The White Lioness

by Henning Mankell

  Konovalenko was standing on the gravel path by the flagpole, urinating. He was barefoot, dressed in trousers and an open shirt. Wallander did not move. Even so, something alarmed Konovalenko, possibly his instinct for danger that never waned. He turned around. Wallander had his pistol drawn. For a split second they both assessed the situation. Wallander realized Konovalenko had made the mistake of leaving the house without his gun. Konovalenko could see Wallander would either kill him or intercept him before he could reach the front door. Konovalenko found himself in a situation that gave him no choice. He flung himself to one side with such force that just for a moment, Wallander lost sight of him. Then he ran as fast as he could, dodging from side to side, and jumped over the fence. He was already in the road before Wallander had grasped what was happening and began chasing him. It had all happened in a flash. That is why he did not see Sikosi Tsiki standing in a window, watching what was going on.

  Sikosi Tsiki knew something alarming had happened. He did not know what. But he realized the instructions Konovalenko gave him the day before must now be followed. “If anything happens,” Konovalenko told him, handing over an envelope, “follow the instructions inside here. That way you’ll make it back to South Africa. Get in touch with the man you already met, the one who gave you your money and your last set of instructions.”

  He waited by the window for a short while.

  Then he sat down at a table and opened the envelope.

  An hour later he left the house and was on his way.

  Konovalenko had about a fifty-meter head start. Wallander wondered how he could run so incredibly fast. They were running in the direction of where Wallander had parked his car. Konovalenko had a car parked in the same lot! Wallander cursed and ran even faster. But the distance between them got no shorter. He was right. Konovalenko headed for a Mercedes, ripped open the door, which was unlocked, and started the engine. It all went so fast Wallander realized the ignition key must have been in the lock. Konovalenko was prepared, even if he had made the mistake of leaving the house without a gun. Just then Wallander saw a flash. Instinctively he threw himself to one side. The bullet whined past and hit the asphalt. Wallander huddled behind a bicycle stand and hoped he was invisible. Then he heard the car make a racing start.

  He rushed towards his own car, fumbling with the keys and thinking he had doubtless lost Konovalenko already. But he was sure he would get off Oland as quickly as possible. If he stayed on the island he was bound to be cornered sooner or later. Wallander slammed down the gas pedal. He caught sight of Konovalenko at the rotary just before the bridge. Wallander overtook a slow-moving truck at vast speed and nearly lost control of the car as he clipped the flower bed in the center of the rotary. Then he raced onto the bridge. The Mercedes was in front of him. He must think of something. If it came down to a car chase, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Konovalenko.

  It all came to a head at the highest part of the bridge.

  Konovalenko was going at very high speed, but Wallander had managed to keep on his tail. When he was sure of not hitting a car coming in the opposite direction, he stuck his pistol out of the window and shot. His aim was just to hit the car. The first shot missed. But the second was on target, and by an incredible stroke of luck he managed to burst one of the rear tires. The Mercedes immediately went into a skid, and Konovalenko could not stop it. Wallander slammed on the brakes and watched as Konovalenko careered into the concrete barrier at the outer edge of the bridge. There was an enormous crash. Wallander could not see what had happened to Konovalenko behind the wheel. But without a second thought he shifted into first gear and drove straight into the back of the wrecked car. He felt a searing pain as the safety belt bit into his chest. Wallander wrestled with the lever to find reverse. With tires screeching, he backed off and prepared for another ram. Then he repeated the maneuver one more time. The car in front was hurled a few more meters forward. Wallander backed off again, flung open the door, and took cover. Cars were already lining up behind him. When Wallander waved his pistol and yelled at the drivers to keep out of the way, several tumbled out of their cars and ran for it. Wallander could see a similar line of cars on the other side of the bridge. Still no sign of Konovalenko. Even so, he fired a shot at the crumpled car.

  After the second bullet, the gas tank exploded. Wallander never knew for sure afterwards if it was his bullet that caused the fire, or whether the leaking gas had ignited for some other reason. The car was instantly engulfed by roaring flames and thick smoke. Wallander approached the car cautiously.

  Konovalenko was on fire.

  He was trapped on his back with half his upper body sticking out through the windshield. Afterwards, Wallander would remember his staring eyes, indicating he could not believe what was happening to him. Then his hair started burning, and a few seconds later it was obvious to Wallander he was dead. Sirens were approaching in the distance. He walked slowly back to his own car and leaned against the door.

  He gazed out over Kalmar Sound. The water glistened. There was a smell of the sea. His mind was a complete blank; he could not think at all. Something had come to an end, and he felt stupefied. Then he heard a voice from a megaphone ordering somebody to lay down their arms. It was a while before he realized the voice was talking to him. He turned round and saw fire engines and patrol cars on the Kalmar side. Konavalenko’s car was still ablaze. Wallander looked at his pistol. Then he threw it over the side of the bridge. Armed police were coming towards him. Wallander waved his ID.

  “Chief Inspector Wallander,” he yelled. “I’m a cop!”

