by Deon Meyer
'Brad Pitt,' I said.
'Bad Pitt.' She laughed and began to pack away her stuff.
'Jeanette did tell you it could be a contract for a few days?'
'She did. I am available in the late afternoon, so that's OK.'
'What do you do usually?'
'I freelance. Mostly in the TV industry.'
'Did you ever work on 7de Laan, the soapie?' I asked hopefully.
'No. Do you watch 7 de Laan?'
'Absolutely.'
She shook her head in amazement. 'What a wonderful world,' she said, and I wondered what Jeanette had told her about me.
I carried her folding chair to her car, said goodbye, went back to my room, closed the curtains and tested the Panasonic camera in the gloom. Ten megapixels and five times optical zoom, intelligent autofocus, which controlled almost everything when an idiot had only one chance to take a picture.
Exactly what I needed.
Then I took the Yellow Pages out of the drawer and looked up a taxi service that operated in Sandton.
The Bull Run was a pleasant surprise. It was opposite the Stock Exchange, right next to the Balalaika Hotel, the decor was tasteful and simple, the walls bare brick and there was a fire burning in the hearth, a butcher's counter where you could buy fresh meat to take home.
By half past six it was half full. The bar had the best view over the restaurant, but would make me too conspicuous. I asked for a table in the corner. The young waitress in white shirt and black apron, looking curiously at the black sports bag that I had brought along, showed me to a table. I sat down with my back half turned to the room, and opened the menu. I studied it for a long time before raising my head to look around.
Julius 'Inkunzi' Shabangu wasn't there.
I asked if they had Birdfield grape juice. No, the waitress said. I ordered salad with deep-fried haloumi and a red Grapetizer and asked the waitress what time they closed. That depends, she said. Usually late, around one a.m.
I started the book, wondered whether I should contact the writer and tell him about the new generation of tricksters.
The Grapetizer arrived, later the salad. I ordered a pepper-crusted steak, medium, said there was no hurry.
No sign of the Bull.
By half past eight the place was full. Two big groups of businessmen, quite a few tables for six with laughing, chatty twenty-year-olds, black and white, so easy in each other's company, as if our country had no history. It was like that in the shopping centres and the streets, as though this city was a vision of what we could be if the dark shadow of poverty could be wiped away.
The steak was perfect, the chips hot and fresh, the side dishes of baby corn and roasted sweet peppers not really to my taste.
I began to doubt he would ever show up.
At ten to nine Inkunzi and his entourage walked into the restaurant - four young women, three henchmen. I recognised one of them. He was one of the kickers that night in the Waterberg.
They sat down at a table to the left of me. I turned my back to them, pulled my sports bag closer and unzipped it.
The MAG-7 lay there. Just in case.
They were loud. Laughing, talking, expansive gestures. Very much at home.
I finished my main course, declined the dessert, asked for the bill. When it came, I paid at the table.
I picked up the bag, swung it over my shoulder so the gun was close to hand, turned around and strolled out, keeping my face turned away from them.
It wasn't hard to find his car. A black BMW X5 with extravagant wheel rims. The number plate said INKUNZI. A modest man.
No other bodyguards or sentries. I sat down at the Village Walk fountain, phoned the taxi company on my cellphone and asked them to send a car. I took the baseball cap out of my bag and pulled it over my head, put on the glasses. Ten minutes later the taxi arrived. I got in, asked the driver to park so that I could see the interior of the restaurant.
'The meter is running,' he said.
'Let it run.'
I gave him Inkunzi's home address. 'Do you know where this is?'
He pointed at the GPS against the windscreen. 'I know where everything is,' and he typed in the address. The device showed it was 6.9 km from where we were now, with an expected drive time of fourteen minutes.
'When I give you the signal, we need to get there fast.'
'Yebo.' Seen everything, heard everything. This was Johannesburg.
Ten minutes later he asked whether he could put some music on.
Of course, I said. He tuned to a station playing kwaito, sat listening, unconcerned.
At half past ten he asked: 'Woman trouble?'
'Yes.'
'Welcome to the club.' With a sigh.
At a quarter to eleven I saw Inkunzi and company approach the door.
'Let's go,' I said.
He switched on the engine, pulled away smoothly, following the GPS directions, quickly and surely, without exceeding speed limits.
The streets of Gallo Manor were quiet, the residents safe behind walls and security systems. On the way we saw two private response vehicles on patrol. Neither paid us much attention.
'Right there,' I pointed at the deep shadow beneath one of the trees in the street, and pulled my bag close.
The fee was R265. I gave him R350. 'Buy her some roses. It works for me,' I said, before getting out.
'Doesn't look like it, but thanks.' He cast a sidelong glance at the black bag I was holding, shook his head and drove off.
46
In order to come close to an animal, trackers must remain undetected not only by the animal, but also by other animals that may alert it.
The Art of Tracking: Principles of tracking
Timing is everything. And a little bit of luck.
I assumed Inkunzi would have the best available alarm system - wide-angle motion sensors outside, the smaller infrared eyes inside. I was counting on him turning them off via remote control when he came home. That was my window of opportunity.
