Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

“Oryx Two, this is Rooivalk Three. We are two hundred meters behind you with missiles locked in. Land, please, there’s lots of places down below.”

  He had swallowed the painkillers with lukewarm water, but they had not kicked in yet. The wound was clean now, the bandage stretched tight around his middle, pulling heavily on his side. It was still bleeding in there, he did not know how to stop it, hoped it would just happen. The pilot asked, “What now?”

  “Stay on course.”

  “Oryx Two, this is Rooivalk Three. Confirm contact, please.”

  “How far are we from the Botswana border?”

  The two officers merely stared ahead. He cursed quietly stood up, feeling the wounds— Lord, he should keep still. He hit the copilot against the forehead with the barrel of the Heckler, drew blood, and shook the man who raised his hands protectively. “I am tired of this.”

  “Seventy kilometers,” said the pilot hurriedly.

  Mpayipheli checked his watch. It could be true. Another half an hour.

  “Oryx Two, this is Rooivalk Three. We have you in our sights, you have ninety seconds to respond.”

  “They are going to shoot us down,” said the copilot. He had wiped his forehead and was looking at the blood on his hand now, then at Mpayipheli, like a faithful dog that has been kicked.

  “They won’t,” he said. “How do you know?”

  * * *

  “Sixty seconds, Oryx Two, we have permission to fire.”

  “I’m going down,” said the pilot with fear.

  “You will not land,” said Thobela Mpayipheli, the HK against the copilot’s neck.

  “Do you want to die?”

  “They won’t fire.”

  “You can’t say that.”

  “If you do anything but fly straight, I will shoot off your friend’s head.”

  “Please, no,” said the copilot, his eyes screwed shut.

  “Thirty seconds, Oryx Two.”

  “You’re fucking crazy, man,” said the pilot.

  “Stay calm.”

  The copilot made a strangled noise.

  “Oryx Two, fifteen seconds before missile launch, confirm instruction, I know you can hear me.”

  Two innocent lives and a helicopter of millions of rand, they would not shoot, they would not shoot, they would have heard an official order over the radio, this kind of decision was not made at the operational level, they could not shoot. The seconds ticked by, they waited for the impact, all three rigid, instinctively bracing for the bang, for a sign, waiting. They heard the Rooivalk pilot. “Fuck,” he said.

  Relief.

  “you’'ve got balls, you black bastard, I’ll give you that,” said the Rooivalk pilot.

  37.

  He made the Oryx land near a road sign to make sure they were over the border. The Rooivalks had turned back; the main route between Lobatse and Gaborone was quiet and the night warm. He made the men lie facedown on the blacktop while he struggled mightily to get the big GS up from the floor of the helicopter. There was no help for it, he would have to start it and ride it out, hoping not to fall in the jump from aircraft to the ground half a meter down. He had a slight fever leaving a thin transparent membrane between him and reality. The painkillers had kicked in and he moved studiously, every step ticked off against a checklist in his mind, lest he forget something.

  If he fell, they would leap up— the pilot was the danger, the officer’s hate for him was like a beacon.

  He got the motorbike on the side stand, checked that the sports bag was in the luggage case, locked. What was he forgetting? He mounted and pressed the starter; the engine turned and turned but would not take.

  He pressed the choke up and tried again. This time it took with a roar and a shudder. He lifted the side stand with a foot and turned the steering. He couldn'’t ride out slowly; he would accelerate powerfully and let momentum carry him out. The helicopter was beside the road, engines still on, the blades sweeping up a whirlwind around the resting bird. He must be sure the GS’s engine was sufficiently warmed up enough and he revved.

  The pilot lay watching with an expressionless face.

  He drew a breath, now or never, clutch in, first gear, turned the throttle, and released the clutch. The GS shot forward and out, the front wheel dropped, hit the ground, shocks banging, the force shooting up his arms and making him lose balance, the rear wheel came down and with the throttle still wide open he shot forward, straight across the road, braked to stop going into the veld and came to a halt. His heart pounded— dear Lord— he looked around, the pilot had leaped up and was running to the helicopter, the Heckler lay there inside, that’s what his head had been trying to tell him— don'’t forget the machine pistol— but now it was too late, there was only one option. He rode as fast as the motorbike would accelerate, lying flat without looking back, a smaller target, ears pricked, second, third, fourth gear, something struck the bike, fifth, 160 kilometers per hour, still accelerating— what had the pilot hit?

  Then he knew he was out of range and kept the speed there, and he wondered if the pilot’s hate was great enough to follow him with the Oryx.

  * * *

  Janina Mentz carried out her plan meticulously.

  She fetched the director from his office; she could see he was tired now, his whole body expressed it. “I want to talk, sir, but not here.”

