Thirteen Hours bg-2

by Deon Meyer

  Yes, Captain. The Constable rummaged in his trouser pocket, took out his keys and flung them in an arc to Griessel. He missed them. Melissa made a scornful noise but he ignored her, picked up the keys, jerked open the doors and ran.

  There was only one vehicle between Vusi Ndabeni and Jeremy Oerson when they stopped at the traffic lights where Browning joined Main Road.

  Vusi pulled the sun visor down and sat as high in his seat as he could to hide his face. Oerson's indicator light was on, ready to turn right.

  Where was Stanley Street?

  African Overland Adventures? And the Metro police? He couldn't see any connection. The light changed to green. Vusi gave him a lead, a hundred metres, then he pulled away intending to turn right as well, but a car approached from the front and he had to wait.

  When he did turn into Main Road he couldn't see Oerson's Sentra.

  Impossible.

  Vusi accelerated, tense again. Where could he have gone? He drove past Polo Road leading off to the left, looked down it and saw nothing. He looked right, there were no options, only the Muslim Graveyard and the hospital. He passed the Scott Road turn-off on the left. He saw the Sentra, in the distance, a long way down Scott.

  Vusi braked - too late - he was past the turn. He slammed the car into reverse and looked back. Traffic was coming down Main Road. He had no choice. He reversed quickly. Two minibus taxis rocketed down on him, one leaning hard and continuously on his hooter. It swerved in behind the other and barely missed Vusi. But he had reversed far enough and turned left down Scott, just in time to see Oerson turn right half a kilometre away.

  Was it really him?

  De Waal Drive would be the quickest. Griessel flipped the switches for the siren and blue lights and pulled away with screeching tyres. The traffic opened up in front of him, past St Martini, the Lutheran Church where everything had begun that morning. It felt like a week ago, what a fucking day. The light was red at the Buitensingel crossing, he drove only marginally slower, the motorists saw him coming. Then he turned left, fighting with the steering wheel, into Upper Orange, more traffic.

  The Upper Orange crossroad was also red. It took precious seconds to get across carefully and then he put his foot down, over the bridge at the Gardens Centre. The bends of De Waal lay ahead, he picked up his cell phone from the seat, he must call Vusi, he must get reinforcements. The task force, SWAT, the plump girl had called them. No, that would take too long, even if they mobilised within the theoretical fifteen minutes, it would be too late.

  He and Vusi would find out what was going on first.

  Vusi answered on the second ring. 'Benny.'

  'Where are you?'

  His black colleague said something inaudible.

  'I can't hear you.'

  'Stanley Street, Benny, I don't want to talk too loud. I can see the warehouse. Their trucks are parked there. African Overland Adventures.'

  'Tell me how to get there, Vusi, I haven't got a map.'

  'It's easy, Benny. Take the Groote Schuur off-ramp, right into Main ...'

  'I'm coming down De Waal, Vusi, that's not going to help me.'

  Vusi said something in Xhosa, a cry for help, then he asked: 'Will you find Main Road in Observatory?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then turn down Scott ... eastwards. Then all the way down over Lower Main, then first right and you will see them.'

  'I'm coming.'

  'Oerson has gone in, Benny, hurry.'

  Jeremy Oerson pushed the big sliding door only wide enough for him to enter. He took off his dark glasses and put them in his breast pocket and closed the door behind him.

  The big warehouse was quiet: tents, sleeping bags, water cans, tools, petrol drums, sand shovels, car jacks all in tidy piles. On one side was a new white Land Rover Defender.

  'Halloo,' he said.

  To the left and right two men stood up from behind piles of goods, each with a Stechkin APS pistol aimed at him.

  'Christ,' he said and lifted his hands high. 'It's me.'

  They slowly lowered the weapons. Jason de Klerk came out from behind the Land Rover. 'I tried to call you, Jeremy.'

  'I'm a senior fucking police officer, I can't answer my cell when I'm driving.'

  'You're a fucking traffic cop.'

  He ignored the remark. 'Where is she?'

  'Mr B wants to know: can you get to the luggage?'

