by Deon Meyer
Heart of the Hunter
Deon Meyer
Six-foot five-inch Thobela "Tiny" Mpayipheli was once a feared assassin and freedom fighter, trained by the Stasi and KGB. In post-apartheid South Africa, he's happily working in a garage. But Tiny’s quiet domestic life is interrupted by a desperate plea from the daughter of a trusted old friend: he’s being held hostage after taking an incriminating hard drive and needs help. Tiny’s old training kicks in, and as he races across the South African landscape on a stolen BMW motorcycle to the rendezvous point, he is pursued by several interested and hostile forces, including South Africa’s Presidential Intelligence Unit. None of them have a clue what they’re up against.
Heart of the Hunter
Deon Meyer
Copyright 2002 by Deon Meyer
English translation 2003 by K. L. Seegers
FOR ANITA
1984
He stood behind the American. Almost pressed against him by the crush of Le Metro. His soul was far away at a place on the Transkei coast where giant waves broke in thunder.
He thought of the rocky point where he could sit and watch the swells approaching in lines over the Indian Ocean, in awe at their journey over the long, lonely distance to hurl and break themselves against the rocks of the Dark Continent.
Between the sets of waves there is a time of perfect silence, seconds of absolute calm. So quiet he can hear the voices of his ancestors Phalo and Rharhabe, Nquika and Maqoma, the great Xhosa chiefs, his bloodline, source, and refuge. He knew that is where he would go when his time came, when he felt the long blade and the life run out of him. He would return to those moments between the explosions of sound.
He came back to himself slowly, almost carefully. He saw they were only minutes from the St. Michel Metro station. He leaned down, only half a head, to the ear of the American. His lips were close like a lover.
Do you know where you are going when you die? he asked in a voice as deep as a cello, the English heavy with an accent of Africa.
The tendons in the back of the enemys neck pulled taut, big shoulders tilted forward.
He waited calmly for the man to turn in the overfilled crush of the train. He waited to see the eyes. This is the moment he thirsted for. Confrontation, throwing down the gauntlet. This was his calling, instinctive, fulfilling him. He was a warrior from the plains of Africa, every sinew and muscle knit and woven for this moment. His heart began to race, the sap of war coursed through his blood, he was possessed by the divine madness of battle.
The body turned first, unhurried, then the head, then the eyes. He saw a hawk there, a predator without fear, self-assured, amused even, the corners of the thin lips lifting. Centimeters apart, it was a strange intimacy.
Do you know?
Just the eyes staring back.
Because soon you will be there, Dorffling. He used the name contemptuously, the final declaration of war that said he knew his enemy, the assignment accepted, the dossier studied and committed to memory.
He saw no reaction in the lazy eyes. The train slowed and stopped at St. Michel. This is our station, he said. The American nodded and went, with him just a step behind, up the stairs into the summer night bustle of the Latin Quarter. Then Dorffling took off. Along the Boulevard San Michel toward the Sorbonne. He knew prey chooses familiar territory. Dorfflings den was there, just around the corner from the Place du Pantheon, his arsenal of blades and garottes and firearms. But he hadn't expected flight, thought the ego would be too big. His respect deepened for the ex-Marine, now CIA assassin.
His body had reacted instinctively: the dammed-up adrenaline exploding, long legs powering the big body forward rhythmically, ten, twelve strides behind the fugitive. Parisian heads turned. White man pursued by black man. An atavistic fear flared in their eyes.
The American spun off into the Rue des Ecoles, right into the Rue St. Jaques, and now they were in the alleys of the University, barren in the August of student holidays, the age-old buildings somber onlookers, the night shadows deep. With long, sure strides he caught up with Dorffling, shouldered him. The American fell silently to the pavement, rolled forward, and stood up in one sinuous movement, ready.
He reached over his shoulder for the assegai in the scabbard that lay snug against his back. Short handle, long blade.
Mayibuye, he said softly.
What fucking language is that, nigger? Hoarse voice without inflection.
Xhosa, he said, the click of his tongue echoing sharply off the alley walls. Dorffling moved with confidence, a lifetime of practice in every shift of the feet. Watching, measuring, testing, round and round, the diminishing circles of a rhythmic death dance. Attack, immeasurably fast and before the knee could drive into his belly, his arm was around the Americans neck and the long thin blade through the breastbone. He held him close against his own body as the light blue eyes stared into his.