  He nodded and stood up, taking his jacket from where it hung neatly on a hanger, took his time putting it on, and then held the door for her. They rode down in the elevator and left the building, he a courteous step behind her. She led him up Long Street, knowing the Long Street Café would be open still. This part of the city was still alive, young people, tourists with backpacks, Rikki taxis, scooters. Nightclub music pounded from an upper floor. The director was short and bowed beside her, and she was once again conscious of the spectacle they presented— what would people think seeing the white woman in a business suit walking with the little hunchbacked black man?

  There was an open table at the back near the cake display.

  He held the chair for her, and for an instant she felt his courtesy irritating, she wanted to be accepted or rejected, not live in this no-man’s-land.

  He did not look at the menu. “You believe we are being bugged?”

  “Sir, I have considered all the evidence, and somewhere there is a leak. With us, or with Luke Powell.”

  “And you don'’t believe it is with them?”

  “It’s not impossible, just improbable.”

  “What has happened to our Johnny the communist theory?”

  “The more I think about it, the less it makes sense.”

  “Why, Janina?”

  “He would not endanger his own daughter. He would not leave an outdated address and phone number for Mpayipheli with her. If he wanted to threaten the CIA, there are other ways. To tell the truth, nothing about it makes sense.”

  “I see.”

  “You still think it’s Johnny?”

  “I no longer know what to think.” The weariness was undisguised in his voice, and she saw him with greater depth then. What was he? Somewhere on the shady side of fifty he carried the burden of the invisible, endless decades of intrigue behind him. While a young waitress with dark secret eyes took their order, she studied him. Did he once have dreams and ambitions for greater things? Had he seen himself as material for the inner circle, to wear the head ring of the stalwart? Was he on the verge of that once in his wanderings during the Struggle? He was a clever man whose potential they would have recognized. What had held him back, kept him out, so that now he sat here, a worn-out old man holding on to his status as senior civil servant with titles and white silk shirts?

  He misinterpreted her examination. “Do you really suspect me, Janina?”

  She sighed deeply. “Sir ”

  There was compassion in the set of her mouth.

  “I had to consider it.”

  “And what was your conclusion?”

  “Another improbable.”

  “Why?”

  All you could know was that Johnny Kleintjes was one of a l
arge number of people we were keeping tabs on. I was the only one who knew why.”

  He nodded slowly, without satisfaction; he knew that would be the result. “That goes for all of us, Janina.”

  “That is what puzzles me.”

  “Then the leak is not with us.”

  “I don'’t know. ”

  “Unless, of course, it is you.”

  “That’s true. Unless I am the one.”

  “And that couldn'’t be, Janina.”

  “Sir, let me speak frankly. I feel our relationship has altered.”

  The coffee arrived, and her words hung in the air until the waitress left.

  “Earlier today when we met Powell, after that,” she said.

  He took his time, tore open the sugar packet, and stirred the sugar into his coffee. He looked up at her. “I don'’t know whom to trust anymore, Janina.”

  “Why, sir? What has changed?”

  He brought the cup to his lips, testing the heat carefully, sipped and replaced the porcelain cup carefully back in the saucer. “I don'’t have an empirical answer to that. I can’t set out the points one by one. It is a feeling, Janina, and I am sorry that you felt it includes you, too, because that is not necessarily the case.”

  “A feeling?”

  “That I am being led down the garden path.”

  * * *

  When Thobela dismounted from the R1150 GS before the Livingstone Hotel in Gaborone, he could barely stand. At first he held on to the saddle with a thousand stars swimming in his vision, bending over it until balance and sight returned.

  When he moved around the bike, he saw the damage for the first time.

  The 9 mm bullets had struck the right-hand luggage case, two small neat holes in the black polyvinyl. The sports bag was in there.

  He unclipped the case and took out the bag. Two holes, perfectly round.

  He locked everything and crossed the pavement and entered the door.

  The night porter sat sleeping in his chair. Thobela had to ding the bell with his palm before the man stood up groggily and pushed the register over the desk. He filled in his particulars.

  “Will you take South African rand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I still get something to eat?”

  “Ring room service. Nine one. Passport, please.”

  He passed it over. The man’s bloodshot eyes barely looked at it, just checking the number against the one he had written down. Then he pulled a key out of the lock-up cupboard behind him and passed it over.

  Before the rattling elevator had reached the ground floor and opened for Umzingeli, the man was asleep again.

  The room was large, the bed heavenly under its multicolored spread and the pillows billowy and tempting.

  First, a shower. Redress the wound. Eat, drink.

  And then sleep— dear God, how he would sleep.

  He zipped open the sports bag. Time to review the damage. He shook the contents onto the double bed. Nothing to mention, even his toilet bag was whole. Then he picked up the hard drive and held it in his hands and saw that it was destroyed. The Heckler & Koch rounds had hit the middle of the almost square box, where metal and plastic and integrated circuits came together. The data was lost forever.

  No wonder the bang had been so loud.

