“My response is that I will not say anything until I have a lawyer at my side.”
Scheepers was momentarily put off his stride. The normal procedure was that when a person is arrested, the first step is to give him the opportunity of contacting a lawyer.
“Everything has been conducted by the book,” said Jan Kleyn, as if he could see right through Scheepers’ hesitation. “But my lawyer hasn’t arrived yet.”
“We can start with personal details, then,” said Scheepers. “You don’t need to have a lawyer present for that.”
“Of course not.”
Scheepers left the room as soon as he had recorded all the details. He left instructions to send for him the moment the lawyer showed up. When he got to the prosecutor’s waiting room, he was covered in sweat. Jan Kleyn’s nonchalant superiority unnerved him. How could he be so indifferent when faced with charges which, if proven, could result in his being sentenced to death?
Scheepers suddenly began to wonder if he would be able to handle him as required. Maybe he should contact Wervey and suggest that a more experienced interrogator should be called in? On the other hand he knew Wervey was expecting him to carry off the assignment he had been given. Wervey never gave anybody the same challenge twice. His whole career would be under threat if he failed to live up to expectations. He took off his jacket and rinsed his face under the cold water tap. Then he ran through the questions he planned to put one more time.
He also managed to get through to President de Klerk. As soon as he could he passed on his suspicion that the president’s office was bugged. De Klerk heard him through without interrupting.
“I’ll have that looked into,” he said when Scheepers was through. That was the end of the conversation.
It was six o’clock before he was informed that the lawyer had shown up. He returned to the interview room immediately. The lawyer by Jan Kleyn’s side was about forty and called Kritzinger. They shook hands and greeted each other coolly. Scheepers could see right away that Kritzinger and Jan Kleyn were old acquaintances. It was possible Kritzinger had deliberately delayed his arrival in order to give Jan Kleyn breathing space and at the same time unnerve the chief interrogator. The effect on Scheepers was the opposite, and he remained quite calm. All the doubts he had experienced over the last few hours had disappeared.
“I have examined the detention order,” said Kritzinger. “These are serious charges.”
“It’s a serious crime to undermine national security,” Scheepers responded.
“My client absolutely rejects all the charges,” said Kritzinger. “I demand that he be released immediately. Is it sensible to detain people whose daily task it is to uphold precisely that national security you refer to?”
“For the moment I am the one asking the questions,” said Scheepers. “Your client is the one required to supply the answers, not me.”
Scheepers glanced down at his papers.
“Do you know Franz Malan?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Jan Kleyn without hesitation. “He works in the military sector which deals with top secret security measures.”
“When did you last see him?”
“In connection with the terrorist attack on the restaurant near Durban. We were both called in to assist with the investigation.”
“Are you aware of a secret group of boere who call themselves simply the Committee?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“My client has already answered once,” protested Kritzinger.
“There’s nothing to prevent my asking the same question twice,” snapped Scheepers.
“I am not aware of any such Committee,” said Jan Kleyn.
“We have reason to believe the assassination of one of the black nationalist leaders is being plotted by that same Committee,” said Scheepers. “Various places and dates have been mentioned. Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
Scheepers produced the notebook.
“When your house was searched, the police found this book. Do you recognize it?”
“Of course I recognize it. It’s mine.”
“There are various notes in it about dates and places. Can you tell me what they mean?”
“What is all this?” said Jan Kleyn, turning to his lawyer. “These are private notes about birthdays and meetings with friends.”
“What do you have planned for Cape Town on June 12?”
Jan Kleyn’s expression did not waver when he replied.
“I have nothing planned at all,” he said. “I had thought of going there for a meeting with some of my fellow numismatists. But it was canceled.”
Scheepers thought Jan Kleyn still seemed totally unconcerned.
“What do you have to say about Durban on July 3?”
“Nothing.”
“You have nothing to say?”
Jan Kleyn turned to his lawyer and whispered something.
