Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  “Can’t I even tell Johnson?”

  “Johnson might tell his father, and his father might phone my old friend. It must be a secret between us three.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  “Do you know where Zambia is on the map?”

  “Is it in eee Mpumalanga?”

  Miriam would have smiled, under normal circumstances, at her son’s wild guess. Not tonight.

  “Zambia is a country, Pakamile. Let me show you.” Mpayipheli paged to a map of southern Africa. “Here we are,” he said, pointing with his finger.

  “Cape Town.”

  “Yes. And up here is Zambia.”

  “How are you going to get there, Thobela?”

  “I am going to fly on an airplane to here, in Johannesburg. Then I will get on another plane that is going to fly here over Zimbabwe or maybe here over Botswana to this place. It’s called Lusaka. It’s a city, like Cape Town. That’s where my old friend is.”

  “How far is that, Thobela?”

  “Oh, about twenty-five hundred kilometers.”

  “That is very far.”

  “It is.”

  “Will there be cake? And cool drink?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I want to come, too.”

  He laughed and looked at Miriam. She just shook her head.

  “One day, Pakamile, I will take you. I promise.” “Bedtime,” said Miriam. “When are you going to fly?” “Just now, when you are sleeping.” “And when are you coming back?”

  “Only about two sleeps. Look after your mother, Pakamile. And the vegetable garden.”

  “I will. Will you bring me back some cake?”

  “The wild card is Thobela Mpayipheli,” said Janina Mentz. “We don'’t know why Monica Kleintjes went to him. You heard the conversations— he is also known as Tiny, works at Mother City Motorrad, a BMW motorbike dealership, lives with Miriam Nzu-lulwazi in Guguletu. We know she is the registered owner of the house, nothing else. Kleintjes went by taxi to the house, stayed just over forty minutes, and went straight home. Since then neither Mpayipheli nor Kleintjes has moved.

  “There are two surveillance teams with her and one in Guguletu, with him. The Reaction Unit is on its way from Bloem-fontein and should land at Ysterplaat any minute now. They will stay there until we have more information. That, people, is how things stand.”

  She turned off the video.

  “Now we must jump to it. Radebe, we have only one man in Lusaka. I want four more. With experience. The Gauteng office is closest and they have enough of the right kind of people. Preferably two men and two women who can book into the Republican Hotel as couples. Discreetly and certainly not at the same time, but I’ll leave that to you. Get your phone systems running. Quinn, we need to intercept the calls to the Nzululwazi home in Guguletu. Urgently. Rajkumar, bring in your team. I want to know who Thobela Mpayipheli is. I don'’t care what database you fish in; this is absolute priority. Right, people, go, go, go. Twenty minutes, please, then we are rolling.”

  * * *

  Tiger Mazibuko was last one off the Falcon. He let the members of Team Alpha go first, watching them, white, black, brown, each with his own story. Da Costa, sinewy descendant of Angolan refugees with the knife scar on his cheek and a five o’clock shadow on his jaw. Weyers, the Afrikaner from Germiston with bodybuilder’s arms. Little Joe Moroka, a Tswana raised on a maize farm at Bothaville, spoke seven of the country’s eleven official languages. Cupido, the shortest, the most talkatI've, a colored town boy from Ashton with a Technikon diploma in electronic engineering. Even a “token Royal,” as Zwelitini, the tall, lean Zulu, liked to call himself, although he was not a member of the king’s family.

  They stood in line on the runway. The Cape summer breeze blew softly against Mazibuko’s cheek as he dropped to the tar.

  “Offload now. Hurry up and wait. You know the drill.”

  * * *

  At the front door he put his arms around her, pressed her thin body against him, smelled the woman smell, the faint remains of shampoo and scent after a long day, the aromas of the kitchen and that unique warmth that was special to her.

  “I will have to stay over in Johannesburg,” he said softly in her ear. “I can only catch a plane to Lusaka tomorrow.”

  “How much money did she give you?”

  “Plenty.”

  Miriam did not comment, just held him tight.

  “I’ll phone as soon as I get to the hotel.”

  Still she stood with her face in his neck and her hands around him. At last she stepped back and kissed him quickly on the mouth. “Come back, Thobela.”

  * * *

  Janina phoned home from the privacy of her office. Lien, the eldest, picked up. “Hello, Mamma.”

  “I have to work late, sweetie.”

  “Maaa You promised to help me with biology.”

  “Lien, you’re fifteen. You know when you know your work well enough.”

  “I’ll wait up.”

  “Let me talk to Suthu. She must sleep over, because I won’t get home tonight.”

  “Ma-aa. My hair tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m sorry, Lien. It’s an emergency. I need you to help out there. You’re my big girl. Did Lizette do her homework?”

  “She was on the phone the whole afternoon, Ma, and you know how those grade sevens are. ‘Did Kosie say anything about me? Do you think Pietie likes me?’ It’s so childish. It’s

  gross.”

  She laughed. “You were also in grade seven.”

  “I can’t bear to think of it. Was I ever like that?”

