Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  7.

  He asked the taxi driver to drop him off in front of the Media 24 building in the Heerengracht. He chose to go east through the Nico Malan, turning left onto Hert-zog. Traffic at this time of evening was thin. He deliberately walked without urgency, like a man going nowhere in particular, and turned left again onto Oswald Pirow. As he passed between the petrol pumps, greeting the petrol jockeys through the window of their night room, he saw the car in front of Mother City Motorrad. The lights were on, engine idling, and he saw the intelligence officers in the front seat and his heart sank.

  Spooks. They were watching the place.

  He opened the door of the petrol attendants’ room and went inside, knowing he would be spotted if he stayed outside.

  The idling engine was a good sign. If they were keeping the place under surveillance, they would have parked in the cross street with lights and engine off. The attendants were glad to see him; any distraction at this time of night was welcome. What was he doing here, what was in the bag? He made up an answer, a client’s motorbike had not been returned after servicing and now he, Mpayipheli, had to sort out the whitey’s problems. He had an eye on the car outside, saw it pull away, and tried to keep track of it without raising the suspicions of the petrol jockeys.

  Did he have to deliver the bike at this time of night?

  Yes, the guy was angry, he needed the motorbike tomorrow morning and the whitey boss was too lazy to go out, so the Xhosa was called out, you know the story. What are you guys watching on TV a competition? Yes, see, every guy has to pick one of three girls, but he can’t see them, he can only ask them questions .

  The car had gone. He listened politely for a minute or two, then excused himself and left, looking up and down the street, but there was nothing. He crossed, went behind the building into the service alley. He took his wallet from the blue bag, sorting through the leather folds. The silver key to the wooden door lay flat and shiny where he always put it. He was the first one there every morning to sweep up half an hour before the mechanics arrived. He had to put on the kettle and the lights and make sure the display windows were clean. He unlocked the door and typed in the code on the alarm panel. He had to decide whether or not to switch on the lights. The guys at the garage would wonder if he didn’'t, but he decided against it— he mustn'’t attract attention.

  Next decision: which bike? Lord, the things were big. Would he be able to manage with his Honda 200 experience? He had never been allowed to ride them, he had to push them outside, wash and polish, rub till they shone, push them back in again. Tonight he must get onto one and ride to Johannesburg; but which one?

  He felt the weight of the bag dragging at his hand.

  The 1200 RS was the fastest, but what about the bag? The LT has luggage space but it was gigantic. The GS demonstration model in the display room had fixed baggage cases on either side of the rear wheel. The machine stood there, chunky and crouched, orangey yellow. The key, he knew, hung in the spares room.

  Lord, they were so big.

  * * *

  Despite the concrete walls topped with razor wire and the high gate, despite the early-warning system of human eyes all down the street, and despite the eight men with their collection of weapons inside, it took only seven minutes for Tiger Mazibuko and his Reaction Unit to take the house.

  They came through the darkness in three teams of four, four, and five. The two unmarked cars dropped them one block south of the house, and they moved unerringly through gardens and over walls until they could scale the wall of the yard on three sides, quietly and easily cutting the rusty razor wire, their hand signals visible in the light from the street.

  The windows were burglarproofed but the large panes were unprotected, and that is how they entered. With smooth, practiced movements of break, dive, and roll, in three separate places, within seconds of one another. When the people inside scrambled to react, panic-stricken, it was too late. Fearful figures with thick welts of camouflage paint, in combat fatigues, forced them adroitly to the floor, pressing chunky Heckler & Koch machine pistols to their temples. Moments of chaos and confusion suddenly turned to quiet, till only one man’s voice was heard, clear and in control.

  Mazibuko had the captives brought into the front room and forced down on their bellies on the floor with their hands behind their heads.

  “Weyers, Zongu, watch the street.” Then Mazibuko focused on the bundle of bodies on the floor. “Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

  Facedown, one or two of the bodies trembled slightly. Seconds passed with no answer.

  “Shoot one, Da Costa,” said Mazibuko.

  “Which one, Captain?”

  “Start there. Shoot him in the knee. Fuck up his leg.”

  “Right, Captain.”

  Da Costa loudly pulled back the slide of the HK and pressed the barrel against a leg.

  “You can’t shoot,” said a voice in the bundle.

  “Why not?”

  “There are rules for the SAPS.”

  Mazibuko laughed. “Shoot, Da Costa.”

  The shot was a thunderbolt in the room; the man made a deep, curious noise. The smell of cordite filled the room.

  “Here’s some bad news, assholes. We are not police,” said Mazibuko. “Let me ask you again: Who is the chief gangsta here?”

  “I am,” said the man in the middle, anxiety creasing his face.