“My client declines to answer that question for personal reasons,” said Kritzinger.
“Personal reasons or not, I want an answer,” said Scheepers.
“This is lunacy,” said Jan Kleyn, with a gesture of resignation.
Scheepers suddenly noticed Jan Kleyn was sweating. Moreover one of his hands, resting on the table, had started trembling.
“All your questions so far have been completely lacking in substance,” said Kritzinger. “I shall very soon be demanding an end to all this and insisting on the immediate release of my client.”
“When it comes to investigations concerning threats to national security, the police and prosecutors have wide powers,” said Scheepers. “Now, will you please answer my question.”
“I am having an affair with a woman in Durban,” said Jan Kleyn. “As she is married, I have to meet her in extremely discreet circumstances.”
“Do you meet her regularly?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
Jan Kleyn and Kritzinger protested with one voice.
“OK, we’ll leave her name out of it for the time being,” said Scheepers. “I’ll come back to that. But if it’s true you meet her regularly and, moreover, note down various meetings in this book, is it not a little odd that there’s only one reference to Durban?”
“I get through at least ten notebooks a year,” said Jan Kleyn. “I throw full ones away regularly. Or burn them.”
“Where do you burn them?”
Jan Kleyn seemed to have recovered his composure.
“In the kitchen sink, or in the toilet,” said Jan Kleyn. “As you know already, my fireplace has no chimney. It was bricked off by the former owners. I never got around to opening it again.”
The interrogation continued. Scheepers reverted to asking questions about the secret Committee, but the answers were always the same. Kritzinger protested at regular intervals. After three hours of questioning, Scheepers decided to call it a day. He rose to his feet and said curtly that Jan Kleyn would remain in custody. Kritzinger was absolutely furious. But Scheepers overruled him. The law allowed him to detain Jan Kleyn for at least another twenty-four hours.
It was already evening by the time he went to report to Wervey, who had promised to remain in his office until he arrived. The corridors were deserted as he hurried to the chief prosecutor’s office. The door was ajar. Wervey was asleep in his chair. He knocked and went in. Wervey opened his eyes and looked at him. Scheepers sat down.
“Jan Kleyn has not admitted to any knowledge whatsoever of a conspiracy or an assassination,” he said. “I don’t think he will, either. Moreover, we have no evidence to connect him with either offence. When we searched his house, we found only one item of interest. There was a notebook in his safe, with references to various dates and locations. All of them were crossed out except one. Durban, July 3. We know that Nelson Mandela will be giving a public address on that day. The date we first suspected, Cape Town June 12, is crossed out in the book.”
Wervey quick
ly adjusted his chair to the upright position and asked to see the notebook. Scheepers had it in his case. Wervey leafed through it slowly in the light of his desk lamp.
“What explanation did he give?” asked Wervey when he got to the end.
“Various meetings. As far as Durban is concerned, he claims he is having an affair with a married woman there.”
“Start with that tomorrow,” said Wervey.
“He refuses to say who she is.”
“Tell him he won’t be released unless he tells us.”
Scheepers looked at Wervey in surprise.
“Can we do that?”
“Young man,” said Wervey. “You can do anything when you are chief prosecutor and as old as I am. Don’t forget that a man like Jan Kleyn knows how to eradicate every trace of where he’s been. He must be beaten in battle. Even if one has to resort to doubtful methods.”
“Even so, I sometimes got the feeling he was insecure,” said Scheepers hesitantly.
“He knows we’re snapping at his heels in any case,” said Wervey. “Really put him under pressure tomorrow. The same questions, over and over again. From different angles. But the same thrust, the same thrust every time.”
Scheepers nodded.
“There was one more thing,” he said. “Inspector Borstlap actually made the arrest, and he had the distinct impression Jan Kleyn had been warned. Even though only a very few people knew only a short time in advance what was going to happen.”
Wervey looked at him for a long time before responding.
