Devil's Peak bg-1

by Deon Meyer

  She heard the animal’s paws on the cement path before it appeared around the corner. A big brown dog. The animal barked deeply and feinted back a little, as much in fright as she was. She kept her hands protectively in front of her. The dog stood square, growling, exposing big sharp teeth.

  “Hello, doggy, hello,” she said.

  They stood facing each other, the dog blocking her way around the house.

  Don’t look scared, she knew, she remembered that from somewhere. She let her hands drop and stood up straight.

  “Okay, doggy.” She tried to keep her tone caressing, while her heartbeat rocked her.

  The animal growled again.

  “Easy, boy, good dog.”

  The dog shook his head and sneezed.

  “I just want to come past, doggy, just want to come past.”

  The hairs on the dog’s neck dropped. The teeth disappeared. The tail gave one uncertain wag.

  She took one step forward. The dog came closer, but didn’t growl. She put out her hand to his head.

  The tail wagged more vigorously. He pressed his head against her hand. The dog sneezed again.

  She began to walk slowly, the dog following. She could see the front garden gate. She walked faster.

  “Hey,” came a voice from the front verandah.

  An old man stood there. “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m just walking through,” she said, one hand on the gate. “I’m just passing through.”

  * * *

  He reached for the assegai behind his neck and César Sangrenegra’s movement was subtle and rapid and the long knife cut through Thobela’s shirt and across his ribs, a sharp, red-hot pain. He felt the blood run down his belly.

  He took a step back and saw the grin on the Colombian’s face. He held the assegai in his right hand and bent his knees for better balance. He moved to the right, watching César’s eyes; never watch the blade, there are no warnings there. César stabbed. Thobela jumped back and the knife flashed past in front. He stabbed with the assegai. César was no longer there. The knife came again. He jerked back his arm, the blade sliced over his forearm. Another step back. The man was fast. Light on his feet, ten kilograms lighter than he was. Moved again, this time to the left, César feinted right, moved left. Thobela dodged, up against the front of the Nissan, he must not be trapped against the car, three, four short steps to the right, the knife flashed so fast, it missed him by millimeters.

  Thobela knew he was in trouble; the big man with the long hair was skilled. Faster than him. Lighter, younger. And he had another great advantage—he could kill, Thobela could not. Carla Griessel’s life depended on him not killing César.

  He must use the length of the assegai. He adjusted his grip, held it by the end of the shaft and swung it with a whooshing noise through the night, back and forth, back and forth. He felt the wound in his arm; saw an arc of blood spray as he swung. César moved back, but calmly. The henchman widened the circle. One made a remark in Spanish and the other four laughed.

  The opponents looked into each other’s eyes. The Colombian darted forward, the knife flashed, then he was back.

  The man was toying with him. César was aware of his superior speed. Thobela would have to neutralize that. He would have to use his power, his weight, but against a knife that was impossible.

  The Colombian’s eyes betrayed his attack. Thobela pretended to move back, but came forward, he must keep the knife away, forward again, within the sweep of the knife arm, stabbed with the assegai. César grabbed at it, grasping the blade in his left hand and unexpectedly jerked it towards him, Thobela lost his balance. Saw the blood on César’s hand where the assegai had cut deeply, here came the knife, jerked his own left hand up to block it, got hold of Cesar’s arm, forced it back. César adjusted his grip on the assegai, getting his hand on the shaft.

  They stood locked in that grip. The knife bowed down, the point entered Thobela’s biceps, deep. The pain was intense. He would have to move his grip close to the wrist. Would have to do it swiftly and efficiently. He shifted suddenly; the knife cutting through his biceps saved him, because it kept the hand static for a split second. He knew the injury was serious. He had César’s wrist, all his strength behind it. His forearm shrieked. Brought up his knees, kicked César as hard as he could in the belly. Saw in his eyes it was a good contact.

  Would have to finish now, in this moment of slight advantage. Pushed the knife hand back. His left arm would not last; the muscle was deeply cut. Shifted his point of balance, jerked the assegai free from the grasp, let it drop in the dust. Both hands on the knife-arm, bent it behind César’s back. Lord, he was strong. Straining, he kicked him at the back of the knee and César began to fall; he twisted the arm the last centimeters and César made a sound. The henchmen called out. Swinging weapons from their shoulders, they moved too late. He twisted the arm until something popped and the knife came free from the fingers.

  His right hand pressed César’s arm against his back, the left hand had the knife, arm around the throat, pressing the point into the hollow of the neck. Deep. César screamed and jerked and struggled. Strong. Would have to neutralize that. Turned the arm another bit, until ligaments tore. César’s knees buckled. He kept the man upright, as a shield in front of him.