There were two major risks: that a patrol vehicle would challenge me before he arrived, or that he or one of his cronies would spot me scaling the wall. That's where luck came in.
The trouble was that he took longer than I expected. I stood in the shadow of a jacaranda tree, twenty metres from Inkunzi's wall, took out my gloves and put them on. Hitched the black bag over my shoulder. I waited. I could hear the hiss of traffic from the Nl, a car alarm complaining monotonously, an accelerating motorbike screaming through the gear changes.
Ten minutes. No movement, no patrols.
Fifteen minutes.
Did they go somewhere else? Drop someone off? Pick someone up?
Twenty minutes. My luck was running out.
At twenty-two minutes, lights appeared at the end of the street.
I moved behind the trunk of the tree, hoping it was wide enough.
The lights washed over me, and disappeared. I peered out. Three of them in the BMW, waiting for the gate to slide open. I had to move fast.
The gate was open. He drove in. I ran.
I spotted another vehicle approaching. Slowly. Security patrol?
I threw my bag over, leaped, grabbed the top of the wall, running shoes slipping against the plastered smoothness, pulling myself up, desperate.
On top. I slid across, rolled off the other side. Too exposed, looked for the bag. It lay on a patch of lawn. The sound of a garage door closing automatically. I grabbed the bag, darting between the shrubs towards the house.
How much time did I have before they activated the alarm?
A massive house, modern design, three levels following the contours of the land. The lowest point was the furthest from me, east, a long way around the back. I ran along the southern side of the building, where the smaller windows would be, the bathrooms and store rooms.
Lights went on inside, to the left of me, on the level closest to the front gate. I would have to move further along, away from the activity.
Sprinted fu
ll speed on the paved pathway right next to the house. Windows, too high to reach.
A set of steps, I nearly fell. Level two. Windows still too high. The sand was running through the hourglass.
More steps, third level, windows within reach, I was out of time. The first window, chest high, was just big enough for me to get through. I took a T-shirt out of my bag, twisted it around my hand, and hit the glass hard. It fell inwards, a single crash, loud in my ears. I reached through, opened the catch, pulled the window wide, threw the T-shirt in, then the bag, wriggled through. I pushed the window shut.
There was a contact sensor. Was the interior alarm off?
It was a toilet, interior door shut. I knelt and shoved the T-shirt back into the bag, took the MAG out, pumped a round into the chamber.
Seconds ticked away. Nothing happened.
Phase One successful.
I hoped.
Phase Two would be easy bar one complicating factor: I needed personal one-to-one time with Inkunzi. I had to conduct my business without his henchmen knowing I was here, because if I dented his ego in front of his companions, if I made the gang leader lose face, he would come looking for me.
But I could use his status to my advantage, put it on the line. I had to prove he was vulnerable. That would give me leverage. Another reason to isolate him, confront him alone. Which made it all much more difficult.
I was counting on two basic assumptions: that people felt safe behind security systems, and that this house had a typical layout - reception and entertainment areas up front near the garage, personal areas, such as bedrooms, at the back. And Julius would have the biggest one, the throne room.
This part of the house was dead silent.
I took out my camera and put it in my shirt pocket. Then the Energizer torch, twisting the looped cord around my left hand.
I reached my left hand up and opened the toilet door quietly, still crouching.
A dark passage.
I snapped on the light on the red filter to maintain my night vision.
The bedrooms should be to the right of me. I shuffled forward, peering first left in the direction I suspected Inkunzi and his buddies were still partying.
Nothing.
I looked right. A long dark passage. I illuminated it quickly with the torch. Doors led off to the right and left.
I moved, vaguely remembering response team training from twenty years back, the MAG leading every move. The passage was wide, at the far end was the door I guessed would be the master bedroom.
It was shut.
A noise behind me. I pressed the torch to my shirt to douse it, spun around and dropped to my haunches, MAG to my shoulder.
A voice, someone appeared at the end of the passage, opened a door, switched a light on and disappeared into a room. I rolled to the open door nearest to me. A bedroom, big. Massive bed, lots of pillows. I sat down against the wall beside the door and listened.
I heard the door at the end of the passage close. Quiet again.
I peered cautiously around the door jamb. There was no one to be seen. Did he come to fetch something?
I waited for fifteen seconds, then jogged down the passage, to the closed door at the end. I put my hand on the lever and pressed down. The door swung open.
It was dark inside.
I slipped inside, shut the door behind me.
An enormous room. The northern side was glass, a sliding door behind a light lace curtain. Outside, lights twinkled in a swimming pool. In front of the window stood a couch and two chairs, a coffee table. Against the eastern wall was a giant bed with wooden headboard. I shone the torch on it. A charging bull was carved in it, ominous in the red light. The southern wall consisted of white louvre doors from end to end: the two in the centre stood open, leading to a bathroom where marble and stainless steel were dimly visible. To the left of me, on the western wall, was a large flat-screen TV with surround sound speakers.
I jogged over to the louvre doors to the left of the bathroom entrance and opened them. A walk-in wardrobe. Clothes hung in neat rows, impressive in their excess. Below were shoes, above were jackets, trousers, shirts, ties, belts.
