Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  They struggled up the steps with the weighty burden. She went to sit at the back, out of the way, her eyes searching, but he was hidden by the bearers, Van Heerden, the doctor who had flown with them, Dr. Pillay and one other. They shifted him carefully onto the bed in the aircraft. The white doctor connected a tube to the thick black arm, the Indian said something softly into the patient’s ear, pressing the big hand that lay still, and then they went out and someone pulled the door up and the pilot started the engines.

  She stood up to see his face. The eyes caught hers, like a searchlight finding a buck, black-brown and frighteningly intense, so that she could see nothing else, and she felt a thrill of fear and enormous relief. Fear for what he could do, and relief that he would not do it to her.

  * * *

  The black man slept and Van Heerden sat with her again and she asked, “Have you told him?”

  “It was the first thing he wanted to know when he saw me.”

  “You told him?”

  He nodded.

  She looked at the still figure, the dark brown skin of his chest and arms against the white bedding, the undulations of caged power.

  William Blake, she thought.

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “He hasn’t said a word since.”

  Now she understood the intensity of those eyes.

  In what distant deeps or skies

  Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

  “Do you think he will ”

  She looked at Van Heerden and for the first time saw the worry.

  “How else?” he said in frustration.

  On what wings dare he aspire?

  What the hand dare seize the fire?

  “But you can help him. There must be a legal—” “It is not he who will need help.”

  That’s when she grasped what Van Heerden was afraid of, and she looked at Mpayipheli and shI'vered.

  When the stars threw down their spears,

  And water’d heaven with their tears,

  Did he smile his work to see?

  Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

  On the last leg to Cape Town she woke with a heavy body and a stiff neck and she saw Van Heerden sitting next to Mpayipheli, his white hand holding the Xhosa’s, and she heard the deep bass voice, soft, the words nearly inaudible to her above the engines, and she closed her eyes again and listened.

  “ go away, Van Heerden? Is that part of our genetic makeup, too? Is that what makes us men? Always off somewhere?” He spoke in slow, measured tones.

  “Why was it that I could not say no? She knew, from the beginning. She said men go away. She said that is our nature, and I argued with her, but she was right. We are like that. I am like that.”

  “Thobela, you can’t—”

  “Do you know what life is? It is a process of disillusionment. It frees you of your illusions about people. You start out trusting everyone, you find your role models and strive to be like them and then you are disappointed by one after the other and it hurts, Van Heerden, it is a painful road to walk and I never understood why it must be so, but now I do. It is because every time the hope in you dies a little, with every disillusion, each disappointment in others becomes a disappointment in yourself. If others are weak, that weakness lies in you. It is like death: when you see others die, you know it lies in wait for you. I am so tired of it, Van Heerden, I am so tired of being disillusioned, of seeing all these things in people and in myself, the weakness, the pain, the evil.”

  “It’s—”

  “You were right. I am what I am. I can deny it, I can suppress it and hide it, but not forever. Life does as it will, it throws you around. Yesterday there was a moment I realized I was living again. For the first time in a long time. That I was doing something meaningful. With satisfaction. That I was vibrating inside and outside, in time, in rhythm. And do you know what was my first reaction? To feel guilty, as if that canceled out the meaning of Miriam and Pakamile. But I have had time to think, Van Heerden. I understand it better. It is not what I am that is wrong. It is what I use it for. Or let it be used for. That was my mistake. I allowed other people to decide. But no more. No more.”

  “You have to rest.” “I will.”

  “I left money with the doctor for the motorbike. They will send it down with a transport carrier in a week or so.” “Thank you, Van Heerden.” “We land in twenty minutes,” said the pilot.

  NOVEMBER

  45.

  On her lunch hour, Allison Healy drove out to Morning-side with the long parcel and takeout on the backseat. Mpayipheli sat on the veranda in the sun, his bare torso showing the bright white bandage around his waist.

  She walked toward him with the parcel in her hand.

  “I hope this is what you wanted.”

  He pulled off the gaudy gift-wrapping with its multicolored African motif.

  “They insisted on wrapping it,” she apologized.

  He held the assegai in his hands, tested the strength of the steel, drew a finger down the edge of the blade.

  “Thank you very much,” he said quietly.

  “Is it good enough?”

  “It is perfect,” he said. He would have to shorten it, saw off more than half of the shaft, but he would not spoil her effort with details.

  She put the bowls of curry and plastic cutlery on the table. “Would you prefer a proper knife and fork?”

  “No, thank you.” He leaned the assegai against the table and took his food.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Much better.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I want to start on Monday, Allison.”

