiting until it was late enough for him to call Jan Kleyn in South Africa and get the final instructions for Sikosi Tsiki’s return journey. Konovalenko also intended to raise the question of his own future as an immigrant to South Africa. There was not a sound to be heard from the cellar. Tania had been down to look at the girl and said she was asleep. For the first time in ages he felt totally content. He had made contact with Wallander. Konovalenko had demanded an unsigned letter of safe conduct from him, in return for getting his daughter back unharmed. Wallander would give him a week’s start, and personally insure the police search was wrongly directed. As Konovalenko intended to return to Stockholm immediately, Wallander would make sure the search for him was concentrated in southern Sweden.
But none of this was true, of course. Konovalenko intended to shoot both him and the girl. He wondered whether Wallander really believed what he had said. If so he would return to being the kind of cop Konovalenko had started by thinking he was, the naive provincial drudge. But he had no intention of making the mistake of underestimating Wallander yet again.
During the day he had devoted many hours to Sikosi Tsiki. Just as in preparing Victor Mabasha, Konovalenko had run through various possible turns of events in connection with the assassination attempt. He had the impression Sikosi Tsiki was quicker-witted than Victor Mabasha. Moreover, he seemed completely unaffected by the passing but unambiguous racist remarks Konovalenko could not resist making. He intended to provoke him even more over the next few days, to see if he could pin down the limit of his self-control.
There was one characteristic Sikosi Tsiki shared with Victor Mabasha. Konovalenko started to wonder whether it was something typical of the African temperament. He was thinking of their introversion, the impossible task of trying to figure out what they really thought. It irritated him. He was used to being able to see straight through people, read their thoughts, and hence give himself an opportunity to anticipate their reactions.
He gazed at the man who had just speared a mouse in a corner of the room with his strangely curved knife. He’ll do a good job, thought Konovalenko. A few more days of planning and weapons training, and he’ll be ready to go home. He’ll be my entrance visa to South Africa.
Sikosi Tsiki stood up and retrieved his knife with the mouse speared on the end of it. Then he went out into the kitchen and removed the victim. He dropped it into a garbage pail and rinsed the blade. Konovalenko observed him, occasionally taking a sip of vodka from his glass.
“A knife with a curved blade,” he said. “I’ve never seen one like that before.”
“My ancestors used to make them over a thousand years ago,” said Sikosi Tsiki.
“But the curved blade?” wondered Konovalenko. “Why?”
“Nobody knows,” answered Sikosi Tsiki. “It’s still a secret. The day the secret is revealed, the knife will lose its power.”
Soon after he disappeared into his room. Konovalenko was annoyed by the mysterious reply he had received. He heard Sikosi Tsiki locking the door behind him.
Konovalenko was on his own now. He went around the room turning off the lights, apart from the lamp next to the table where the telephone was. He checked the time. Half past midnight. Soon he would call Jan Kleyn. He listened at the cellar hatch. Not a sound. He poured himself another glass of vodka. He would save it until after he had finished speaking with Jan Kleyn.
The call to South Africa was brief.
Jan Kleyn listened to Konovalenko’s assurances that Sikosi Tsiki would cause no problems. There was no doubt about his mental stability. Then Jan Kleyn announced his verdict. He wanted Sikosi Tsiki to return to South Africa within a week at the most. Konovalenko’s job was to make arrangements immediately to get him out of Sweden, and make sure the return journey to Johannesburg was booked and confirmed. Konovalenko had the impression Jan Kleyn was in a hurry, that he was under pressure. Of course, he had no way of confirming his hunch. But it was enough to put him off his stride when it came to discussing his own journey to South Africa. The call ended without his having said a single word about the future. He felt annoyed with himself afterwards. He drained his vodka glass and wondered if Jan Kleyn intended to double-cross him. But he dismissed the thought. Besides, he was convinced they really needed his talents and experience in South Africa. He drank another glass of vodka, then went out onto the porch to urinate. It was raining. He gazed out into the mist, and decided he should be pleased with himself. Just a few more hours and all his problems would be over, for this particular job. His assignment was almost at an end. Then he would have time to devote to his future. Not the least significant decision he would have to make was whether to take Tania with him to South Africa, or if he should do what he did with his wife and leave her behind.
He locked the door, retired to his own room and lay down. He did not get undressed, but just pulled a blanket over him. Tania could sleep alone tonight. He needed some rest.
She was lying awake in her room, and heard Konovalenko shut the door and lie down on top of the bed. She lay still, listening. She was scared. Deep down she had the feeling it would be impossible to get the girl out of the cellar and then leave the house without Konovalenko hearing. Nor was it possible to lock the door to his room quietly. She had tried that earlier in the day, when Konovalenko and the African were out shooting rifles in the quarry. Besides, it was possible for him to jump out of the bedroom window even if the door was barricaded. She wished she had some sleeping pills. She could have dissolved them in one of his vodka bottles. But all she had was herself, and she knew she had to try. Earlier in the day she had prepared a little suitcase with some money and clothes. She hid it in the barn. She also left her rain clothes there, and a pair of boots
.
She checked the time. A quarter past one. She knew the meeting with the cop was scheduled for dawn. She and the daughter would have to be a long way away by then. As soon as she heard Konovalenko start to snore, she would get up. She knew Konovalenko was a very light sleeper and kept waking up, but rarely during the first half hour after falling asleep.
She still was not sure why she was doing this. She knew she was risking her own life. But she did not feel the need to justify her actions to herself. Some things were just dictated by life itself.
Konovalenko turned over and coughed. Twenty-five past one. Some nights Konovalenko chose not to sleep, but just lay on the bed resting. If this was one of those nights, there was nothing she could do to help the girl. She noticed how that made her feel even more scared. It was a threat that seemed to her greater than any danger she might run herself.
At twenty to two she finally heard Konovalenko start to snore. She listened for about half a minute. Then she carefully got out of bed. She was fully dressed. All the time she had been clutching the key to the lock on the chains around the girl’s ankles. She cautiously opened the door of her room and avoided the floorboards she knew would creak. She sneaked into the kitchen, switched on her flashlight and started easing up the hatch very carefully. It was a critical moment: the girl might start screaming. That had not happened so far. But it could, she realized that. Konovalenko was snoring. She listened. Then she climbed cautiously down the ladder. The girl was curled into a ball. Her eyes were open. Tania squatted beside her and whispered while stroking her cropped hair. She said they were going to run away, but she would have to be very, very quiet. The girl did not react. Her eyes were completely expressionless. Tania was suddenly afraid she would not be able to move. Perhaps she was rendered immobile by fear? She had to turn her over on her side in order to get to the padlock. The girl suddenly started kicking and punching. Tania just managed to place her hand over the girl’s mouth before she started screaming. Tania was strong, and pressed as hard as she could. Just one half-stifled yell would be enough to wake Konovalenko. She shuddered at the thought. Konovalenko was quite capable of nailing down the hatch and leaving them both down there in the darkness. Tania tried to whisper to her at the same time as she pressed. The girl’s eyes had come alive, and Tania hoped she would understand now. She slowly took away her hand, unlocked the padlock, and carefully removed the chains.
The White Lioness Page 43