  “You were. Let me talk to Lizette. You must get some sleep, sweetie. You need to be fresh for the exam. I’ll phone tomorrow, I promise.”

  5.

  The taxi dropped him off outside Departures; he paid, took his bag, and got out. How long since he had last flown? Things had changed; everything was new and shiny, to make a good impression on the overseas tourists.

  At Comair he bought a ticket with the cash Monica Kleintjes had handed him in a stack of new hundred-rand notes. “That’s too much,” he had said. “You can bring me the change” was her response. Now he wondered where the money had come from. Did she have time to go and withdraw the cash? Or did the Kleintjeses keep that much in the house?

  He sent the bag through the X-ray machine. Two pairs of trousers, two shirts, two pairs of socks, his black shoes, a jersey, his toilet bag, the remaining cash. And the hard drive, small and flat, technology that was beyond him. And somewhere in the electronic innards were unmentionable facts about this country’s past.

  He didn’'t want to think about it, didn’'t want to be involved; he wanted to give the stuff to Johnny Kleintjes, see him safe, come home and get on with his life. So many plans for himself and Miriam and Pakamile, and then he became aware of the two gray suits behind him, the instinct a relic from another life, a muted warning in the back of his mind. He looked back, but it was just his imagination. He took his bag and checked his watch. Thirty-three minutes to boarding.

  * * *

  “What should we do?” asked Quinn, looking expectantly at Janina with his headphones pulled down.

  “First I want to know where he’s headed.”

  “They’re finding out. He bought a ticket with Comair.”

  “Keep me informed.”

  Quinn nodded, shifted the earphones back, and spoke quietly into the mike at his mouth.

  “Rahjev, anything?” she asked the extremely fat Indian seated behind his computer.

  “National Population Register lists nine Thobela Mpayiphelis. I’m checking birth dates. give me ten.”

  She nodded.

  Why had Monica Kleintjes chosen Mpayipheli? Who was he?

  She stepped over to Radebe, who was on the phone talking to the Gauteng office. Someone had brought coffee and sandwiches. She didn’'t want coffee yet and she wasn'’t hungry. She went back to Quinn. He was just listening, glanced up at her, calm and competent.

  An unbelievable team, she thought. This thing will be over before it has begun.

  “He’s flying to Johannesburg,”
said Quinn.

  “He has only one bag with him?”

  “Just the one.”

  “And we are absolutely sure Monica Kleintjes is at her house?”

  “She’s sitting in front of the TV in the sitting room. They can see her through the lace curtain.”

  She considered the possibilities, ran through all the implications and scenarios. Mpayipheli must have the data. They could take it now and send their own team to Lusaka. Better control, with the RU as backup. Perhaps. Because it would be difficult to get Mazibuko and company into Zambia. Too many diplomatic favors. Too much exposure. The director might have to test his Reaction Unit some other time. The main issue: Keep it in the family. Keep it safe and under control.

  “How good is the team at the airport?”

  “Good enough. Experienced,” said Quinn.

  She nodded. “I want them to bring Mpayipheli in, Quinn. Low-profile, I don'’t want a confrontation at the airport. Discreet and fast. Get him and his bag in a car and bring them here.”

  * * *

  He sat with his bag on his lap, and the awareness of isolation crept over him. He had been living with Miriam for more than a year now, more than a year of family evenings, and suddenly here he was alone again, as he had been in the old days.

  He searched for a reaction in himself. Did he miss it? The answer surprised him, as he found no satisfaction in this privacy. After a lifetime of depending on himself, in twelve months they had changed his life. He wanted to be there, not here.

  But he had to complete this task.

  Johnny Kleintjes. The Johnny Kleintjes he knew would never have sold out. Something must have happened to change the old man. Who knew what was happening in the inner circles and walkways of the new government and the new intelligence services? It wasn'’t impossible, just improbable. Johnny Kleintjes was a man of integrity. And loyalty. A strong man with character. He would ask him when he saw him, when the data was handed over and Johnny got his money. If everything went off okay. It had to. He didn’'t feel like trouble, not anymore.

  And then they were next to him, two gray suits. He hadn'’t seen them coming, and as they appeared beside him he started at the depth of his thoughts, the blunting of old skills.

  “Mr. Mpayipheli,” said one.

  “Yes.” Surprised they knew his name. They were right against him, preventing him from getting up.

  “We want you to come with us.”

  “What for?”

  “We represent the state,” said the second, holding a plastic ID up to his eyes, photo and national coat of arms.

  “I have to catch a plane,” he said. His head was clear now, his body reacting.

  “Not tonight,” said Number One.

  “I don'’t want to hurt anybody,” said Thobela Mpayipheli.

  Two laughed, hee-hee, amused. “Is that so?”

  “Please.”

  “I am afraid you don'’t have a choice, Mr. Mpayipheli.” He tapped the blue bag. “The contents ”

  What did they know? “Please listen,” he said. “I don'’t want trouble.”