“This country of ours is at war,” he said. “There are ears everywhere, human and electronic. Penetrating secrets is often the best weapon of all. Don’t forget that.”
The conversation was over.
Scheepers left the building and paused on the steps, enjoying the fresh air. He felt very tired. Then he went to his car to drive home. Just as he was about to open his car door, one of the parking attendants emerged from the shadows.
“A man left this for you,” said the attendant, handing him an envelope.
“Who?” asked Scheepers.
“A black guy,” said the attendant. “He didn’t say his name. Just that it was important.”
Scheepers handled the letter carefully. It was thin, and could not possibly contain a bomb. He nodded to the attendant, unlocked the car and got in. Then he opened the envelope and read what the note said by the light of the inside lamp.
Assassin probably a black man by the name of Victor Mabasha.
The note was signed Steve.
Scheepers felt his heart beating faster.
At last, he thought.
Then he drove straight home. Judith was waiting for him with a meal. But before sitting down, he called Inspector Borstlap at home.
“Victor Mabasha,” he said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Borstlap considered before replying.
“No,” he said.
“Tomorrow morning go through all the files and everything you have in the computer. Victor Mabasha is a black, and probably the assassin we are looking for.”
“Have you managed to break Jan Kleyn?” asked Borstlap in surprise.
“No,” said Scheepers. “How I got that information is neither here nor there for the moment.”
End of conversation.
Victor Mabasha, he thought as he sat down at the dining table.
If you’re the one, we’ll put a stop to you before it’s too late.
Chapter Thirty-two
That day in Kalmar, Kurt Wallander began to realize how bad he actually felt. Later, when the murder of Louise Akerblom and the sheer nightmare that followed in its wake had become a series of unreal events, a desolate charade in a distant landscape, he would insist stubbornly that it was not until Konovalenko was lying on the Oland bridge with staring eyes and blazing hair that it really struck him how rotten he felt deep down inside. That was the moment of insight, and he would not budge from that view, even though the memories and all the painful experiences came and went like changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. It was in Kalmar that he lost his grip on himself! He told his daughter it was like a countdown had started, a countdown leading to nothing but a vacuum. The doctor in Ystad, who started treating him in mid-June and tried to sort out his increasing gloom, wrote in his journal that according to the patient the depression started over a cup of coffee at the police station in Kalmar while a man was being burned up in a car on a bridge.
There he sat in the police station in Kalmar, drinking coffee, feeling very tired and low. Everybody who saw him hunched over his cup that half hour had the impression he was preoccupied and completely aloof. Or was he just thoughtful? In any case, nobody went to keep him company or to ask him how he was doing. The strange cop from Ystad was surrounded by a mixture of respect and hesitation. He was simply left in peace while they all dealt with the chaos on the bridge and the endless flow of telephone calls from newspapers, radio, and television. After half an hour he suddenly jumped to his feet and demanded to be taken to the yellow house on Hemmansvagen. When they passed the place on the bridge where Konovalenko’s car had become a smoking, burned-out shell, he stared straight ahead. When he got to the house he immediately took over command, forgetting completely that the investigation was actually being led by a Kalmar detective called Blomstrand. But they deferred to him, and he worked up an enormous level of energy over the next few hours. He seemed to have put Konovalenko right out of his mind already. There were two things that interested him above all others. He wanted to know who owned the house. He also kept going on about Konovalenko not being alone. He ordered an immediate door-to-door survey of the other houses in the street, and he wanted cab drivers and bus conductors to be contacted. Konovalenko was not alone, he kept repeating, over and over again. Who was the man or woman he had with him, who had now disappeared without trace? None of his questions could be answered immediately. The local property register and the neighbors who were questioned gave completely contradictory answers about who actually owned the yellow house. About ten years previously, the owner, a widower called Hjalmarson who worked at the provincial records office, had died. His son lived in Brazil. According to some neighbors he was a representative for some Swedish firm and an arms dealer according to others. He returned home for the funeral. It had all amounted to a worrying time for Hemmansvagen, according to a retired department head at the local council offices in Kronoberg, who emerged as a spokesman for the neighbors. And so there was an invisible sigh of relief when the “For Sale” sign was taken down and a moving van drove up filled with all the belongings of a retired reserve officer. He used to be something as antiquated as a major in the Scanian hussars, an amazing relic from a former age. He was named Gustav Jernberg, and he announced his presence to the surrounding world by means of friendly bellowing. The worries returned, however, when it became apparent that Jernberg spent most of his time in Spain, on account of his rheumatism. When he was away, the house was occupied by his grandson, who was in his mid-thirties, arrogant, rude, and paid no attention to normal conventions. His name was Hans Jernberg, and all anybody knew was that he was some kind of businessman who occasionally paid fleeting visits, often accompanied by strange companions nobody recognized.
