Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  “I hear you,” said Captain Tiger Mazibuko.

  “In the next half hour I will be requesting the mobilization of the available manpower from the army bases at De Aar, Kimberley and Jan Kempdorp. We need more feet on the ground. There are too many possible routes to watch. Tiger, I want you centered in Kimberley so that you can respond quickly. given the background of the fugitive, we will need a concentration of highly mobile, well-trained men when he makes contact again. Let the police and the army watch the roads. I will ask that the entire Rooivalk Squadron be moved to Kimberley on standby.”

  “How certain are you of Kimberley,” Mazibuko’s voice came back over the ether.

  She thought a little before answering, “It’s an informed guess. He’s tired, he’s wet, hungry, and the rain is slowing him down. He hears the clock ticking and his time running away. Kimberley is the closest to a straight line between him and Botswana, and he will see Botswana as freedom and success.”

  She saw one of Rahjev Rajkumar’s people whispering in his ear.

  “Is there something, Raj?”

  “Radio program, ma’am. SAFM.”

  “Any questions?” She waited for a reaction from Radebe and Mazibuko.

  “Mazibuko out,” said the captain over the speakerphone. Radebe sat and stared at the digital instruments before him.

  “Switch on, Raj,” she said.

  joined by Allison Healy, crime reporter from a Cape Town newspaper, who broke the saga of the big, bad Xhosa biker in her newspaper this morning. Welcome to the show, Allison.

  Thanks, John, it is a privilege to participate.

  You have interesting new information about our fugitive motorcyclist?

  I have, John. We have information that casts a new light on Mr. Mpayipheli’s motivation, and it seems this is something of a mercy mission. His motive, it seems, might just be noble.

  Please go on.

  I’m afraid that’s about all I can say, John.

  And how did you get that information, Allison?

  From a source very close to him. Let’s call it a love interest.

  “Quinn,” said Janina with suppressed rage.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Bring her in.”

  He looked bewildered.

  “Miriam Nzululwazi. Bring her in.”

  “Very well, ma’am.”

  on the side of the fugitive?

  It is not for me to choose sides here, John, but there are two things that I find puzzling. According to information provided to the police by what is allegedly the Presidential Intelligence Unit, Mr. Mpayipheli stole the BMW motorcycle. But that seems to be untrue. No charges have been filed with the police, there is no theft investigation, and I spoke to the owner of the dealership just five minutes ago, and the truth is that Mr. Mpayipheli left a note behind, saying he had no choice but to borrow the machine and will pay for the privilege. That does not sound like theft to me.

  And the second thing, Allison?

  The Cape Times broke the story more than five hours ago, John. If the fugitive is guilty of anything, why has the government not stepped forward to set the record straight?

  I see where you are going. What do you think is happening here?

  I think the government is once again trying to cover up, John. I wouldn'’t be surprised if some form of corruption or something similar is involved. I’m not saying that’s it. I’m just saying I will not be surprised. I’m working on several new leads, and the Cape Times will have a full story tomorrow morning.

  Thank you very much, Allison Healy crime reporter of a Cape-based newspaper. This is John Modise and you are tuned to SAFM. The lines are open now; if you have an opinion on the matter, please call us. And remember, the subject this morning is the fugitive motorcyclist, so let’s stick to that

  “Monica Kleintjes,” said Janina. “We will have to bring her in, too. Before the media flock to her door.”

  “Right, ma’am,” said Quinn. “But what about her telephone, if they call again from Lusaka?”

  “Can you redirect the line here?”

  “I can.”

  Janina’s thoughts were jumping around. How had the Healy woman got that information? How had she made the connection between Mpayipheli and Nzululwazi? What could be done to slow her down?

  Pretoria chapter of the Hell’s Angels. Good morning, Burt.

  Good morning, John. What we want to know is where the man is. Do you have information?

  We know he was in the vicinity of Three Sisters at six o’clock this morning, Burt. Where he is now is anybody’s guess. Why are you asking?

  Because he’s our brother, man. And he’s in trouble.

  Your brother?

  All bikers are part of a greater brotherhood, John. Now, you may have heard a lot of untruths about the Angels, but I can tell you, when one of our brothers is in trouble, we help.

  And how do you think you will be able to help?

  Any way we can.

  Rajkumar made a deprecating sound and turned the volume down. “All the worms are creeping out of the woodwork,” he said. “No,” said Janina. “Leave it on.”

  * * *

  He dozed shallowly, fitfully crossing the border of sleep, dreams and reality mixing. He was riding the GS down infinite roads, feeling the faint vibration of the bike in his legs, talking to Pakamile, hearing the rain on the roof of the cottage and then the sucking sound of tires in the mud, an engine at low revs, but he only really woke up to the bang of a car door. He rolled off the mattress, continued rolling up to the wall beneath the window.

