by Mark Hobson
It took him all of ten seconds.
At the top he squeezed his frame through the gate, by-passed the door leading to the upper-level muster station, and instead he went up the short ladder leading onto the roof itself.
As he stepped out onto the series of slanting roofs the wind hit him smack in the face, and the bone-chilling cold blast temporarily took his breath away. Pulling up the hood of his grey coat and pulling the toggles to draw it tight around his face, he strode forward into the buffeting wind, following the narrow maintenance gangway around the edge of the roof, with just a single handrail separating him from a drop several hundred feet to the ground below. The heavy carryall slung over his shoulder was awkward, threatening to further unbalance him.
He chose a spot on the north side overlooking the grey river. Lowering the bag, he unzipped it and commenced to take out the various parts of the AX338 Sniper’s Rifle, the most accurate rifle in the world, and piece by piece he fitted them together.
Lying down and shuffling closer to the edge he altered the legs of the adjustable front tripod, fitted the silencer to the end of the barrel, folded out the stock and cheek rest, and then snapped on the magazine containing 10 rounds of magnum cartridges.
Johan tucked himself down so that the stock of the gun fitted snuggly into his armpit and peered through the eyepiece of the telescopic sight.
All he could see was the blurry snow coming down, but with a few adjustments to the lenses, the river itself jumped sharply into focus. He would have to take the strong cross-wind into consideration, but it was mostly negligible: from pulling the trigger the round would find its target in less than half a second.
Johan snapped the bolt-action forward to feed a round into the chamber.
Finally he plugged an earpiece into his ear and turned on the radio frequency interceptor in his inside pocket. He listened to the voices of the police talking on their walkie-talkies.
Pieter watched as Vinke strode across to the ferry terminal, which was little more than a gate leading up onto the rear ramp of the little blue boats that ferried pedestrians and cyclists back and forth to Amsterdam Noord.
He boarded the one marked Buiksloterweg, which would take him on the short five-minute hop over the river to the Film Museum and the A’Dam Lookout tower, and pushed himself towards the bow with the other passengers. Pieter quickly looked around but could see no sign of the other members of K Team, and feeling suddenly nervous, he hurried forward and onto the ferry just as the ramp was going up. He was the last one onboard.
Shit! he thought to himself as the engines rumbled and the boat slowly slid away from the riverbank. He alone, out of the four-man stakeout team, was now with their target.
He just had time to whisper their destination into his walkie-talkie, and then he switched it off lest it suddenly squawk into life and give him away.
Pieter cast his eyes around to search for Tobias Vinke, and he easily spotted his bulky frame leaning against the boat’s starboard gunwale.
The ferry was packed and everybody was standing bunched together for warmth with a cloud of steam rising off their bodies. He politely eased his way through as he wanted to get closer to Vinke. Partly so he could react faster should their target suddenly do something unexpected, but also because he wanted to get a look at him. To see with his own eyes the man they were hunting.
Pieter reached the side and casually moved alongside the large man, his face turned to look at the north shoreline but his every focus on Vinke, surreptitiously taking a quick peak at his features, his body feeling like a coiled spring.
Something about his face struck Pieter as odd, a red splotchy mark over his chin and neck, maybe a birthmark? He didn’t want to stare too much and instead pretended to look down at the foaming water below, trying to appear like any other commuter.
Beside him, Vinke stirred and turned in his direction and Pieter felt himself tense. Slowly he moved his right hand nearer his service weapon in its shoulder holster.
His throat felt incredibly dry.
Tobias swung around. The man standing alongside him looked very pale, and the way he was leaning over the side made him wonder if he was about to puke up. Yet he dismissed this thought, for something had caught his eye over on the south side where the riverbank was quickly receding.
Something up on the roof of the train station was glinting, a piece of glass catching the light, and Tobias frowned in mild curiosity.
Looking through the telescopic sight Johan easily identified the distinctive features and dark clothes of the man standing and swaying amidst the other passengers on the ferry, the person he had come all this way to kill. Lotte had become almost obsessed with her plot to eradicate this interfering fool, who she claimed had caused her too many problems. She just wanted him gone. And here he was, falling perfectly into their trap just as she had predicted. Drawn out into the open.
Lining up the crosshairs on the person’s head, Johan breathed slowly out and gently squeezed the trigger.
There was a quiet pft noise from the silencer, a split second later and the man’s features exploded into a red vapour cloud, and a heartbeat after that the sonic boom of the round rumbled back from the far riverbank.