The police immediately started looking for Hans Jernberg. He was traced at about two in the afternoon to an office in Goteborg. Wallander spoke with him over the telephone. At first he claimed to have no idea what they were talking about. But Wallander was in no mood to wheedle and coax people into telling the truth that day, and threatened to hand him over to the Goteborg police besides hinting it would be impossible to keep the press out of it. Halfway through the call one of the Kalmar cops stuck a note under Wallander’s nose. They had run a search on Hans Jernberg through various files and found he had strong connections with neo-nazi movements in Sweden. Wallander stared at the note before the obvious question to ask the guy at the other end of the line struck him.
“Can you tel
l me your views on South Africa?” he asked.
“I can’t see what that has to do with it,” said Hans Jernberg.
“Answer the question,” Wallander demanded impatiently. “Or else I’ll have to call my colleagues in Goteborg.”
The reply came after a short silence.
“I consider South Africa to be one of the best organized countries in the world,” said Hans Jernberg. “I regard it as my duty to do all I can to support the whites living there.”
“And you do that by renting out your house to Russian bandits who run errands for the South Africans, do you?” asked Wallander.
This time Hans Jernberg was genuinely surprised.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes you do,” said Wallander. “But you can answer another question instead. Which of your friends has had access to the house during this last week? Think carefully before you answer. If there’s the slightest sign of evasion I’ll ask one of the Goteborg prosecutors to issue a warrant for your arrest. And that’s what will happen, believe you me.”
“Ove Westerberg,” said Hans Jernberg. “He’s an old friend of mine who runs a construction firm here in town.”
“Address?” demanded Wallander, and received it.
It was all very confusing. But some effective work on the part of the CID in Goteborg threw some light on what had happened at the yellow house over the last few days. Ove Westerberg proved to be as good a friend of South Africa as Hans Jernberg. Through a series of contacts whose identities seemed shrouded in mist, he had received a query some weeks previously as to whether the house could be placed at the disposal of some South African guests, who would pay good money. As Hans Jernberg was abroad at the time, Ove Westerberg had not told him about it. Wallander also suspected the money had gone no further than Westerberg’s pocket. But Westerberg had no idea who these guests from South Africa were. He did not even know they had been there. That was as far as Wallander got that day. It would be the job of the Kalmar police to delve further into contacts between Swedish neo-nazis and the representatives of apartheid in South Africa. It was still not clear who had been in the yellow house with Konovalenko. While neighbors, cab drivers, and bus conductors were being interrogated, Wallander made a thorough search of the house. He could see that two of the bedrooms had been used recently, and that the house had been vacated in a great hurry. It seemed to him Konovalenko must have left something behind this time. He had left the house, never to return. It was possible, of course, that the other visitor had taken Konovalenko’s belongings with him. It was also possible that there was no limit to Konovalenko’s caution. Maybe he anticipated the possibility of a burglary every night, and hid all his belongings before going to bed? Wallander summoned Blomstrand, who was busy searching the toolshed. Wallander wanted every available cop to search the house looking for a bag. He couldn’t say what it looked like or how big it was.
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