Against the rear wall was a gun safe. I would have to keep him away from that.
I stepped out, back into the room. Opened the doors on the right side. Another walk-in wardrobe. Here and there hung the odd woman's garment. This one was clearly not used much. Just what I was looking for.
I closed the door behind me, sat down in the middle of the space, took the camera out of my pocket, put it down in front of me on the thick white carpet, cradled the MAG in my arms. Switched off the torch.
I would have to wait till he came.
47
Mock charges, especially by old and lone bulls, are characterised by the ears spread out and a loud trumpeting display, and may end a few metres from the intruder, after which the Elephant retreats. To run away may be fatal. If it demonstrates, stand still until it stops, then slowly move away downwind.
The Art of Tracking: Dangerous animals
I had a long wait.
Just after twenty past twelve I heard the bedroom door open. He switched on the light and closed the door. I stayed seated, pointing the shotgun at the entrance to the wardrobe.
Strips of light shone through the slats. Suddenly the sound of the TV, a soccer channel, the sound just loud enough that I could not hear his movements.
Three minutes later, water began to run next door. Sounded like the shower. This was the perfect Kodak moment. I gave him enough time to get the water temperature right and get in. I stood up, picked up the camera, switched it on, choosing the auto mode. Held it in my left hand, the MAG in my right, stepped out, walked across to the door leading to the passage, turned the key to lock it. Then I went into the bathroom.
Inkunzi was in the shower, his back to me, busy soaping himself. Broad shoulders, strong arms, good muscle definition. The scars of old knife fights.
He was singing softly in Zulu.
I raised the camera, let it auto-focus. Aimed the MAG.
'Julius!' I called out quietly.
His head jerked around. I clicked, the flash catching his indignation.
He swore, annoyance turning to rage. I clicked again, pushed the camera in my pocket and held the gun firmly in both hands, lifting it to my shoulder and aiming for his face.
'Blast from the past,' I said.
'What?' The water was still streaming over him, his face still dumbfounded.
'Close the taps.'
He took a while to gather his wits, and turn the water off.
'Another MAG-7,' I said. 'Not very accurate. But at this distance it will blow your knee away. So we are going to have a quiet little chat, but if I hear anyone outside I will start shooting. Do you understand?'
He was uncomfortable in his nakedness, exposed, his red eyes showed he had been drinking. There was still dark bruising on his slightly swollen mouth and nose from our previous encounter.
'Sit,' I said.
He sank slowly to his knees, keeping his hands high. Sensible. He sat down, instinctively angled so that his private parts were shielded.
He looked at me with calm hatred. 'You are a dead man.'
'That's one of the things we must talk about Julius. No one needs to know about this ... uncomfortable moment between us. Oh, before I forget...' I took out the camera, aimed so that the barrel of the gun and Inkunzi were in the picture and took another photograph.
He cursed, colourfully and at length.
'If I ever get the idea you are looking for me, or for anyone that I know, I will put these up at the Bull Run, the Sandton police station, I will put them on your X5's windscreen, I will send them to the tabloids and to every rival and accomplice you have, and I will put them on the Internet. And I will tell everyone who wants to know how easy it was to tame the Bull in his own kraal. On the other hand, if you want to keep our chat confidential, you have my complete cooperation.'
I let him chew
over that, but didn't get a positive response. His face showed only hatred.
'Come on, Julius, you have a reputation to uphold. Especially after Flea van Jaarsveld, also known as Cornel, fooled the both of us.'
I saw his recognition at the name.
'The diamonds were on the lorry,' I said.
Surprise. 'You lie.'
'Remember the sores on the rhinos, those sickly pink growths? Plastic, all along, Inkunzi. The diamonds were inside them. I had to go all the way to Zimbabwe yesterday before I could work it out. But you knew about the cargo. The important thing is, I want you to ask yourself why I went to all this trouble to come here tonight if I already knew about the diamonds. Why would I lie? The truth is, Flea has taken something from me, and I want it back. You want the stones. We can help each other.'
He digested this, straightened up a little. 'Give me my bathrobe,' he said, his voice reasonable, pointing at a white garment hanging from a hook against the wall. Negotiation is give and take. I tossed it at him. He draped himself in it. 'How can we help each other?' The change of gear was too rapid. I didn't trust him.
'Help me track her down.'
He laughed without humour.
'Funny?'
'Impossible.'
'Nothing is impossible. How did you know about the diamonds?'
'Let me get dressed first.'
'That is not going to happen.'
'Then it will be a long night.'
'Only if you have lost interest in the diamonds.'
'I don't negotiate in a shower.'
I liked the shower. It reduced his options. But I would have to let him restore some dignity. As long as I kept him away from the gun safe in the walk-in wardrobe. 'Come,' I said, 'but slowly.'
He rose, and put the bathrobe on. I walked backwards into the big bedroom. He followed me.
'I want a smoke.' He gestured at his bedside cabinet where a pack of Camels and a Zippo lighter lay beside a bunch of keys.
I nodded, keeping the MAG trained on him, and moved across to the couch against the window. Inkunzi had closed the curtains behind it. I sat down. He tapped out a cigarette, lit it, sat on the bed.