  He was soon surrounded by suspicious local colleagues.

  “I’m a cop and my name’s Wallander,” he repeated. “You might have read about me in the papers. There’s been an APB on me since last week.”

  “I recognize you,” said one of the cops in a broad local accent.

  “The guy on fire in the car is Konovalenko,” said Wallander. “He’s the one who shot our colleague in Stockholm. And a few more besides.”

  Wallander looked around.

  Something that might have been joy, or maybe relief, was beginning to well up inside him.

  “Shall we go?” he asked. “I could use a cup of coffee. It’s all over here.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Jan Kleyn was arrested in his office at BOSS headquarters around midday, Friday, May 22. Soon after eight in the morning Chief Prosecutor Wervey had listened to Scheepers’s account of the circumstances and President de Klerk’s decision late the previous night. Then, without comment, he signed a warrant for Jan Kleyn’s arrest and another to search his house. Scheepers requested that Inspector Borstlap, who had made a good impression in connection with the murder of van Heerden, should take care of the arrest of Jan Kleyn. When Borstlap had deposited Jan Kleyn in an interrogation room, he went to an adjacent room where Scheepers was waiting. He was able to report that the arrest had taken place without any problems. But he had observed something that seemed to him important, and possibly worrisome. His information about why somebody in the intelligence service should be brought in for interrogation was scanty. Scheepers had stressed the secrecy surrounding everything to do with state security. Nevertheless, Borstlap had been told in confidence that President de Klerk was aware of what was happening. Borstlap had therefore felt instinctively that he ought to report what he had seen.

  Jan Kleyn had not been surprised by his arrest. Borstlap had seen through his indignation as a poorly performed charade. Somebody must have warned Jan Kleyn about what was going to happen. Since it was clear to Borstlap that the decision to arrest Jan Kleyn had been made in great haste, he realized Kleyn must either have friends in circles close to the president or there must be a mole operating in the public prosecutor’s office. Scheepers listened to what Borstlap had to say. It was less than twelve hours since de Klerk made his decision. Apart from the president only Wervey and Borstlap knew what was going to happen. It was clear to Scheepers he must inform de Klerk i
mmediately that his office must be bugged. He asked Borstlap to wait outside while he made an important telephone call. But he did not get hold of de Klerk. His secretary said he was in a meeting and could not be reached until later in the afternoon.

  Scheepers left the room and went out to Borstlap. He had made up his mind to keep Kleyn waiting. He had no illusions about the latter being worried because he was not told why he had been arrested. It was more for his own sake. Scheepers felt a degree of uncertainty about the imminent confrontation.

  They drove to Jan Kleyn’s house outside Pretoria. Borstlap was driving, and Scheepers was slumped in the back seat. He suddenly started to think about the white lioness he and Judith had seen. It was a symbol of Africa, he thought. The animal at rest, the calm before it gets to its feet and musters all its strength. The beast of prey one cannot afford to wound, but which must be killed if it starts to attack.

  Scheepers gazed out of the car window and wondered what was happening in his life. He wondered whether the grand design worked out by de Klerk and Nelson Mandela, involving the ultimate retreat of the whites, would actually succeed. Or would it lead to chaos, uncontrolled violence, a crazy civil war with positions and alliances constantly changing and the outcome impossible to predict? The apocalypse, he thought. The doomsday we have always tried to contain like an evil genie in a bottle. Will the genie take its revenge when the bottle is broken?

  They stopped outside the gate of Jan Kleyn’s big house. Borstlap had already informed him on his arrest that his house would be searched, and requested the keys. Jan Kleyn played up his outraged dignity and refused. Then Borstlap threatened to break down the front door. He got the keys in the end. There was a guard posted outside the house, and a gardener. Scheepers introduced himself. He looked around the walled yard. It was designed on the basis of straight lines. In addition, it was so well tended it had lost all signs of life. That’s what Jan Kleyn must be like as well, he thought to himself. His life is an extension of straight ideological lines. There is no room in his life for divergence, not in his thoughts, his emotions, nor his garden. The exception is his secret: Miranda and Matilda.

  They entered the house. A black servant stared at them in astonishment. Scheepers asked him to wait outside while they searched the building. They asked him to tell the gardener and the guard not to go away until they received permission.

  The house was sparsely but expensively furnished. They could see Jan Kleyn preferred marble, steel, and substantial wood in his furniture. Lithographs hung here and there on the walls. The motifs were taken from South African history. There were also some fencing swords, old pistols and game bags. A hunting trophy was mounted over the mantelpiece, a stuffed kudu with powerful, curved horns. While Borstlap went through the whole house, Scheepers shut himself into Jan Kleyn’s study. The desk was empty. There was a filing cabinet against one wall. Scheepers looked for a safe but found nothing. He went downstairs to the living room where Borstlap was searching through a bookcase.

  “There must be a safe,” said Scheepers.

  Borstlap picked up Jan Kleyn’s keys and showed them to him.

  “No key, though,” he said.

