Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  In the politically correct terminology of his country, Luke Powell was an African American, a jovial, somewhat plump figure with a round, kind face who wore (to the great mortification of his teenage daughter) large gold-rimmed eyeglasses that had gone out of fashion ten years ago. He was no longer young, there was gray at his temples, and his accent was heavy with the nuances of the Mississippi.

  “I’ll have a cheddamelt and fries,” said Powell to the young waiter with the acne problem.

  “Excuse me?” said the waiter.

  “A cheddamelt steak, well done. And fries.”

  The frown had not disappeared from the waiter’s forehead. Every year they were younger.

  And dimmer, thought Janina Mentz. “Chips,” she said in explanation.

  “You want only chips?” the waiter asked her.

  “No, I want only an orange juice. He wants a cheddamelt steak and chips. Americans refer to chips as fries.”

  “That’s right. French fries,” said Luke Powell jovially, smiling broadly at the waiter, who was properly confused now, the pen poised over the order book.

  “Oh,” said the waiter.

  “But they’re not French, they’re American,” said Powell with a measure of pride.

  “Oh,” said the waiter.

  “I’m just going to have a plate of salad,” said the director.

  “Okay,” said the waiter, relieved, and scribbled something down, hovered a moment but as no one said anything more, he left.

  “How are y’all?” asked Luke Powell with his smiling mouth.

  “Not bad for a developing Third World nation,” said Janina, and opened her handbag, taking out a photograph and handing it to Powell.

  “We’ll get right to the point, Mr. Powell,” she said.

  “Please,” he said. “Call me Luke.”

  The American took the black-and-white photo. He saw the front door of the American consulate in it, and the unmistakable face of Johnny Kleintjes leaving the building.

  Ah,” he said.

  Ah, indeed,” said Janina.

  Powell removed his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and tapped them on the photo.

  “We might have something in common on this one?”

  “We might,” said the director softly.

  He’s good, this American, thought Janina Mentz, considering the lightning adaptation to changes, the poker face.

  An innocent six-year-old boy from Guguletu has become a pawn in the nationwide manhunt for Thobela Mpayipheli, the fugitive motorcyclist being sought by intelligence agencies, the military and police.

  “Now you’re cooking,” said the news editor, tramping around nervously behind Allison as the deadline loomed.

  Pakamile Nzululwazi was taken from a day-care center for preschoolers late last night by an official from the “Department of Defence.” He is the son of Mpayipheli’s common-law wife, Miriam Nzululwazi, who also mysteriously disappeared from the Heerengracht branch of Absa, where she is an employee.

  “Cooking with gas,” said the news editor, and she wished he would sit down so she could concentrate in peace.

  * * *

  “What happened in Lusaka?” asked Janina Mentz.

  Luke Powell looked at her and then he looked at the director and then he replaced the glasses on his face.

  What a strange game this is, thought Janina. He knew they knew and they knew he knew they knew.

  “We’re still trying to find out,” said Powell.

  “So you got stung?”

  Luke Powell’s kind face betrayed nothing of the inner battle, of the humiliation of admitting the superpower’s little African expedition had gone wrong. As always, he was the professional spy.

  “Yes, we got stung,” he said evenly.

  * * *

  Now they sat in a circle on the grass, chatting, the four soldiers, the pilot and copilot.

  Thobela Mpayipheli was relieved because now they were at a safer distance. He could hear their voices but not their words. He could hear laughter bursting out, so he assumed they were telling jokes. He heard the periodic crackle of the radio that would hush them every time until they were certain the message was not for them.

  The adrenaline had left his body slowly, discomfort had grown, but at least he could move now, shift his limbs and work away the stones and grass tufts that bothered him.

  But he had a new worry now: How long?

  They were obviously waiting for a signal or alarm. And he knew he was the object of that alarm. The problem was, as long as he lay pinned down under this bridge, there would be no call. Which meant they would not leave. Which meant it would be a long night.

  But more crucial were the hours lost, hours in which he should be burning up the kilometers to Lusaka. Not yet a crisis, still enough time, but better to have time in the bank, because who knew what lay ahead. There were at least two national borders to cross, and although he had his passport in the bag, he did not have papers for the GS. The African way would be to put a few hundred rand notes in the pages of the passport and hope it would do the trick, but the bribery game took time for haggling and you could run up against the wrong customs man on the wrong day— it was a risk. Better to find a hole in the border fence, or make one and go your way. The Zambezi river, however, was not so easy to cross.

  He would need those hours.

  And then, of course, the other little problem. As long as it was dark he was safe. But tomorrow morning when the sun came up, this hiding place in the deep shadow of the bridge would be useless.