  He pressed the point of the knife deeper into the neck. Felt the blood run over his hand. He felt his own pain shrill in his arm. He didn’t know how much blood he was losing. His entire left side was soaking, warm.

  “You are very close to death,” he said softly into César’s ear. The henchmen had carbines and machine pistols aimed at them.

  The Colombian was frozen against him.

  “If I move the knife, I will cut an artery,” he said. “Do you hear me?”

  A noise.

  “Your men have to put down their weapons.”

  No reaction. Was it going to work? He thought he understood the hierarchy of the drug industry. The autocracy.

  “I will count to three. Then I cut.” He tightened the muscles of his arm as if in readiness but it didn’t work so well. He knew there were sinews cut.

  “One.”

  César jerked again, but the arm was bent too far back, the pain must be dreadful.

  “Two.”

  “

  Coloque sus armas.

  ” Practically inaudible.

  “Louder.”

  “

  Coloque sus armas.

  ”

  The henchmen did nothing, just stood there. Thobela began to move the knife point slowly, deeper into the throat.

  “

  ĄAhora!

  ”

  The first one moved slowly, putting his weapon carefully down on the ground. Another one.

  “No,” said one of the Pajero men, the one with the shaven head.

  He stood beside Griessel, the Heckler & Koch against the detective’s temple. “I will shoot this one,” said Shaven Head.

  “Shoot,” said Thobela.

  “Let César go.”

  “No.”

  “Then I shoot this one.”

  “Do I care? He is a policeman. I am a murderer.” He turned the knife in César’s throat.

  “ĄAhora!”

  The cry was hoarse and high and desperate and he knew the blade had scraped against something.

  Shaven Head looked at César, back at Griessel and spat out a word. He threw the carbine in the dust.

  “Now,”

  said Thobela in Afrikaans. “Now you must get your daughter.”

  * * *

  At a stop sign in Eleventh Avenue she knocked on the window of a woman’s Audi and said: “Please, ma’am, I need your help.”

  The woman looked her up and down, saw the mud on her legs and drove off.

  “Fuck you!” Christine yelled after her.

  She walked in the direction of Frans Conradie Avenue, looking back often. By now they must know she was gone. They must be looking for her.

  At the traffic lights she looked left and right. There were shops across the street. If she cou
ld just get there. Unseen. She ran. A car braked and hooted at her. She kept on running. Oncoming traffic. She stood on the traffic island waiting. Then it was clear. Jogged across. The sandals were not made for this sort of thing.

  Turned left, up the hill. Not far now. She was going to make it. She must phone Vanessa. No taxis. They would follow those up; know where she was dropped off. Vanessa would have to fetch her. Vanessa and Sonia. Take them to a station. Catch a train, anywhere. Get away. She could buy a car, in Beaufort West or George or wherever. She must just get away. Disappear.

  * * *

  Griessel crossed in front of him where he held César in an embrace. The policeman walked slowly, with empty hands. Thobela wondered where the pistol was. Wondered what the expression in the white man’s eyes meant.

  Griessel walked to the minibus.

  He opened it. Thobela saw movement inside. He heard Griessel speak. Lean inwards. Saw two arms encircle Griessel’s neck.

  He looked at the henchmen. They stood still. Uneasy. Ready, their eyes on César.

  He made sure of his grip on the Colombian. He didn’t know whose blood was running over him. Looked back at the minibus. Griessel stood half in the minibus, his daughter’s arms around him. He thought he heard the detective’s voice.

  “Griessel,” he said, because he didn’t know how long he could hold out.

  A henchman shuffled his feet.

  “You must be quiet. I will cut this man’s throat.”

  The man looked at him with an unreadable expression.

  “Shoot them,” said César, but the words came out with blood, unclear.

  “Shut up, or I will kill you.”

  “Shoot them.” More audible.

  The henchmen inched closer. Shaven Head stepped towards his firearm.

  “I will kill César

  now.

  ” The pain in his upper arm reached new heights. There was a buzzing in his head. Where was the policeman? He looked quickly. Griessel stood there, with the Z88, and his daughter, hand in hand.

  They all looked at Griessel. He shuffled up to the first henchman.

  “Did he?” he asked his daughter.

  She nodded. Griessel raised the pistol and fired. The man flew over backwards.

  Father and daughter approached the next one. “And he?”

  She nodded. He aimed at the man’s head and pulled the trigger. The second shot thundered through the night and the man fell. Shaven Head dived for his weapon. Thobela knew it would all happen now and he pulled the knife across César’s throat and let him fall. He knew where the nearest machine pistol lay, threw his body that way, heard another shot. He kept his eyes on the firearm. Hit the gravel, stretched out, heard another shot. Got his finger on the steel. Dizzy, a lot of blood lost. His left arm wouldn’t work. Rolled over. Couldn’t see well in the lights of the Nissan. Tried to get up, but had no balance.

