The Serpentine Road

by Mendelson, Paul

  ‘I hope the Ministry aren’t unhappy with our work here in the Cape?’

  Thulani shakes his head.

  ‘No, I am sure they are not. There is no reason to question our success here in Western Province.’

  De Vries relaxes. Thulani is thinking only of himself, as Assistant Deputy Provincial Commissioner. He sits silently, watching Thulani begin to wonder if the enquiries were not about De Vries at all but, instead, his own office.

  Thulani looks at him, registers his demeanor.

  ‘Go, Colonel. You look cold.’

  De Vries sits in his office, waits for Don February to respond to his SMS. He looks up to see Norman Classon at the elevators, expects him to walk towards him, but instead he stands by the lift, talking to an occupant of the car. This continues for nearly two minutes. Finally, Classon turns, and begins to walk towards De Vries’s squad room and office. He knocks, lets himself in.

  ‘Good morning, Vaughn.’

  ‘You were deep in conversation, Norman . . .’

  Classon frowns, then smiles, says: ‘Keeping our masters informed.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Julius Mngomezulu. Thulani’s liaison.’

  De Vries looks up.

  ‘What were you saying to Mngomezulu? I told you before he can’t be trusted.’

  Classon laughs uneasily.

  ‘Nothing. He asked me to tell him what was happening with the Holt case so he could inform Thulani. I told him we’re just checking out some possible problems.’

  ‘You did what?’

  Classon holds up his hands.

  ‘I kept it vague.’

  De Vries takes a deep breath; he knows that Classon is not an enemy, even if he is not a friend. Classon has been trusted before.

  ‘Don’t say anything to that little shit. You can’t know that what you say will get passed on accurately. He’s not a proper policeman despite that rank. He’s a secretary. You know we’ve had problems with him before.’

  Classon slowly lifts his feet, finally takes the seat opposite De Vries.

  ‘Sorry,Vaughn. I didn’t know I was running into office politics.’

  ‘It’s not politics; it’s trust. I don’t trust a policeman in a tight, shiny suit and pointy shoes. Did you tell him about my interview with Bhekifa?’

  ‘I probably did. He was in that day, wasn’t he?’ De Vries nods. ‘You think he could have leaked that to the papers . . . ?’

  ‘Ja ... And there could be more, so we need a tight circle.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Someone tried to get me moved onto another case today.’

  ‘Someone?’

  ‘A case elsewhere was brought to General Thulani’s attention, and it was suggested that I might be sent away to deal with it. I wonder why that was?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘The Holt enquiry requires more work and I think someone high up doesn’t want that. You know how I get when that happens?’

  Classon does.

  In the cool, silent room, Eric Basson sits facing the door, behind a broad polished desk. John Marantz walks across the wide parquet floor, glancing up at the high stuccoed ceiling; he wonders why there is no furniture in the room save the desk and two armchairs. He meets the gaze of his host; it seems to bore through him. Basson rises slowly, offers his hand. His voice is quiet and precise.

  ‘I knew you were here, of course, but I had understood that we were never to meet, Mr Marantz.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s inappropriate.’

  ‘It is.’ Basson gestures for Marantz to sit opposite him. ‘London had mentioned that I might keep a discreet eye on you but, of late, that has seemed unnecessary . . .’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But now . . . ?’

  ‘I knew you were here too.’

  Basson smiles thinly, his eyes expressionless behind spectacles, rimless but for a thick tortoiseshell frame running across the top of the lenses. Marantz assumes that he is in his seventies and admires the understated suit and quiet tie, the calmness of his demeanor.

  ‘I’m here to ask for help, for a friend of mine: a senior officer in the SAPS.’

  ‘Not for yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But there is a motive? A debt, perhaps, to be repaid?’

  ‘No,’ Marantz says. ‘He is a good friend of mine. He supported me during my . . . rehabilitation.’

  ‘And, I assume, that this assistance you seek is to be provided without my making a long-distance phone call?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘That places me in a very difficult situation.’