  Anonymous from Mitchell’s Plain, go ahead, you are on the air.

  Hello, John, can you hear me?

  You are on the air, go ahead.

  I’m on the air?

  Yes, Anonymous, the whole country can hear you.

  Oh. Well. I just wanted to say this Mpayipheli is not the hero you make him out to be.

  We are not making him into a hero. We are letting the facts speak. What have you got for us?

  I don'’t know if it is the same guy, but there was a Thobela Mpayipheli working for a drug dealer in Mitchell’s Plain. Big black man. Mean as a junkyard dog. And they were saying he was ex-MK. They used to call him “Tiny.”

  Working for a drug gang?

  Yes, John. He was what we call an “enforcer.”

  “We,” Anonymous? Who are “we”?

  I used to be a drug dealer in the Cape Flats.

  You were a drug dealer?

  Yes.

  In Mitchell’s Plain?

  No. I worked from the southern suburbs.

  Sounds like a franchise business. And what does an “enforcer” do, Anonymous?

  He makes sure the dealers pay the supplier. By beating them up or shooting them. Or their families.

  And Mpayipheli worked as an enforcer for a supplier?

  He worked for the biggest supplier in the Peninsula at the time. That was before the Nigerian Mafia came to town. These days, they run the show.

  The Nigerian Mafia? We must have you back for a radio show all of your own, Anonymous. So what made you quit dealing?

  I did time. I’m rehabilitated now.

  There you have it. Strange but true.

  This is a strange country, John, believe me.

  Amen, brother.

  He lay on the floor, breathing the dust. Footsteps sounded as if they were circling the motorbike. Then a voice called.

  “Helloooo ”

  Instinctively he looked around for a weapon, cursing himself for not keeping the soldier’s assault rifle. He could break a leg off the table. He stopped one stride away. No more violence, no more fighting. Implications ran through his mind. Did this mean the journey was over, could he go home? It meant Johnny Kleintjes was fucked; he stood in limbo between instinct and desire.

  “Hello, the house ” A man’s voice. Afrikaans. Was it the farmer?

  His hands hung by his sides but were clenching open and shut.

  “Thobela?” he heard the voice say his name. “Thobela Mpayipheli?”

  Soldiers,
he thought, adrenaline flowing through his veins. One step to the table, he grabbed one wooden leg in his hands and pressed his foot against the tabletop. No, said his mind, no, let it be over.

  Go ahead, Elise, what is your take on this unfolding drama?

  Two things, John. First, I don'’t believe this drug business at all. Why is it that people always want to drag someone down the moment they hit the limelight? Second, I am the secretary of the Pretoria BMW Motorcycle Club, and I just want to say we don'’t need the Hell’s Angels to act on our behalf. Mr. Mpayipheli is riding a BMW, and if anybody helps him, it will be the BMW motorcycle fraternity. I don'’t know how the Hell’s Angels with their Harleys are going to travel on the gravel roads of the Northern Cape.

  So the fugitive is a member of a BMW club?

  No, John, but he rides a BMW.

  And that gives you ownership.

  We don'’t own him, John. But neither do the Hell’s Angels.

  What’s this about gravel roads?

  Mr. Mpayipheli slipped through the roadblocks by traveling on gravel roads. He’s on a GS, you know.

  And what is a GS?

  It’s an on road/off road motorcycle.

  Like a scrambler?

  No. Yes, I suppose you could call it a scrambler with a thyroid condition.

  Ha. Now there’s the quote of the day. How do you know he slipped through a roadblock?

  It is all on our website, John.

  Your website?

  Yes. www.bmwmotorrad.co.za. We have inside information.

  And just how is your website getting inside information?

  Oh, policemen ride BMWs, too, you know.

  “I’m coming inside, Thobela, don'’t shoot. I’m your friend.” don'’t shoot. They still thought he was armed.

  “I’m on my own, Thobela, be nice.” The door opened. “I’m on your side, my brother.”

  He waited the space of a single heartbeat and dropped his shoulder in readiness.

  * * *

  “I can’t get it,” said Rahjev Rajkumar. The web browser showed an error message:

  The page cannot be displayed. The page you are looking for is currently unavailable. The website might be experiencing technical difficulties, or you may need to adjust your browser settings.

  “Motorrad has two rs,” said Vincent Radebe softly.

  “How do you know?” said Rajkumar nastily.

  “It’s German for ‘motorcycle.’ ”

  He typed in the new address. This time the website loaded. At the top, under the page title were the words FOLLOW THE GS fugitive— AN INSIDE STORY.