  He had to get out.

  He needed a plan.

  * * *

  “There is one thing I have a problem understanding, Luke,” said the director. “Inkululeko, the alleged South African double agent, works for you. So why offer to buy the intelligence off Johnny Kleintjes?”

  Powell merely shook his head.

  “What do you care if we think we know who he is?” asked the director, and Janina was surprised at the direction the questions had taken. The director had confessed nothing to her of his suspicions.

  “I don'’t think that is a sensible line of questioning, Mr. Director,” said Powell.

  “I think it is because the smell of rat is fairly strong in this vicinity.”

  “I have no comment. I am willing to discuss our mutual Lusaka problem, but that’s it, I’m afraid.”

  “It does not make sense, Luke. Why would you take the risk? You knew it was there, from the moment Kleintjes walked into the consulate. You know we have a photographer outside.”

  Powell was spared for a moment by the waiter bringing the food— a cheddamelt steak for the American, a plate of chips for Janina, and an orange juice for the director.

  “I did not ,” Janina began, and then decided to let it go, it would not help to correct the waiter. She took the orange juice and placed it in front of her.

  “I’m going to get some salad,” said the director, and stood up.

  “May I have some ketchup?” asked Powell.

  “Excuse me?” said the waiter.

  “He wants tomato sauce,” Janina said, irritated.

  “Oh. Yes. Sure.”

  “Why do you do that?” she asked Powell.

  “Do what?”

  “Use the Americanisms.”

  “Oh, just spreading a little culture,” he said.

  “Culture?”

  He just smiled, the waiter brought the tomato sauce, and he poured a liberal amount over his chips, took his fork and stabbed some and put them in his mouth.

  “Great fries,” Powell said, and she watched him eat until the director returned with a full plate of salad.

  “Have you any idea who burned you in Lusaka?” Janina asked.

  “No, ma’am,” said Powell through a mouthful of steak.

  The waiter materialized at the table. “Is everything all right?”

  She wanted to snap at the pimple face that all was not right, that she did not order chips, that he’d better not come flirting for a tip but rather leave them in peace, but she did not.

  “Steak’s fantastic,” said Powell, and the
waiter grinned, relieved, and went away.

  “How’s your salad, Mr. Director?” asked Powell.

  The director placed his knife and fork precisely and neatly on his plate. “Luke, we have people in place in Zambia. The last thing we need is to run into a team of yours.”

  “That would be unfortunate.”

  “So you have a team there, too?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “You said you were willing to discuss our mutual Lusaka problem.”

  “I was hoping you had information for me.”

  “All we know is that Thobela Mpayipheli is on his way there with a hard drive full of who knows what. You are the one who knows what happened there. With Johnny.”

  “He was, shall we say, intercepted.”

  “By parties unknown?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you don'’t even have a suspicion?”

  “I wouldn'’t say that.”

  “Enlighten us.”

  “Well, frankly, I suspected that you were the fly in the ointment.”

  “It’s not us.”

  “Maybe. And maybe not.”

  “I give you my personal guarantee that it was not my people,” said Janina Mentz.

  “Your personal guarantee,” said Powell, smiling through a mouthful of food.

  “It’s going to get crowded in Lusaka, Luke,” said the director.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I am asking you, as a personal favor, to stay away.”

  “Why, Mr. Director, I did not know South Africa had right-of-way in Lusaka.”

  There was a chill in the director’s voice. “You have botched the job already. Now get out of the way.”

  “Or what, Mr. Director?”

  “Or we will take you out.”

  “Like you’re taking out the big, bad BMW biker?” asked Powell, and put another piece of steak loaded with cheese and mushroom in his mouth.

  * * *

  The big, bad BMW biker had his plan thrust upon him.

  Fate played an odd card beside the mighty Modder.

  33.

  Had it not been for the singing, Little Joe Moroka might never have stood up from the ring of jokers. Cupido started the whole thing with one of those teasing statements—“You whiteys can’t ”— and it eventually ended up with a singsong, and that is when the pilot and copilot, white as lilies, burst forth with “A bicycle built for two” in perfect harmony, a cappella, and filled the night with melody.

  “Jissis,” said Cupido when they had finished and the rowdy applause had faded. “Where the fuck did you learn to sing like that?”

  “The air force has culture,” said the pilot, acting superior.

  “In striking contrast with the other branches of the SANDF,” confirmed his colleague.

  “All sophisticated people know this.”

  “No, seriously,” said Da Costa. “Where does it come from?”

  “If you spend enough time in the mess, you discover strange things.”

  “It wasn'’t bad,” said Little Joe. “For whitey harmony.”