Uhm-sing-gelli, said the Marine.
Umzingeli.
He nodded, correcting the pronunciation softly, politely. With respect for the process, for the absence of pleading, for the quiet acceptance of death. He saw the life fade from the eyes, the heartbeat slowing, the breaths jerky, then still.
He lowered the body, felt the big, hard muscles of the back soften, laid him gently down.
Where are you going? Do you know?
He wiped the assegai on the mans T-shirt. Slid it slowly back into the scabbard.
Then he turned away.
MARCH
I.
Transcript of interview with Ismail Mohammed by A. J. M. Williams, 17 March, 17:52, South African Police Services offices, Gardens, Cape Town
w: You wanted to talk to someone from Intelligence?
M: Are you?
w: I am, Mr. Mohammed.
M: How do I know that?
w: You take my word for it.
M: Thats not good enough.
w: What would be good enough for you, Mr. Mohammed?
M: Have you got identification?
w: You can check this out if you want to.
M: Department of Defence?
w: Mr. Mohammed, I represent the State Intelligence Service.
M: NIA?
w: No.
M: Secret Service?
w: No.
M: What then?
w: The one that matters.
M: Military Intelligence?
w: There seems to be some misunderstanding, Mr. Mohammed. The message I got was that you are in trouble and you want to improve your position by providing certain information. Is that correct?
[Inaudible]
w: Mr. Mohammed?
M: Yes?
w: Is that correct?
M: Yes.
w: You told the police you would give the information only to someone from the intelligence services?
M: Yes.
w: Well, this is your chance.
M: How do I know they are not listening to us?
w: According to the Criminal Procedures Act, the police must advise you before they may make a recording of an interview.
M: Ha!
w: Mr. Mohammed, do you have something to tell me?
M: I want immunity.
w: Oh?
M: And guaranteed confidentiality.
w: You don't want Pagad to know you've been talking?
M: I am not a member of Pagad.
w: Are you a member of Muslims Against Illegitimate Leaders?
M: Illegal Leaders.
w: Are you a member of MAIL?
M: I want immunity.
w: Are you a member of Qibla?
[Inaudible]
w: I can try to negotiate on your behalf, Mr. Mohammed, but there can b
e no guarantees. I understand the case against you is airtight. If your information is worth anything, I cant promise you more than that I do my best .
M: I want a guarantee.
w: Then we must say good-bye, Mr. Mohammed. Good luck in court.
M: Just give me
w: Im calling the detectives.
M: Wait
w: Good-bye, Mr. Mohammed.
M: Inkululeko.
w: Sorry?
M: Inkululeko.
w: Inkululeko?
M: He exists.
w: I don't know what youre talking about.
M: Then why are you sitting down again?
OCTOBER
2.
A young man stuck his head out of a minibus taxi, wagging a mocking finger and laughing with wide white teeth at Thobela Mpayipheli.
He knew why. Often enough he had seen his reflection in the big shop windows a great black man, tall and broad, on the tiny Honda Benly the 200 cc ineffectively but bravely putt-putting under his weight. His knees almost touching the handlebars, long arms at sharp angles, the full-face crash helmet incongruously top-heavy.
Something of a spectacle. A caricature.
He was self-conscious those first weeks when to add to it all he had to learn to ride the thing. Going to work or home, every morning and afternoon in the rush-hour traffic of the N2, he was awkward and unsure. But once he learned the skills, learned to dodge the vans and 4x4s and buses, learned to slip between the gaps in the cars, learned to turn the pitiful horsepower to his advantage, the pointing mocking fingers ceased to trouble him.
And later he began to revel in it: while they sat trapped and frustrated in the gridlocked traffic, he and his Benly buzzed between them, down the long valleys that opened up between the rows of cars.
On the road, from Cape Town, east to Guguletu. And Miriam Nzululwazi.
And Pakamile, who would wait for him on the street corner, then run alongside the last thirty meters to the driveway. Silent, seven-year-old solemnity on the wide-eyed face, serious like his mother, patiently waiting till Thobela took off the helmet and the tin work box, swept his big hand over the boys head, and said, Good afternoon, Pakamile. The child would overwhelm him with his smile and throw his arms around him, a magic moment in every day, and he would walk in to Miriam, who would be busy already with cooking or washing or cleaning. The tall, lean, strong and beautiful woman would kiss him and ask about his day.