  Oerson walked deeper into the warehouse and looked about. Behind a pile of tents sat another one, sulky, with blood on his upper lip. 'Not now,' he said. 'So what happened to him? Did she get rough?'

  'I didn't mean now, Jerry,' said Jason irritably. 'But you can get it, right?'

  'Don't worry, as long as they don't know what they're looking for, we're fine. They'll take it to an evidence room, and then it's easy.'

  'How easy?'

  'I'll grease a few palms, and get some dumb fuck to go in and take it. Little video tape, slip it in your pocket, easy-peasy. Tomorrow, next week, this will be old news, girl's gone, pressure's off. Relax. Where is she?'

  'You're absolutely sure?'

  'Of course I'm fucking sure. For a thousand bucks they'll be standing in line to do it.'

  'OK,' said Jason and took out his cell phone.

  'She's alive, isn't she?' Oerson asked. 'Because you guys owe me a favour.'

  When the Roodebloem turn-off flashed past, Griessel realised he should have taken it. He cut through to the Eastern Boulevard and the same route as Vusi, but it was too fucking late. The only alternative was Liesbeeck Park, then down Station Road, but it was going to take a minute or two, three, longer.

  The van's wheels squealed around the last turn before De Waal joined Hospital corner. Traffic was dense, there was no time to think. What was Jeremy Oerson's connection with the whole affair? He nearly drove into a pharmacy delivery motorcycle and had to swerve out in front of another car. Horns blared, couldn't the idiots hear the siren? Then he was around the bend on the N2 Settlers road and swung over into the left-hand lane. They gave way now and he stomped on the accelerator. Jeremy Oerson? Metro? African Adventures?

  What the fuck?

  He entered the Liesbeeck off-ramp too fast, the turn much sharper than he remembered, and the red traffic light was totally unexpected. Cars were crossing the road in front of him. Too late to brake. The van began to skid, he was going to hit someone. Then he was through between two cars, wrenching the wheel to get it under control, accelerated again. Out the other side.

  He only turned off the siren when he turned onto Lower Main.

  Benny was taking too long.

  Vusi's car was parked halfway between Scott and Stanley on the pavement. He had his service pistol on his lap, ready cocked. He could see the warehouse through the windscreen - a long building, brick walls, galvanised zinc roof. Large white-painted sliding doors behind four trucks and four trailers, each bearing the legend African Overland Adventures. Big vehicles, the seating deck high with luggage space below. She was in there. Where was Benny? Perhaps he should go inside. But how many were there? Oerson and the person Oerson had spoken to over the phone. How many more?

  He sat there, breathing fast, his heart thumping in his chest.

  He pulled the car keys out of the ignition, got out, walked around, opened the boot and looked up. They wouldn't be able to see him. There were no windows on this side anyway. He put his pistol down in the boot, took off his jacket and picked up the Kevlar bulletproof vest. He put it on and picked up his pistol. He checked his watch. 15:22. Late.

  He would have to do something.

  He came to a decision; the girl's life was the main priority. He pulled back the pistol's slide and gently closed the boot.

  He was going in.

  Then he heard the squeal of rubber on tar behind him and looked back. A SAPS patrol van came around the corner, drove straight towards him and stopped in a cloud of dust on the pavement. A figure jumped out with unkempt hair and gun in his hand.

  Benny Griessel had arrived.


  'Hey!' said Jeremy Oerson, but she didn't look up. She just lay slumped against the pole, stark naked, he could see everything, the tits, the bush between her legs, the bleeding right foot and three toes lying in the dust like fat insect grubs.

  He stood with his feet planted wide in black boots, the pistol in both hands aimed at her head.

  'Get her to look at me,' he said to one of them.

  'Just fucking get it over with.'

  'No. I want to see her face. Hey, Yankee, look at me.'

  Slowly she lifted her head. Hair hung over her forehead in strings. He saw the eye swollen shut, black and purple, dried blood on her temple. 'You guys really fucked her up,' he said.

  Her head was raised, but the eyes were still somewhere else.

  'Do it, Jerry.'

  'Look at me,' he said to her, saw the eyes rise to meet his. He pressed the safety off with his thumb.

  Chapter 44

  'Take the back, Vusi, there must be a door. I'll give you time,' said Griessel as he ran. He saw the black detective swerve off towards the corner of the building.