  “Monday? Are you sure?”

  “I can’t wait any longer.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I will show you.”

  * * *

  Quinn phoned her from the airport.

  “The name is false and they paid in cash, ma’am, but the pilot’s flight plan was submitted according to regulations. There is not much we can do.”

  “What does he say?”

  “They landed in Chobe, ma’am. That’s almost on the Zambian border. The patient was a big black man with two gunshot wounds in the hip. His condition was stable. They gave him about two liters of blood. The other two were white, a man and a woman. The woman had red hair, plump and light-skinned. The man was dark and lean, of average height. He and the black man spoke in Afrikaans, he and the woman spoke English. When they arrived they transferred the patient to a station wagon or a four-wheel drive, he’s not sure. They did not take the plate number.”

  “Thank you, Quinn.”

  “What shall I do with the pilot?”

  “Just thank him and come back.”

  TRANSCRIPT: Commission of Inquiry into the death of Mrs. Miriam Nzululwazi (38). 7 November.

  PRESENT: Chairman: Adv. B. O. Ndlovu. Assessors: Adv. P. du T. Mostert, Mr. K. J. Maponyane. For the PIU: Ms. J. M. Mentz. Witnesses: No witnesses were called.

  CHAIRMAN: Mr. Radebe, according to article 16 of the Intelligence Services Act of 1994, as amended, you have the right to representation during these proceedings. Have you waI'ved this right?

  RADEBE: I have, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Do you understand the nature of the inquiry and the charge of misconduct against you? RADEBE: I understand it.

  CHAIRMAN: According to article 16(c), you are entitled to representation by a person in your department, and if no such person is available or suitable, by someone outside your department, are you aware of this right?

  RADEBE: I am, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Do you waI've your right to representation?

  RADEBE: Yes.

  CHAIRMAN: According to article 15(1), you are required to prepare a written admission or rejection of the charge against you. Has this document, as submitted by you, been composed of your own free will?

  RADEBE: It has, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Would you read it to this committee, please?


  RADEBE: I Vincent Radebe, admit that my conduct and actions hindered and complicated an official operation of the Presidential Intelligence Unit.

  I admit that through gross negligence I was responsible for the death of Mrs. Miriam Nzululwazi on 26 October of this year. I neglected to lock the door of the interview room, which resulted directly in Mrs. Nzululwazi’s leaving the room without escort and in a disturbed state of mind. Her fatal fall from the fire escape of the building was a direct result of my conduct.

  I admit, further, that on the same day I unlawfully and without official sanction abducted the six-year-old son of Mrs. Nzululwazi and kept him at my abode overnight. I admit that on 27 October I handed over the boy Pakamile, to personnel of the

  Cape Times

  and thereby undermined an official operation of the Presidential Intelligence Unit.

  I declare that I acted alone in both instances and wish to blame or involve no other person.

  I wish to plead the following mitigating factors, Mr. Chairman: When I made my career choice on completion of my studies at the University of the Witwatersrand, it was my genuine desire to make a positI've contribution to this country. Like so many of my compatriots, I was inspired by the forgiving and positI've vision of Mr. Nelson Mandela. I also wished to dedicate my life to the building of the rainbow nation. The Presidential Intelligence Unit, in my opinion, presented me that opportunity But sometimes passion and dedication are not enough. Sometimes zeal blinds us to our own faults and shortcomings.

  I understand that the protection of the state and the democracy sometimes demands difficult decisions and actions from its office bearers, actions whereby ordinary and innocent civilians are sometimes directly and negatI'vely affected.

  I know now that I am not suited to this career— and never was. The incidents of 26, 27, and 28 October were extremely traumatic for me. I was deeply disturbed by the manner in which, in my opinion, the basic human rights of, first, Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli and later Mrs. Miriam Nzululwazi were infringed upon. Even now, as I read this document, I am unable to grasp how the purpose of the operation, however important or vital to national security it might have been, justified the means. My mistake, Mr. Chairman, was to allow my dismay to affect my good judgment. I was negligent when I should have been diligent. I regret deeply my part in Mrs. Nzululwazi’s death and particularly that I did not make a stronger stand or protest more vigorously through official channels. My greatest weakness was to doubt my own judgment of right and wrong. This country and its people deserve better than that, but I can assure you that that will never happen again.

  That is all, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Thank you, Mr. Radebe. Do you agree that this document be recorded as written admission of the charge against you?

  RADEBE: I agree.

  CHAIRMAN: Have you any questions, Mrs. Mentz?

  MENTz: I have, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Proceed.