  * * *

  He stood with his feet apart, shoulder lowered, the internal battle raging, knowing it was his moment of truth, knowing this was where he would win or lose— on so many levels.

  The door swung slowly wider. The voice was soft and soothing. “I am a man of peace.”

  A colored man, dressed in tattered suit, anonymous gray shirt, and a bow tie that could have been red in a previous era. His eyes were wide and he held his hands up in front protectively.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Koos Kok,” he said very carefully. “You won’t kill me now, hey?”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “Just one look at that big motorbike. You are all over the radio. The ‘big, bad Xhosa biker.’ ”

  “What?”

  “Everyone is very excitable about you.”

  “What are you doing here?” Mpayipheli straightened up.

  “I was lonely for my winter house,” he said, motioning at the cottage. “I came to keep myself warm.”

  * * *

  “ ‘They had a roadblock at Three Sisters, manned by an army unit, some SAP and traffic authorities, and a big helicopter. They also had some Rooivalk attack helicopters at Beaufort West who tried to follow the GS, but the rain forced them back,’ ” Rajkumar read aloud from the website, and he wondered why fate had singled him out to be the bearer of bad news.

  “Shit,” said Quinn.

  “Go on,” said Janina.

  “Apparently the GS took a side road, presumably the Sneeukraal turnoff, and went through a two-soldier roadblock, hurting one badly. Then he disappeared. That is all I have at the moment.

  “ ‘The only way we can help this guy is if all BMW owners in the country unite. We must all gather at Three Sisters and try to find him. That way, we can help him get through to wherever he is going.’ ”

  “They want to help him,” said Quinn.

  “Who wrote that?” asked Janina.

  “ ‘An Insider.’ That is all they say.”

  “Fucking policeman,” said Quinn, and saw Janina’s disapproving eye. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  “Is there any more?” she asked Rajkumar.

  “There are a few messages from guys who say they are going to help.”

  “How many?”

  He counted. “Eleven. Twelve.”

  “Not many,” said Quinn.

  “Too many,” said Janina. “They’ll get in the way.”

  “Ma’am,” said Vincent Radebe.

  “Yes?”

  He held out the phone to her. “The director.”

  She took the receiver. “Sir?”

  “The minister wants to see us, Janina.”

  “In her office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I meet you there, sir?”

  * * *

  We have time for one more call. Burt from the Hell’s Angels, you back again?

  Yes, John. Two things. We don'’t ride Harleys. Well, a few members do, but only a few. And this thing that the black guy belongs to the BMW people is bullshit.

  Let’s watch the language, Burt. This is a family show.

  I’m sorry, but they’re nothing but a bunch of fair-weather, breakfast-run weekend wannabe bikers.

  What happened to the great brotherhood of motorcycle riders, Burt?

  Real bikers, John. Not these Beemer sissies. That Mpheli Mpayi that guy out there is a real biker. A war veteran, a warrior of the road. Like us.

  And you can’t even pronounce his name.

  20.

  They got two ministers for the price of one. The minister of intelligence was a woman, lean, as fitted her office, a forty-three-year-old Tswana from the North West Province. The minister of water affairs and forestry sat in the corner, a gray-haired white man, an icon of the Struggle. He said not a word. Janina Mentz did not know why he was there.

  The director and she sat down in front of the desk. Janina glanced briefly at the director before she began to speak. He indicated with a minimal nod that she must hold nothing back. She filled in the background first: the Ismail Mohammed interview, the counterintelligence operation, and the things that had gone wrong.

  “Have you seen the TV news?” asked the intelligence minister coldly.

  “Yes, Minister.” Resignedly. Not for the first time did Janina wonder why politicians were more sensitive about TV than about newspapers.

  “Every half hour there is something new over the radio. And the more they talk, the more he becomes a hero. And we look like the Gestapo.” A dainty fist emphasized her words on the wood of the desktop, her voice rose half an octave. “This cannot continue. I want solutions. We have a public relations crisis. What do I tell the president when he calls? And he will call. What do I say?”

  “Minister ,” said Janina.

  “Two agents at the airport. Two Rooivalk helicopters and a whole brigade at Three Sisters and you don'’t even know where he is.”

  Janina had no answer.

  And everyone wonders why the rand falls and the world laughs. At Africa. At bungling, backward Africa. I am tired of that attitude. Sick to death of it. This cabinet”— the minister stood up, too angry to sit, her hands bracketing her words—“labors night and day, battling the odds, and what support do we get from the civil service? Bungling. Lame excuses. Is that good enough?”

  Janina stared at the carpet. The minister drew a deep breath, collected herself, and sat down again.