  He reached the big white sliding door and pressed his back against the wall, service pistol in both hands in front of him. His breath was racing. He had to get it under control, he counted, thousand-and-one, thousand-and-two, thousand-and-three, wanting to give Vusi twenty seconds. He prayed. Dear Father, let her be alive.

  Thousand-and-seven. When had he prayed last? When Carla was in mortal danger, his prayer had only been partially answered. He would take that, anything, just so that he could please phone Bill Anderson and say: 'She's alive.' Thousand-and-twelve. He heard a shot, jumped, grabbed the door with his left hand, dragged it open, ducked and ran in. He saw a young man, tall and lean, directly in front of him with a silencer aimed at his heart. He knew in that instant that it was all over, his own pistol was degrees too far to the right.

  The shot cracked and blew Benny Griessel off his feet. His back slammed into the door and pain exploded in his chest. He was fleetingly aware of the strangeness, of feeling first the bullet and then hearing the shot. He fell to the ground.

  That unease he had had all day, that expectation of evil, here it was.

  Oerson waited for her eyes. He wanted his to be the last face she would see. He wanted to know what mortal fear looked like, he wanted to see the light of life fade out of her. But above all he wanted to know how it felt, the power, they said the power was indescribable. He had wondered for so long what it felt like to take a life.

  She looked into his eyes. He saw no fear. He wondered if they had drugged her. She looked absent.

  Then he heard the shot. He looked around, at the door.

  Another shot.

  'Shit,' he said.

  Vusi sprinted around the first corner, along the short side of the warehouse, then the next corner. High windows, two metres off the ground. A single steel door with a big padlock on it. Locked. He did not hesitate. He steadied against the wall, aimed and shot the padlock, one shot. The nine-mm projectile blew it to bits. He tugged the door open. It was gloomy inside, a smallish room, a kitchen, with dirty glasses and coffee mugs in the sink and another closed door.

  He heard a shot, not loud, a small calibre, perhaps. Benny! He ran to the inner door and opened it. It was a large open space, equipment in piles. A beam of light shone from the front through the big sliding door. Someone was lying there dead still. Oh God, it was Benny. Movement, a young white man to the left of Vusi, a long weapon in his hand. 'Don't move!' No good, the young man swung around. Vusi fired. The man fell in slow motion. Vusi had never shot anyone before, uSimakade, what was this city doing to him? A bullet smacked into the wall beside Vusi. It came from the right. He dived behind drums and rolled to the right, stood up, pulled the trigger, once, twice, three times. The man staggered and fell on a stack of plastic cans. He had had no choice - it was survival. He had killed a man, he realised. He stood up slowly, eyes on the still figure, watching the blood run out of the body and over the white plastic of the cans in long trails. Life blood.

  A shadow moved on his right, he came back to reality, too late, the pistol pressed against his head. 'Black cunt,' the voice said.

  Awful pain in his chest, Griessel could not move, could not breathe. He was lying on the cement floor. Death would come, it was all over, he should have waited for the task force. At the periphery there was movement, on the other side, he tried to turn his head. Vusi. A thundering shot, someone fell, further to the right. Everything in slow motion, unreal, vague, detached. This was the beginning, the tumbling away from life, he would hear the scream of fear, the terrifying scream when you fell into the deep dark abyss. Why wasn't he afraid? Why this .. . peace, just an intense longing for his children, his wife, Anna. Now he knew he wanted her, wanted her back, now, too late. Movement. He could see. Not dead yet. Vusi fired again, three times. He watched his colleague. His breath came more easily now. Why? Benny's hand moved slowly to his chest and touched the gaping wound. Dry. No blood. He looked, and felt. A hole in his breast pocket. No blood. Why the pain? He felt the hard object, gripped it.

  The Leatherman. The bullet had struck the Leatherman. Relief burned through him, a shooting consciousness. He had made an utter fool of himself, thinking he was going to die. He heard a voice. 'Black cunt.' He looked up. The one who had shot him stood there, with a long-muzzled gun to Vusi's head.