  ‘I was aware that it would, but I hoped that you would find a way.’

  Basson looks at the table, stays silent. When he looks up, he says: ‘What is the name of this senior SAPS officer?’

  ‘De Vries. Colonel Vaughn de Vries.’

  ‘Yes, I know of De Vries.’ He tilts his head. ‘But, regrettably, that makes your request even more difficult to fulfill.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Colonel de Vries is unpredictable, because he exists on the edge of alcoholism; he has character flaws which make him, in my position, difficult to trust.’

  ‘I would argue,’ Marantz says, ‘that those traits you describe make him a more effective investigator. My experience of him is that he is unprepared to compromise in the pursuit of the truth.’

  Basson smiles broadly now; even his eyes shine, momentarily bright.

  ‘Since your departure, I see you have lost none of your abilities to use the English language to mould an argument. A skill sadly lacking in these times.’

  ‘I’m sincere in what I say.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  Basson produces a packet of cigarettes, selects one and lights it. He says casually: ‘You were at Cambridge?’

  ‘Oxford.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Marantz smiles.

  ‘Calibrating reactions?’

  Basson tilts his head.

  Marantz says: ‘You knew where I went to university. You wanted to see my physical reaction to an incorrect suggestion?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘You were at Durham University.’

  Basson smiles now.

  ‘Very good.’

  Marantz shifts to find a comfortable position in his chair; he stares at the man in front of him. Basson says: ‘Are you considering a return to England?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you miss your work?’

  ‘I prefer not to be personally involved. But, information still interests me.’

  ‘And risk?’

  ‘In a controlled setting, yes.’

  ‘Your poker games. They allow you to fight the battle, but in safety. Am I right?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘But, I think you are taking a risk now: meeting me; asking me these things.’

  ‘When you have played and lost,’ Marantz says gravely, ‘these stakes seem comparatively modest.’

  ‘I heard what happened to your family. I’m sorry.’

  Basson draws deeply on his cigarette, studies Marantz.

  ‘Such action has proved unique, at least as far as London is concerned.’

  Marantz scowls, feels his heart beat in his chest.

  ‘That isn’t a comfort. Perhaps it should be, but I am not that unselfish.’

  ‘Understandably . . . It raises the question of motivation . . . Why you might have been singled out for such action.’

  Marantz stares ahead, past Basson. He sees nothing.

  ‘I had no idea that I, and they, had become a case study.’

  ‘History de-personalizes tragedy. That which might break a man becomes no more than an event recorded.’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Basson tilts his head, studies him.

  ‘What is the nature of the matter you wish me to assist you with?’

  Marantz swallows; Basson’s words impart both information an
d threat. He questions himself anew, whether he should have made this contact, taken a risk which is proving so personal. The wounds have been borne.

  He says: ‘Colonel de Vries works for the Special Crimes Unit of the SAPS, based here in Cape Town. Last week, the daughter of the late industrialist Graeme Holt was murdered in her home. I’m sure you are aware of this?’

  Basson leans his head back, nods.

  ‘The details of the investigation, the docket, I think you would say here, has not been available to me. But, based on what I know, an unlikely man – a man with a history of mental problems and drug addiction – appears to have been framed for this murder. He is dead and those above De Vries seem enthusiastic that the case should be closed. The word appears to have come from a small but influential office in Pretoria . . .’

  ‘To be clear: you are, perhaps, suggesting a state invention?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Basson stubs out his cigarette, leans back in his chair.

  ‘As no doubt you anticipated, you have my attention.’

  ‘That is why I came to you.’

  ‘Yes, so you say. But, do you really know who you are speaking to?’

  ‘I’m sure that you relish a lack of definition . . .’

  ‘I was at Vlakplaas at the beginning with Dirk Coetzee. Do you know what Vlakplaas was?’

  ‘Only a one sentence précis.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Marantz hesitates.