  Got onto one knee.

  Shaven Head was down. César lay. Three others as well. Griessel had the Z88 trained on the last one. Carla was close to Thobela now. He saw her face. He knew in that moment he would never forget it.

  Her father turned to the last one.

  “And this one?”

  His daughter looked at the man and nodded her head.

  PART FOUR

  Carla

  47.

  Beyond Calvinia he saw the clouds damming up against the mountains, the snow-white cumulus towers in late morning sun, the straight line they formed over the dry earth. He wanted to show Carla. He wanted to explain his theory of how the contours of the landscape created this weather.

  She was asleep in the passenger seat.

  He looked at her. He wondered if it was a dreamless sleep.

  A huge plain opened up ahead of them. The road was as straight as an arrow, to Brandvlei—a pitch-black ribbon stretching to the point of invisibility.

  He wondered when she would wake up, because she was missing everything.

  * * *

  The minister looked at the newspaper clipping. There was a photo of two people getting out of a helicopter. A man and a young woman. The man’s hair was dark and untidy, with a hint of gray at the temples. A somewhat Slavic face, with a severe expression. His head was turned towards the young woman in concern.

  There was a resemblance between them, a vague connection between brow and the line of the chin. Father and daughter, perhaps.

  She was pretty, with an evenness of feature below her black hair. But there was something about the way she held her head, how she looked down. As if she were old and unattractive. Maybe the minister got the impression because the jacket over her shoulders was too big for her. Maybe he was influenced by the headline of the report.

  ABDUCTION DRAMA ENDS IN BLOODBATH

  John Afrika, Matt Joubert and Benny Griessel were sitting in the spacious office at Serious and Violent Crimes. Keyter came in and greeted them. They did not reciprocate.

  “I am only going to ask you once, Jamie,” said Griessel, and his voice was quiet but it carried across the room. “Was it you?”

  Keyter looked back at them, nervously from one to the next.

  “Uh . . . um . . . What are you talking about, Benny?”

  “Did you give Sangrenegra the information?”

  “Jesus, Benny . . .”

  “Did you?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Where do you get the money, Jamie? For the clothes. And that expensive cell phone of yours? Where does the money come from?” Griessel had risen halfway from his chair.

  “Benny,” said John Afrika, his voice soothing.

  “I . . .” said Jamie Keyter.

  “Jamie,” said Joubert. “It’s better if you talk.”

  “It’s not what you think,” he said and his voice shook.

  “What is it?” asked Griessel, forcing himself to sit.

  “I moonlight, Benny.”

  “You moonlight?”

  “Modeling.”

  “Modeling?” said John Afrika.

  “For TV ads.”

  No one said a word.

  “For the French. And the Germans. But I swear, I’m finished with that.”

  “Can you prove it, Jamie?”

  “Yes, Sup. I have the videos. Ads for coffee and cheese spread. And clothes. I did one for the Swedes for milk, I had to take my shirt off, but that’s all, Sup, I swear . . .”

  “TV ads,” said John Afrika.

  “Jissis,” said Griessel.

  “Was this about my clothes, Benny? Did you suspect me just because of my

  clothes?

  ”

  “There was a fax, Jamie. It was sent from here. From SVC’s fax machine. With Mpayipheli’s photo.”

  “It could have been anyone.”

  “You were the dresser, Jamie.”

  “But it wasn’t me.”

  Silence settled over the room.

  “You may go, Jamie,” said Joubert.

  The detective constable dallied. “I thought, Benny . . .”

  They looked at him impatiently.

  “I thought about how they got your daughter’s address. And your cell phone number. All that stuff . . .”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “They must have phoned him. Carlos’s brother. Not just sent faxes.”

  “Yes?”

  “He must have had a cell phone, Commissioner. The brother. And you get missed calls and received calls and dialed numbers.”

  It took them a while to grasp what he meant.

  “Fuck,” said Griessel and got up.

  “Sorry, Benny,” said Keyter and ducked, but Griessel was already past him, heading for the door.

  * * *

  By 12:3

  0

  they had reached Brandvlei and he decided to stop at a café with a concrete table under a thatched roof. Colored children played barefoot in the dust.

  Carla woke up and asked him where they were. Griessel told her. She looked at the café.

  “Do you want to eat something?”

  “Not really.”

  “Let’s have
something to drink.”

  “Okay.”

  He got out and waited for her. It was boiling hot outside the car. She put on trainers before getting out, stretched and came around the car. She was wearing a short-sleeved blouse and bleached jeans. His lovely daughter. They sat at one of the concrete tables. It was slightly cooler under the thatch.