  Griessel reached for his pistol on the floor, grasped it, raised it, no time to aim. Pulled the trigger, saw the man's arm jerk, saw Vusi fall, fired again, missed. The man just stood there. His silenced pistol had disappeared. Benny tried to stand, his whole ribcage on fire, pain burning white, Leatherman or not. He crawled first, got to his feet and stumbled closer.

  Vusi moved.

  Griessel aimed his service pistol at the man. 'Don't move,' he said. He saw the man was holding his arm. The elbow was shattered, lots of blood, a mess of tendons and fragmented bone.

  Vusi stood up. 'Benny ...' His voice was faint, Griessel's ears were deafened by the shots.

  'I've got him, Vusi.'

  'I thought you were dead.'

  'So did I,' said Griessel, almost embarrassed. He jerked the man by the collar. 'Lie down,' he said. The man sank slowly to his knees.

  'Where is Rachel?'

  The man looked around slowly, at the closed door behind him. 'There.'

  'Is she alone?'

  'No.'

  'Is Jason in there, Jason de Klerk?'

  No response. Griessel prodded him again with the pistol. 'Where is Jason?'

  A moment of silence. 'I'm Jason.'

  Rage swept over Griessel, frustration, relief. He grabbed de Klerk by the hair. 'You fucking rubbish,' he said, and felt a powerful desire to kill him, shoot him in the throat, for Erin Russel, for everything, his finger tightened around the trigger.

  'Benny!'

  There was a noise behind them, a door closing. Both detectives spun around and aimed.

  'Don't shoot!' another young man stood there, hands in the air, looking scared, blood on his upper lip.

  'On the floor,' said Vusi.

  'Please,' he said and lay down immediately.

  'Where is Rachel?' Benny asked.

  'She's in there,' said the other one.

  They looked at the door. 'Vusi, if he moves,' Griessel said, and strode towards the door.

  'Look out,' said the man. 'Oerson is with her.'

  She was aware of the gun pointed at her, of the man in his magnificent uniform towering above her. He spoke her name. Did he know her? She raised her eyes, trying to focus, why was the other one still standing here, the young one, one of those who had held her legs?

  A shot cracked. Her eyes shut in reflex, she expected to feel it, coming from the weapon pointed at her.

  But her eyes opened as the man in uniform swore. He hadturned away from her and pointed his pistol at the door. The other man ducked and crept towards the wall.

  Someone shot again in there, a softer
bang.

  'What the fuck?' the uniformed man whispered.

  Another shot, deafening. He moved quickly to beside the door, and again it boomed in there, three times.

  Then it struck her: the policeman. Griessel. He had found her. She wanted to sit up. She moved her legs and the pain in her foot was incredible, but she didn't care, she drew her heels back, found a grip. Another shot, one more. He was shooting them, Benny Griessel, he must kill them all. She braced herself against the cold pillar. If only she could stand up. The uniform and the young man were frozen, petrified. Another two shots. Silence.

  'I'm going out,' said the young man and opened the door, and shut it immediately.

  'Shit,' said the uniform.

  Voices inside, indecipherable words. Then only the uniformed man's fast and shallow breathing.

  'He's going to kill you,' she said to him, with hatred in her voice.

  He moved suddenly, came to her, a boot left and right of her knees and pushed the gun into her cheek. 'Shut the fuck up,' he hissed. 'You're going with me.' Then he looked around at the door, wild-eyed.

  She kicked him. She brought up her knee, her sore right foot's knee, and struck him between the legs with everything she had left. 'Now!' she shrieked. Her voice was a desperate command. The uniform shouted something and fell onto her. A booming noise as the door was kicked in, and then a single shot and the man fell away from her. She saw him standing in the doorway, a figure with a pistol in his hand, a hole in his shirt, hair needing a cut and strange Slavic eyes.

  'Benny Griessel,' she said, with perfect pronunciation.

  He lowered the weapon, moved towards her with deep compassion in his eyes. He grabbed her clothes off the floor and hastily covered her, put his arms around her and held her tight.

  'Yes,' he said. 'I have found you.'

  Chapter 45

  Just after four, the nurse came out of the hospital room and said to Fransman Dekker: 'Fifteen minutes.' She held the door open so he could enter.