  ‘A farm, west of Pretoria, housing a Nationalist-government sponsored paramilitary cell, designed to turn or kill anti-government operatives, to sustain the Apartheid regime. Others might describe it as a centre for torture.’

  ‘That was two sentences . . . But your précis is adequate. The unit was called C1 and it was formed from the existing South African Police of the time. You missed out the fact that we planned attacks on ANC terrorists: bombings, ambushes. We took the war to them.’

  ‘And you ceased activities in 1994 . . .’

  ‘It was, officially, closed down in 1994. And now, we are told, Vlakplaas operates as a centre for healing and traditional medicine.’

  ‘Reconciliation . . .’

  ‘Are you shocked that for so many years the British government has employed a man such as me?’

  ‘It would have been preferable not to.’

  ‘I can hear the apologists speaking in just such a way.’ Basson leans forward, rests his hands on his desk in front of him. ‘But it is a simple question: are you prepared to work with me?’

  ‘Work?’

  ‘Information always flows two ways.’

  ‘I don’t have any information. I am simply a private citizen.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to fear from an alliance.’

  ‘I’ve worked with worse,’ Marantz says.

  ‘I’m sure. To sustain the highest of ideals one is often forced to collaborate with those who represent the opposite. Don’t you find?’

  Basson smiles, continues: ‘I always think it comes down to who you want protecting you. Someone who is whiter than white, or someone who understands the game?’

  ‘I am a pragmatist. It’s pointless to be anything else. Doing what we do.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t do it any more?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Yet, your personnel file in London suggests that you are neither retired nor dismissed. An “extended sabbatical”, I think, was the phrase.’

  Marantz feels nauseous. Thoughts of his work bring back only memories of his wife and daughter, another life led, long ago lost. He says: ‘You read the files on the case which led to my family’s abduction?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m surprised.’

  ‘I would have done but . . . they have become unavailable.’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  Basson says: ‘A uniquely evil response to an investigation: to make the wife and daughter of the lead interrogator disappear, to leave him never knowing for certain. Nothing really gained, other than, perhaps, as a warning. Unless . . .’

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Unless they had a reason. A reason personal to you?’

  Marantz stares straight ahead, says blankly: ‘I know of no reason.’ His mind races. He has pondered the motive many times, every day. Still, he can think of nothing. He sniffs, blinks slowly, forces himself to relax.

  ‘Will you ever retire?’ Marantz says.

  ‘I think I am unlikely to find relaxation and security outside my field. Doing what we do demands a simple faith: the end always justifies the means.’

  ‘That is a very frightening prospect to many people.’

  ‘But not to you?’

  ‘Philosophy seems an unlikely subject matter.’

  ‘But it proves what we believe,’ Basson says. ‘It encapsulates us. Every system of government demands protection and active response to threat, to protect its ideology. Many claim democracy empowers them, but it is not really so. As you know . . . Does this knowledge compromise your decision to ask me for help?’

  ‘I’m sure you are eminently qualified. ’

  Basson nods.

  ‘If I undertake some research on Colonel de Vries’s behalf, it is with the understanding that neither our meeting, nor his – should it come to that – ever be revealed. Your position suggests to me that you can be trusted on this but, in the case of De Vries, I would require your word that this will be instilled in him, without fail . . .’

  ‘I will do that.’

  ‘. . . It is whether I deem it likely that you can control him, you see?’

  Marantz waits; he knows that he has done all that he can now. Basson contemplates for several minutes, occasionally looking up at him.

  ‘Let us leave it like this,’ he says finally. ‘If the information I find, assuming that it is there, warrants my taking such a risk, then I will do so. I hope you are satisfied?’

  ‘Thank you. Yes.’

  ‘And, it occurs to me, since we are keeping this between ourselves, there might come a time when such mutual discretion has another use. You understand me?’

  ‘I am in your debt.’

  ‘Potentially.’ Basson rises and offers his hand, looks Marantz in the eye.