The child would wait patiently for him to finish talking and change his clothes. Then the magic words: Lets go farm.
He and Pakamile would stroll down the yard to inspect and discuss the growth of the past twenty-four hours. The sweet corn that was making cobs, the runner beans (Lazy housewife, what are you hinting at? asked Miriam), the carrots, the squashes and butternuts and watermelons trailing along the beds. They would pull an experimental carrot. Too small. Pakamile would rinse it off later to show his mother and then crunch the raw and glowing orange root. They would check for insects, study the leaves for fungus or disease. He would do the talking and Pakamile would nod seriously and absorb the knowledge with big eyes.
The child is mad about you, she had said on more than one occasion.
He knew. And he was mad about the child. About her. About them.
But first he had to navigate the obstacle course of the rush hour, the kamikaze taxis, the pushy 4x4s, the buses belching diesel exhaust, the darting Audis of the yuppies switching lanes without checking their rearview mirrors, the wounded rusty bakkies, pickup trucks of the townships.
First to Pick n Pay to buy the fungicide for the butternuts.
Then home.
* * *
The director smiled. Janina Mentz had never seen him without a smile.
What kind of trouble?
Johnny Kleintjes, Mr. Director, but you need to hear this yourself. She placed the laptop on the directors desk.
Sit, Janina. Still he smiled his hearty, charming smile, eyes soft as if gazing on a favorite child. He is so small, she thought, small for a Zulu, small for such a great responsibility. But impeccably dressed, the white shirt a shout in contrast to the dark skin, the dark gray suit an expression of good taste, somehow just right. When he sat like that, the hump, the small deformity of back and neck, could barely be seen. Mentz maneuvered the cursor on the screen to activate the replay.
Johnny Kleintjes, said the director. That old rogue.
He tapped on the computer keyboard. The sound came tinnily through the small speakers.
Is this Monica?
Unaccented. Dark voice.
Yes?
Johnny Kleintjess daughter?
Yes.
Then I need you to listen very carefully. Your daddy is in a bit of trouble.
What kind of trouble?
Immediate worry.
Lets just say he promised, but he couldn't deliver.
Who are you?
That I am not going to tell you. But I do have a message for you. Are you listening?
Yes.
It is very important that you get this right, Monica. Are you calm?
Yes.
Silence, for a moment. Mentz looked up at the director. His eyes were still soft, his body still relaxed behind the wide, tidy desk.
Daddy says there is a hard drive in the safe in his study.
Silence.
Are you getting this, Monica?
Yes.
He says you know the combination?
Yes.
Good.
Where is my father?
He is here. With me. And if you don't work with us, we will kill him.
A catch of breath.
I please
Stay calm, Monica. If you stay calm, you can save him.
Please Who are you?
A businessman, Monica. Your daddy tried to trick me. Now you have to put things right.
The director shook his head ruefully. Ai, Johnny, he said.
You will kill him anyway.
Not if you cooperate.
How can I believe you?
Do you have a choice?
No.
Good. We are making progress. Now go to the safe and get the drive.
Please stay on the line.
Ill be right here.
The hiss of the electronics. Some static interference on the line.
When did this conversation take place, Janina?
An hour ago, Mr. Director.
You were quick, Janina. That is good.
Thank you, sir, but it was the surveillance team. Theyre on the ball.
The call was to Monicas house?
Yes, sir.
What data do you think they are referring to here, Janina?
Sir, there are many possibilities.
The director smiled sympathetically. There were wrinkles around his eyes, regular, dignified. But we must assume the worst?
Yes, sir. We must assume the worst. She saw no panic. Only calmness.
I I have the hard drive.
Wonderful. Now we have just one more problem, Monica.
What?
You are in Cape Town, and I am not.
I will bring it.
You will?
A laugh, muffled.
Yes. Just tell me where.
I will, my dear, but I want you to know, I cannot wait forever.
I understand.
I don't think so. You have seventy-two hours, Monica. And it is a long way.
Where must I take it?
Are you very sure about this?
Yes.
Another pause: long, drawn out.
Meet me in the Re-publican Hotel, Monica. In the foyer. In seventy-two hours.