  “Stand up.”

  “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “That depends, Gangsta. That depends.”

  * * *

  Janina Mentz developed her policy on transcripts systematically. The challenge was to secure information, which in this country leaked like water from an earth dam, through the cracks of old loyalties and new aspirations, filtering away through a sandy bottom of corruption and petty avarice. If something gave off the smell of money scavengers would emerge from the oddest holes.

  From the beginning her method was to trust nobody too much, to lead no one into temptation, to dampen the smell of the money.

  Rahjev Rajkumar had coached her in the vulnerabilities of electronic information. Easy to copy, easy to distribute: floppy disks, zip disks, CD-ROM, FTP, hard drives smaller than half a cigarette pack, e-mail, hacking— because if it was linked it was crackable. If they could get into others’ databases, sooner or later with some new ingenious programming, others would get into theirs.

  There was only one way to secure information. One copy, on paper: fileable, controllable, limited.

  That is why Rajkumar had an extra section to manage. The typists. Four women who played their old-fashioned electric IBM typewriters like virtuosas. Who fingered the keys at the speed of white light in a single video-monitored room on the sixth floor. Who would sign out each digital and magnetic tape, transcribe it, and sign it back in with the single copy on white paper. Paper that would not yellow or decay. So that Radebe and his team could analyze it and then file it away in the access- and temperature-controlled document library, together with the magnetic tapes. The digital tapes were deleted.

  By the time the transcript of the interview with Orlando Arendse reached her, forty-seven minutes after it had taken place in Milnerton Ridge, Janina was already familiar with the crucial content.

  * * *

  Transcript of interview by A. J. M. Williams with Mr. Orlando Arendse, 23 October, 21:25,55 Milnerton Avenue, Milnerton Ridge

  w: I represent the state, Mr. Arendse. I have a few questions about Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli and a Miss Monica Kleintjes .

  A: I don'’t work from home. Come and see me at my office in the morning.

  w: I am afraid it can’t wait that long, Mr. Arendse.

  A: Where are your credentials?

  w: Here, Mr. Arendse.

  A: Drop the “mister”; I can see you don'’t mean it. This card says nothing. Come see me in the morning, thank you.

  w: Maybe you should—

  A: Maybe nothing. It’s outside my office hours, and you don'’t have a warrant.

  w: I do.

  A:
Then where is it?

  w: Here.

  A: That’s a cell phone.

  w: Just take the call.

  A: Good-bye, my brother.

  w: It’s from a house in Mitchell’s Plain that belongs to you.

  A: What?

  w: Take the call.

  A: Hello. Yes Yes The bastards Yes Williams, who the hell are you?

  w: Is there somewhere we can talk in private, Mr. Arendse?

  A: What do you want?

  w: Just some information.

  A: Said the spider to the fly. Come in, we will sit in the back.

  w: Thank you.

  A: You shot my man, Williams.

  w: We wanted to get your attention.

  A: You can'’t just shoot. There are rules of engagement.

  w: I am sure most of the government departments would agree with you.

  A: So who are you?

  w: We need some information about a Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli and a Miss Monica Kleintjes.

  A: I don'’t know the lady.

  w: And Mr. Mpayipheli?

  A: He no longer works for me. Not for two years

  w: What sort of work did he do?

  A: Now I must ask you to excuse me while I phone my lawyer.

  w: I am afraid that will not be possible.

  A: Do you imagine, my brown bro, that I will sit here and feed you incriminating evidence because you hold a barrel to my troops’ head? My men know the score; they know they can get hurt in our line of work.

  w: Mr. Arendse, we know you are involved in organized crime, and the fact of the matter is that we don'’t care. That is the problem of the SAPS. Do you really think that our actions in Mitchell’s Plain, which are hardly in line with the laws of criminal procedure, are part of a plan to bring you to justice?

  A: Why do you talk like a whitey? Where are your roots, my bro?

  w: Mpayipheli. What did he do for you?

  A: Go fuck yourself.

  w: Mr. Arendse, my people at the Mitchell’s Plain house say there is two hundred kilograms of cocaine in various stages of processing. I am sure it’s worth something to you, even if your personnel are not.

  [Inaudible]

  w: Mr. Arendse?

  A: What is your problem with Tiny?

  w: Who?

  A: Mpayipheli.

  w: We just need some background.

  A: Why?

  w: Routine investigations, Mr. Arendse.

  A: At ten o’clock at night? Pull the other one.

  w: I am not in a position to discuss our interest in Mr. Mpayipheli with you.

  A: Did he go into business for himself?

  w: How do you mean?

  A: He must have done something to attract your attention.

  w: What did he do for you?

  A: He was my enforcer.

  w: Enforcer?