  The agent heard the note of pleading in the big Xhosa’s voice. He’s afraid, he thought. Use it. “We could give you more trouble than you would ever imagine, big fellow,” he said, and pushed back the tail of his jacket to display the pistol, steel butt in a black shoulder holster. He stretched out his hand for the sports bag. “Come,” he said.

  “Ai, ai,” said Thobela Mpayipheli. In the time it took for the hand to reach the sports bag he had to make a decision. He had gleaned something from their behavior: They didn’'t want to cause a scene. They wanted to get him out of there quietly. He must use that. He saw One’s jacket gaping as his arm reached for the bag. He saw the pistol butt, reached up and took it, turned, stood up. One had the bag in his hand, his eyes wide with shock. Mpayipheli leaned into him with the pistol barrel at his heart. Two was behind Number One. Other passengers here and there had not seen anything amiss.

  “I don'’t want trouble. Just give me my bag.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Two.

  “He’s got my pistol,” hissed One.

  “You take the bag,” Mpayipheli told Two.

  “What?”

  “Take the bag from him and put your pistol in it.” He shoved the pistol in his own hand hard against One’s chest, keeping him between himself and Two.

  “Do what he says,” said One softly.

  Two was uncertain, eyes darting from them to the passengers waiting in the departure lounge, trying to decide. He made up his mind.

  “No,” he said, drawing his pistol and keeping it under his jacket.

  “Do what he says,” One whispered urgently, with authority.

  “Fuck, Willem.”

  Mpayipheli kept his voice reasonable, calm. “I just want my bag. I am not good with revolvers. There are lots of people here. Someone might get hurt.”

  Stalemate. Mpayipheli and Willem intimately close, Two a meter away.

  “Jissis, Alfred, do what the fucker says. Where can he go?”

  At last: “You can explain to the boss.” He took the bag slowly from Willem’s grip, zipped it open and slipped his pistol inside, zipped it up and deposited it carefully on the floor as if the contents were breakable.

  “Now both of you sit down.”

  The agents moved slowly and sat.

  Mpayipheli took the bag, pistol in his trouser pocket with his hand still on it, and walked, jogged, to the passenger exit, turning to check. One and Two, Willem and Alfred, one white, one brown, staring at him with unreadable faces.

  “Sir, you can’t—,” said the woman at the exit, but he was past her, outside, onto the runway. A security man shouted something, waving, but he ran out of the ring of light from the building into the dark.

  * * *

  A bellow from the fat Indian—“I’ve got him”— and Mentz strode over to his computer monitor.

  “Thobela Mpayipheli, born ten October 1962 in Alice in the Eastern Cape, father is Lawrence Mpayipheli, mother is Catherine Zongu, his ID number is 621010 5122 004. Registered address is 45 Seventeenth Avenue, Mitchell’s Plain.” Rajkumar leaned back tri-umphantly and took another sandwich off the tray.

  Mentz stood behind his chair, reading off the screen.

  “We know he was born, Rahjev. We need more than that.”

  “Well, I had to start somewhere.” Wounded at the dearth of praise.

  “I hope his birthday isn'’t an omen,” she said.

  Rajkumar glanced from the screen to her. “I don'’t get it.”

  “Heroes Day, Raj. In the old days the tenth of October was Heroes Day. When the Afrikaners celebrated their pioneers. That address is old. Find out who lived there. He’s forty years old. Too old to be Monica’s contemporary. Old enough to have been involved with Johnny Kleintjes—”

  “Ma’am,” called Quinn, but she would not be interrupted.

  “I want to know what that connection with Kleintjes is, Rahjev.

  I want to know if he served and how. I need to know why Monica Kleintjes went to him with her little problem.”

  “Ma’am,” called Quinn with great urgency. She looked up.

  “We have a fugitive.”

  * * *

  He aimed for the darkest area of the airport and kept running. His ears expected sirens and shouts and shots. He was angry with Monica and Johnny Kleintjes and himself. How did the authorities suddenly know about Johnny Kleintjes’s little deal?

  They had known his name, the two gray suits. Had tapped a finger on the blue bag. They knew what was in there. Were watching him since he walked into the airport, knew about him; must have followed Monica to his house, so they knew about her, about Johnny Kleintjes, bloody Johnny Kleintjes. They knew everything. He ran, looking over his shoulder. No one was behind him. He had sworn to himself: no more violence. Two years he had been true. Had not shot, beaten, or even threatened anyone. He had promised Miriam those days were gone, and within thirty seconds after the gray suits had reached him it was as if all the promises were in the water, and he knew how these things worked�
� they just got worse. Once the cycle began, it couldn'’t be stopped. What he should do now was take the bag back to the woman and tell her Johnny Kleintjes could sort out his own mess. Stop the cycle before it went any further. Stop it now.

  He pulled up at the wire boundary fence. Beyond it was Borchards Quarry Road. He was breathing hard, his body no longer used to the exertion. Sweat ran down his cheek. He checked behind again; the building was too far to distinguish people, but all was quiet, no big fuss.

  Which meant that it wasn'’t a police or customs operation. The place would have been crawling.