  “Ooh, damning with faint praise,” said the pilot.

  “But can the darkie sing?” asked the copilot.

  “Of course,” said Little Joe. And that is how it began, because the pilot said, “Prove it,” and Little Joe Moroka smiled at them, white teeth in the darkness. He stretched his throat, tilted his head up as if his vocal cords needed free rein, and then it came, warm and strong, “Shosholoza,” the four notes in pure bravura baritone.

  Thobela Mpayipheli could not hear the conversation from under the bridge, but the first song of the two pilots had reached him, and although he did not consider himself a music fanatic, he found pleasure in it despite his position, despite the circumstances.

  And now he heard the first phrase of the African song and his ears pricked up, he knew this was something rare.

  He heard Little Joe toss the notes into the night like a challenge. He heard two voices join in without knowing whose they were, the song gained meaning and emotion, longing. And then another voice, Cupido’s tenor, round and high as a flute, it hung for a moment above the melody and then dove in. The final ingredient was Zwelitini’s adding his bass softly and carefully so that the four voices formed a velvet foundation for Moroka’s melody, the voices intertwining, dancing up and down the scales. They sang without haste, carried by the restful rhythms of a whole continent, and the night sounds stopped, the Free State veld was silent to receive the song, Africa opened her arms.

  The notes filled Thobela, lifted him up from under that bridge and raised him to the patch of stars in his vision; he saw a vision of black and white and brown in a greater perfect harmony, magical possibilities, and the emotion in him was at first small and controllable, but he allowed it to bloom as the music filled his soul.

  And another awareness grew— it had been hiding somewhere, waiting for a receptI've spirit, and now his head cleared and he felt for the first time in more than a decade the umbilical drawing him back to his origin, deeper and further, back through his life and the lives of those before him, till he could see all, till he could see himself and know himself.

  As the last note died away over the plains, too soon, there was a breathless quiet as if time stood still for a heartbeat.

  He discovered the wetness in his eyes, the moisture running in a long silver thread down his cheek, and he was amazed.

  The night sounds returned, soft and respectful, as if nature knew she could not compete now.

  Wordlessly, Little Joe Moroka stood up from the circle at the helicopter.

  From habit he slung the Heckler & Koch UMP submachine pistol over his shoulder and he walked.

  No one said a word. They knew.

  Little Joe walked down the bank. It had been a bittersweet day and he wanted to cherish the sweet a little longer, taste the emotions a little more. He walked down to the river, stood gazing into the dark water, the HK harmlessly behind his back. He did not want to stand still but walked toward the bridge, thinking of everything, thinking of nothing, the sounds reverberating in his head— damn, it was good, like when he was a kid— aimlessly wandered into the dark under the bridge. He saw the dull gleam of the stainless-steel exhaust pipe, but it did not register because it did not belong, he looked away, looked again, a surreal moment with a tiny wedge of reason, a light coming on in his brain, one step closer, another, the shiny object took shape, lines, tank and wheel and handlebars, and he made a noise, surprised, reached for his weapon, swung it around, but it was too late. Out of the moon shadow came a terrifyingly fast movement, a shoulder hit him for the second time that day, but his finger was inside the trigger guard, his thumb already off the safety, and as his breath exploded over his lips and he tumbled backward, the weapon stuttered out on full automatic, loosing seven of its nineteen rounds.

  five hit the concrete and steel, whining away into the night. Two found the right hip of Thobela Mpayipheli.

  He felt the 9 mm bullets jerk his body sideways, he felt the immediate shock; he knew he was in trouble but he followed the fall of Moroka, down the steep bank to the river. He heard the shouts of the group at the helicopter but focused on the weapon— Little Joe was winded, Thobela landed on top of him, his hand over the firearm, jerked it, got it loose, his fingers sought the butt, his other forearm against the soldier’s throat, face-to-face, heard the approaching steps, comrades shouting questions, pressed the barrel of the HK against Moroka’s cheek.

  “I don'’t want to kill you,” he said.

  “Joe?” called Da Costa from above.

  Moroka struggled. The barrel pressed harder, the weight of the fugitive heavy on him; the man hissed, “Shhh,” in his face, and Little Joe submitted because where could the fucker go, there were six of them against one.

  “Joe?”

  Mpayipheli rolled off Moroka, moved around behind him, pulled him up by the collar to use him as a shield.

  “Let’s all stay calm,” said Thobela. The adrenaline made the world move in slow motion. His hip was wet, blood running in a stream down h
is leg.

  “Jissis,” said Cupido above. They could see now. Little Joe with the gun to his head, the big fucker behind him.