  * * *

  Heads together, voices low, Janina Mentz and the director looked like lovers in the Long Street Café. She said the hard drive was the wrong focus, containing nothing of importance, old stale intelligence locked up in a safe by an old man who wanted to feel he still had a part in the game, suddenly dug up when he was in trouble. Thobela Mpayipheli was no longer important; he had become a marginal figure, an irritation at worst. Let him go, the action was in Lusaka, the answers lay waiting there.

  “We already have four operatI'ves there. We are going to send another twelve, the best we have. We want to know who is holding Johnny Kleintjes hostage and we want to know how they knew of this operation. I considered sending the RU to Lusaka, but we don'’t want an incident; we need a low profile, to work subtly. We need silent numbers, not fireworks.”

  “And what about the leak?”

  “I am only involving four people here— myself, you, sir, Quinn, and Rajkumar. We keep it small, we keep it intimate, and we get the answers.”

  “Does Tiger know?”

  “Tiger knows only that priorities have changed. Anyway, he is on a mission of his own. Apparently, he is going to stop Mpayipheli. In Botswana.”

  “And you let him go?”

  She thought this over before answering carefully. “Tiger has earned his chance, sir. He is alone.”

  The director shook his head. “Tiger has the wrong motives, Janina.”

  “He has always had the wrong motives, Mr. Director. That is why he is such an asset.”

  * * *

  They lay beside each other in the dark, she on her back, he on his side next to her, stroking her body, getting to know it from her neck to her toes. His touch was paradise, absolute acceptance. She had asked him when the perspiration and the passion had cooled and his palm was absently stroking over her full breasts and she felt the warmth of his breath on her nipples, she had asked him if he liked her body and he had said, “More than you will ever know,” and that was the end of her fears for tonight. She knew there was one more up ahead, but that could wait until tomorrow; she wanted to experience this moment without anxiety. His voice was gentle, his head in her neck, his hand never stopped stroking, and he spoke to her, told her everything, opening a new world to her.

  * * *

  Captain Tiger Mazibuko crossed the border an hour after midnight. He was driving a

  i

  .8-liter GTI Turbo Volkswagen Golf. He had no idea how Janina Mentz had organized it: it was waiting for him at the police station at Ellisras, and the keys were handed to him at the desk of the charge office once he had shown his passport. Now he was in Botswana and he drove as fast as the narrow road and the darkness allowed in this other country, with cattle and goats grazing beside the road. He had made his calculations. Everything depended on the dog’s progress, but the injuries would hold him up. The pilot of the Oryx had spoken with him over the cell phone; they had their hate for Mpayipheli in common. The pilot said the wound was bad and the fugitive would not last the night on the motorbike. He was close to falling when he came out of the helicopter, and there were more shots fired, perhaps he had taken another bullet or two.

  Let’s say the fucker was tougher than they thought; let’s say he kept going

  Then Mpayipheli would be ahead of him. At least two hours ahead.

  Would he be able to catch him?

  It depended on how fast the bugger could ride— he had to eat, he had to rest, he had to drink and fill up with petrol.

  It was possible.

  Maybe he slept somewhere and then Tiger would wait for him. At the bridge over the Zambezi, just beyond the place where the waters of the great river and the Chobe merged.

  A good place for a death in Africa.

  * * *

  Before he turned off the light and sank into the softness of the double bed, he sat staring at the telephone. His longing for Miriam and Pakamile was overwhelming— just one call, “don'’t worry about the reports over the radio, I am okay, I am nearly there, I love you,” that was all he wanted to say, but if they had tapped the line, they would know immediately where he was and they would come get him.

  If only he could contact someone and say the terrible information on your piece of computer equipment is destroyed, your dark secrets are safe and threaten no one, leave me alone, let me go help an old friend, and then let me go home.

  Tomorrow he would be there, late tomorrow afternoon he would ride into Lusaka. He had read the signs— no roadblocks outside Gaborone, no hot pursuit by the Oryx, obviously they did not want to involve the Botswana government, they wanted to keep it in the family. Probably they were waiting for him in Lusaka, but that was good, he could handle that, he was trained in the art of urban warfare. Tomorrow it would al
l be over. He felt as if he were sinking into the bed, deeper and deeper, so weary, his whole body exhausted, but his brain was flashing images of the day behind him. He was aware of the physiology of the bullet wounds, the feverishness, the effects of the painkillers and four cans of cola and the brandy he had after his room service meal.

  We have a club sandwich and chips or a cheeseburger and chips, take your pick.

  He could rationalize his emotions, but he could not suppress them, he felt so alone.

  Not for the first time. Other cities, other hotel rooms, but that was different, there had been no Miriam before.

  There had never been a Miriam before he had found her. There were other women; at Odessa there were the prostitutes, the official Stasi-approved whores to see to their needs, to keep the levels of testosterone under control so they would pay attention to their training. Afterward he was under instructions— don'’t get involved, don'’t get attached, don'’t stay with a woman. But his Eastern bloc masters had not reckoned on the Scandinavians’ obsession with black men. Lord, those Swedish women, shamelessly hot for him, on his first visit in ’