  MENTZ: Vincent, do you believe that part of, as you would call it, the building of the rainbow nation is to supply classified information to the intelligence services of other nations?

  RADEBE: No, ma’am.

  MENTZ: Then why did you?

  RADEBE: I did no such thing.

  MENTZ: Do you deny that that during the operation you supplied information to Muslim extremist groups?

  RADEBE: I deny that emphatically

  CHAIRMAN: Mrs. Mentz, do you have proof of these allegations?

  MENTZ: Mr. Chairman, we have tangible evidence that key information was leaked to an international network of Muslim extremists. We cannot directly link Vincent with this process, but his undermining behavior speaks for itself.

  CHAIRMAN: I have two problems here, Mrs. Mentz. First, Mr. Radebe has not been charged with high treason but with negligence. Second, your allegations rest on circumstantial evidence, which I cannot allow

  MENTz: With respect, Mr. Chairman, I do not believe that leaving the interview room door unlocked was negligence. I believe it was deliberate.

  CHAIRMAN: Your allegations must be proved, Mrs. Mentz.

  MENTZ: The truth will out.

  CHAIRMAN: Do you wish to submit evidence, Mrs. Mentz?

  MENTZ: No.

  CHAIRMAN: Do you have any further questions?

  MENTZ: No.

  CHAIRMAN: Do you wish to introduce evidence regarding further questions, Mr. Radebe?

  RADEBE: No, Mr. Chairman.

  CHAIRMAN: Mr. Radebe, this commission of inquiry has no choice but to find you guilty of misconduct as noted. We take note of your presentation of mitigating circumstances. This commission is adjourned until 14:00, when we will consider actions to be taken against you.

  As the woman drove out of the parking garage at Wale Street Chambers, Allison Healy followed her with her heart in her throat. Mpayipheli lay flat on the rear seat. They drove through the city always four of five car lengths behind, down the Heeren-gracht, onto the Ni, and then east toward the northern suburbs.

  “Please don'’t lose her,” came the deep voice from the back.

  * * *

  It was Williams, who had begun the thing, who nearly ended it.

  Williams who knew everyone, but no one knew him. Williams whom she had plucked out of the SAPS, an affirmatI've action appointee wasting his time behind a desk somewhere in the regional commissioner’s office. The rumors had spread over the Western Cape in fragments: twenty-eight years in the police and never took a bribe. If you want to know something, ask Williams. If you need someone you can trust, get Williams. A colored man from the heart of the Flats, joined the force without finishing high school and climbed the ladder like a phantom, without powerful friends or powerful enemies, without fanfare, the invisible man.

  Just what she wanted, and it was so easy to get him. Merely the sincere promise that he would never again be chained to a desk did the trick.

  “Janina,” he said. He had called her that from the beginning. “Do you want his address?” His tone of voice was somewhere between irony and seriousness.

  “Go for it,” she said, and picked up a pen.

  “I expect that you will find him at the house of a Dr. Zatopek van Heerden, plot seventeen, Morning Star.”

  “A medical doctor?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “How, Williams?”

  “They brought the motorbike in through the Martin’s Drift border post, ma’am. On a three-tonner, without papers, and the story that it belongs to a South African who had an accident somewhere in northern Botswana.”

  “And they let him in?”

  “Money changed hands.”

  “And?”

  “The driver had an address with him that was copied down.”

  “How did you ?”

  “Oh, I hear things.”

  46.

  The Stasi records confirmed that Mpayipheli/Umzingeli was Marion Dorffling’s assassin.

  I notified Langley, and the response from deputy director’s level was that the Firm was still very much interested in leveling the score. Two specialized field agents from the London office were dispatched to deal with the matter.

  After the tip-off from Inkululeko, the agents flew to northern Botswana, acquired a vehicle, and made visual contact with the PIU Reaction Unit member who was waiting in ambush for Mpayipheli. They witnessed the arrest of the Reaction Unit member by Botswana authorities but, despite waiting at the roadside through the night, could not intercept Mpayipheli or the hard drive.

  They returned to Cape Town and were about to leave for London when the urgent contact signal was received from Inkululeko (she leaves her car’s indicator on in her home driveway). When contact was established, Inkululeko supplied the address where Mpayipheli was apparently recuperating from wounds sustained during his cross-country flight. She granted us three hours before the PIU Reaction Unit would reach the same address.

  The image that remained with Allison Healy afterward was the one of blood— the carotid artery that kept pumping spouts of the liquid, first a
gainst the wall and later onto the floor, powerful jets in an impossibly high arc that gradually lessened until the fountain of life dried up with repulsive finality.