  A: Yes.

  w: Could you describe that more fully?

  A: Jirre, you talk fancy. The government has taught you well.

  w: Mr. Arendse

  A: Okay okay but don'’t expect a saga, it’s more of a short story. Tiny was firepower and physical intimidation, that’s all. He rode shotgun. Sharpshooter like you wouldn'’t believe. And he was big and strong and he was a mean bastard. You could see it in his eyes— there was a hawk there, he would watch you and look for weakness.

  w: How long did he work for you?

  A: Six years? I think it was six years.

  w: And before that?

  A: You should know. He was a soldier in the Struggle.

  w: Umkhonto we Sizwe?

  A: Exactly

  w: With respect, Mr. Arendse, there are few MK soldiers in Mitchell’s Plain.

  A: Too true, my bro, they stick to their own. But I got lucky. There was a vacancy and you know how it is— word gets out and the next thing I know this huge Xhosa is standing at the door and he says the vacancy is now filled. Best appointment I ever made.

  w: And he told you he was ex-MK.

  A: Exactly I was a bit skeptical, so we drove down to Strandfontein for a proper job interview and we gave him an old AK-47 and a lot of Castle beer bottles at two hundred yards. It may not sound far to you, my brother, but those dumpies were small and he blew them apart with monotonous regularity till the other troops gave him a standing ovation, you understand me?

  w: Did he ever use his talents in your service?

  A: Speak plain, my bro. Do you want to know if he ever shot someone?

  w: Yes.

  A: It was never necessary. His hawk look was enough. His mother loved him, but everyone else was scared shitless of him.

  w: Where did he serve with MK?

  A: How would I know? He never talked about it.

  w: Never?

  A: Hardly a word. Six years and I never knew him. Kept to himself, always a bit apart like Colin Wilson’s Outsider, but who cares, he was a jewel in my crown.

  w: Colin who?

  A: Literary reference, my bro. You wouldn'’t understand.

  w: And then he left your service?

  A: Two years ago, he came in and said he was finished. I thought he was playing me for an increase, but he wasn'’t interested. Next thing we know, he was working in a motorbike shop, gofer and general cleaner, can you believe it? Works for peanuts; he earned a small fortune with me. But now it seems he was busy with something on the side.

  w: So you have had no contact with him the last two years?

  A: Sweet fuck all.

  w: I won’t take up your time any longer, Mr. Arendse.

  A: Now there’s a relief.

  w: You can send medical backup to Mitchell’s Plain. We will withdraw from the property.

  A: Mr. Williams, you know nothing about Tiny Mpayipheli, am I right?

  w: Why do you say that, Mr. Arendse?

  A: Just call it a sneaking suspicion. So let me give you some advice: Start ordering the body bags now.

  8.

  She went quickly to phone from her office. The maid said Lizette was asleep already. She thanked Suthu for the extra bother of sleeping over and asked to talk to Lien.

  “I know my work now, Ma, even though you weren’t here to help me.”

  “I knew you could handle it.”

  “Can I watch Big Brother on DSTV, Ma? Till ten?”

  Kids. Tried to manipulate every situation to maximum advantage. She wanted to be angry and laugh at the same time.

  “You know the rules, Lien. The age restriction is sixteen.” And even as she said it she knew exactly what the response would be.

  All my friends watch it, Ma. I’m nearly sixteen. I’m not a child anymore.” All three basic arguments in one breath.

  “I know you’re not a child anymore. You are a wonderful, lovable fifteen-year-old who needs to wait only a couple more months. Then you can watch with your undisciplined friends. Get enough sleep, you need it for the exam.”

  “Maa-aa ”

  “And tell Lizette I was just too late to say good night. Tell her I love both of you very much— and I’m very proud of you, too.”

  “don'’t work too hard, Ma.”

  “I won’t.”

  “We love you, too.”

  “I know, kid. Sleep well.”

  “Night, Ma.”

  She hurried back to the Ops Room, impatience gnawing at her.

  “Look again, Rahjev. If he was MK, there must be something,” she said as she entered.

  “Yes, ma’am.” But the Indian’s body language said he knew what the result would be.

  “You don'’t believe we will find anything?”

  “Ma’am, the methodology we use to search the known data is very refined. There was nothing. I can run it again, but the result will be the same.”

  “He could have lied to Arendse about his background,” said Quinn. “Work was very scarce in the early nineties; people were prepared to say anything.”

  “Things don'’t change much,” said Radebe drily.

  “And now we have a fugitive sharpshooter with two pistols,” said Janina.

 
Rajkumar’s brain was working overtime: “The ANC had a paper filing system, too: for Umkhonto we Sizwe. isn'’t it on Robben Island?”