  “You can be sure he’s chosen a place for the safe he thinks is the last place we’d think of looking,” said Scheepers. “So that’s where we’ll start. Where’s the last place we’d think of looking?”

  “Right in front of our very eyes,” said Borstlap. “The best hiding place is often the most obvious one. That’s what we find hardest to see.”

  “Concentrate on finding the safe,” said Scheepers. “There’s nothing on the bookshelves.”

  Borstlap nodded and replaced the book he was holding in his hand. Scheepers went back to the study. He sat at the desk and started opening the drawers in turn.

  Two hours later he had found nothing at all of significance for the investigation. Jan Kleyn’s papers were mostly concerned with his private life and contained nothing remarkable. Or else they were to do with his coin collection. To his astonishment Scheepers discovered that Jan Kleyn was chairman of the South African Numismatic Society, and did sterling work on behalf of the country’s coin collectors. Another peculiarity, he thought. But that is hardly of significance for my investigation.

  Borstlap had made two thorough searches of the house without finding a safe.

  “There must be one,” said Scheepers.

  Borstlap called in the servant and asked him where the safe was. The man stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  “A secret cupboard,” said Borstlap. “Hidden, always locked?”

  “There isn’t one,” said the man.

  Borstlap sent him out again in annoyance. Then they started searching anew. Scheepers tried to see if there were any irregularities in the house’s architecture. It was not unusual for South Africans to have secret chambers built into their houses. He found nothing. While Borstlap was up in the cramped loft searching around with a flashlight, Scheepers went out into the yard. He observed the house from the back. The solution struck him more or less immediately. The house had no chimney. He went back inside and squatted in front of the open hearth. They had pocket flashlights with them, and he shone his up into the chimney. The safe was cut into the wall. When he tried the handle he found to his surprise that it was unlocked. Just then Borstlap came downstairs.

  “A well-chosen hiding place,” said Scheepers.

  Borstlap nodded. He was annoyed that he had failed to find it himself.

  Scheepers sat down at the marble table in front of the big leather sofa. Borstlap had gone outside for a cigarette. Scheepers sorted through the papers from the safe. There were insurance policies, some envelopes containing old coins, the house deeds, about twenty stock certificates, and some government debentures. He pushed it all to one side and concentrated on a small, black notebook. He leafed through the pages. They were full of cryptic notes, a mixture of names, places and combinations of numbers. Scheepers decided to take the book with him. He replaced the papers in the safe and went out to Borstlap.

  A thought suddenly struck him. He beckoned to the three men who squatted watching them.

  “Were there any visitors late last night?” he asked.

  The gardener replied.

  “Only Mofolo, the night watchman, can tell you that,” he said.

  “And he’s not here, of course. ”

  “He comes at seven o’clock.”

  Scheepers nodded. He would come back.

  They drove back to Johannesburg. On the way they stopped for a late lunch. They separated at a quarter past four outside the police station. Scheepers could not put it off any longer. He would have to start the interrogation of Jan Kleyn now. But first he would make another attempt to get hold of President de Klerk.

  When the security guard outside President de Klerk’s office called near midnight, Jan Kleyn had been surprised. He knew of course that a young prosecutor by the name of Scheepers had been given the assignment of trying to sort out the suspicions of a conspiracy. All the time he was confident of being a sufficient number of steps ahead of the man trying to track him down. But now he realized Scheepers was closer to him than he had imagined. He got up, dressed, and prepared to be up all night. He guessed he had until at least ten the following morning. Scheepers would need an hour or two next day in order to arrange all the papers needed for his arrest. By then he must have made sure he had issued all the necessary instructions and ensured the operation would not run into trouble. He went down to the kitchen and made tea. Then he sat down to write a summary. There was a lot to keep in mind. But he would manage.

  Getting arrested was an unexpected complication. But he had considered the possibility. The situation was annoying, but not impossible to resolve. As he could not be sure how long Scheepers was thinking of holding him, he must make plans on the assumption he would be detained until the assassination of Mandela had been carried out.

  That was his first task that night. To turn what would happen the followi
ng day to his own advantage. As long as he was detained, they would not be able to accuse him of being involved in the various activities. He thought through what was going to happen. It was one in the morning by the time he called Franz Malan.

  “Get dressed and come over here,” he said.

  Franz Malan was half-awake and confused. Jan Kleyn did not mention his name.

  “Get dressed and come over here,” he repeated.

  Franz Malan asked no questions.

  Just over an hour later, shortly after two, he entered Jan Kleyn’s living room. The drapes were closed. The night watchman who opened the gate for him was threatened with instant dismissal if he ever revealed the visitors who came to the house late in the evening or during the night. Jan Kleyn paid him a very high wage in order to guarantee the guy’s silence.

  Franz Malan was nervous. He knew Jan Kleyn would never have summoned him unless something important had come up.

  Jan Kleyn hardly let him sit down before explaining what had happened, what would happen the next morning, and what must be fixed that night. What Franz Malan heard increased his nervousness. He could see his own responsibility would increase beyond what he was really happy with.