  ‘Goodbye, John. It is most unlikely that we will meet again.’

  Don February follows the two telephoned takeaway orders from the Woodsman’s Grill to residential addresses within two kilometres of the restaurant. Neither are remotely suspicious. The late call-in, identified by the greeter, Judy, as a policeman, presents him with a problem. He does not try to find out from the Central Station rota who would have been free to drive to the restaurant and then, perhaps, to De Waal Park; that would raise questions he could not answer. Instead, he goes to the administration offices for Central division, speaks with a young Sergeant, obtains a black-and-white print-out of ID pictures of all officers attached to the district, and does exactly the same for Gardens district.

  Then he returns to Oranjezicht, waits outside the Woodsman’s Grill.

  Two murder scenes, maybe, where no one has seen the killer; where there is no forensic or physical evidence. De Vries feels aimless, helpless. He longs to hunt down the perpetrator; he needs only one lead. He stares at the board in the squad room, stands smoking in his office; he wonders where Don February might be.

  Judy Miles arrives in a battered white CitiGolf, parks with difficulty on the steep gradient. She gets out and walks towards him. When she sees him, she says: ‘Good morning, officer.’ She gestures at the door. ‘Has Henk not opened up yet?’

  ‘He is inside?’

  She laughs.

  ‘He lives above the restaurant. Henk is always here.’

  She unlocks the front doors, leaves the hanging sign showing ‘closed’, throws down her rucksack behind the cash desk.

  ‘You want to talk to Henk or me?’

  ‘You, Miss Miles. I want you to look at some pictures, please.’

  She looks up at the oversized clock o
n the far wall.

  ‘I have to prepare for lunch service, but I have a few minutes.’

  Don lays out the sheets on the counter top.

  ‘What racial group was the police officer you saw?’

  ‘He was black,’ she says, seeming awkward. ‘Maybe in his thirties. Looked quite fit.’

  She starts to scan the sheets. Don notices her hesitate as her eyes fall on each black officer. She reaches the end of the first set, covering the officers from Metro; Don lays out the ones showing Cape Town Central SAPS officers. After a few minutes, she has viewed all the pictures.

  ‘I’m sorry. I don’t recognize him from any of these.’

  ‘That is all right,’ Don tells her calmly. ‘Do you think you would know him if his face was there?’

  ‘I think so.’ She looks up at him.

  ‘It is not so easy,’ he says gently, ‘to distinguish between those of a different racial group?’

  She blushes.

  ‘I’m not sure, but I don’t think he was amongst those pictures.’

  Don gathers up his papers.

  ‘Thank you. I may need to show you some more pictures.’ He nods at her and turns to leave, but twists back. ‘The vehicle you saw? Was it a car or a van? Do you remember?’

  She closes her eyes and concentrates, very still.

  ‘It was big,’ she declared finally. ‘I don’t think it was a car. Maybe a van? A tall van.’

  ‘You didn’t see any markings on it?’

  ‘It was parked down the hill,’ she says quickly. ‘It was white. That’s all I remember.’

  She follows Don to the door, unlocks it, and lets him out.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says sweetly, mechanically. ‘Call again.’

  ‘Somewhere along the line,’ De Vries says, ‘there has to be something that leads us in the right direction.’ He holds his hand up. ‘And don’t mention that fucking chicken again, Don. You’re an adult, you do whatever you like, but if I hear about it again, it had better be solid.’ He looks at Steve Ulton. ‘Anything at all we can use to get a handle on this guy?’

  Ulton struggles to sit upright in De Vries’s crooked visitor’s chair.

  ‘No prints or impressions of any kind outside in the garden or on the terrace. Inside, there’s lots of stuff. But, you tell me that she had at least two boyfriends, visits from people protesting about her exhibition; there are half a dozen part-time domestic workers and the live-in maid. Even if we had the resources, which we don’t, I can’t see us finding anything significant. If there’s anything there, it’s hidden in the comings and goings.’