Pieter noticed Vinke shift, and then water-spray from the river flew into his face causing him to blink. He wiped it away, seeing but not immediately registering that his fingers were covered in red.
When he looked at Tobias Vinke again he saw the other man tottering and Pieter couldn’t work out why, but then he realized that the top of the man’s head was now a gaping hole and blood was spattering everywhere, all over the people around including himself.
Pieter watched dumbfounded as Vinke’s body slumped to the deck.
Thunder or something rumbled quietly in the distance.
INTERLUDE
THE HUNT
South Africa
12 Years Ago
“The secret to a successful hunt, Bart, is to drive your quarry out into the open. If they run to ground amongst the krantzes or in the bush or on the savannah, then it will prove very difficult, but if you can track them down and scare them into bolting, into leaving their hiding spot, then nine times out of ten you’ll have them. And in that moment when they are caught in your sights or you have them cornered, you have to stay calm no matter how tired you are or how cold or hungry you might feel, no matter how much your heart is racing. But when you strike you have to strike fast, like a scorpion.”
Johan Roost’s hand whipped out lightning-fast, his fist clenched tight around the handle of the hunting knife, the blade stopping millimetres short of Bart’s neck. Bart froze in fear, wondering if his uncle was going to slit his gizzard wide open. The silence stretched out, like the hot afternoon was holding its breath.
Then there came a burst of laughter from the others gathered on the verandah, and a slow lop-sided grin appeared on his uncle’s sun-tanned features. Bart watched as he flipped the knife up, seeing it spin in mid-air, and then deftly caught it again and slipped it back into the sheaf on his waist belt. The big hand came up and patted him on the cheek and Bart gave a nervous little high-pitched laugh.
It was the eve of Bart’s eighteenth birthday, and on the morrow, his uncle was taking him hunting in some silly rite of passage into manhood. The family had gathered on the front porch of Johan’s lodge to enjoy dinner and drink beer and wine, to watch the sun go down below the peaks of the mountain range.
His mother and younger sister were with them. After their meal the two of them had set up a small folding table to play cards, while the men, Bart and his uncle, chatted about men’s stuff, although truth be told Bart would rather be joining in with their game of blackjack.
Now Famke turned towards him and leaned forward, dipping her face so that it was level with his own and making him look at her.
“Tomorrow is a big occasion for you Bart. Not every young man like you gets to do something like this. Back home, we live in a big city where people go about their
nice lives, driving around in their fancy cars or shopping for luxury goods. People forget their heritage, their roots, their beginnings. They grow soft and fat.”
She poked playfully at his tubby stomach.
“But not us. Your Uncle very kindly invited us out here, to our mother country to reconnect with nature. It’s a wonderful opportunity for you, a privilege indeed. So do you have something you want to say to your uncle? We talked about it on the plane remember?”
Bart gave a tiny nod and turned his gaze towards his Uncle Johan, who was sitting back in his chair and drinking his beer.
“Thank you,” he mumbled shyly, “thank you, Uncle.”
Johan Roost slapped him on the knee and then cuffed him gently on the chin with his fist.
“Don’t mention it boy! Here, have a drink.” He thrust a beer bottle into Bart’s podgy hands and clinked his own bottle against it. “Cheers! It will be thirsty work tomorrow, so we men should have a few sun-downers first, what do you say?”
Bart gave a tiny smile, and drank from the bottle, but mostly just sipped at the froth.
Suddenly his sister dropped her hand of cards facedown onto the green baize of the card table, drawing their attention, and she looked around at them all with a sulky expression and a pet lip.
“It’s not fair,” said eleven year old Charlotte, crossing her arms over her chest. “I want to come too.”
Johan and Famke exchanged a glance, and Bart caught his sister’s eye and looked away.
“Now you know that’s not possible, dear,” her mother told her. “This is your brother’s big day. A day for the men only.”
“But why not?” Lotte insisted. “I can do things the same as Bart. Better even.” She scowled at her brother.
“Your mother’s right. The hunt will be no place for a young lady. It will be a long and tiring day, out in the sun and with the dust in our eyes, driving in the pickup with Dalton. They’ll be blood and bad smells and all kinds of nasty things, plus it will be dangerous. One false move, one lapse of your concentration, and it could cost you a broken arm or leg, maybe worse. Isn’t that right Bart?”
Bart nodded, but wishing he could swap places with Lotte and stay home tomorrow to help his mother.
Lotte turned her face away and stared angrily out at the farm, her eyes brimming with tears.
Johan sighed. He had no children of his own, and this visit by his sister with her family was a stark reminder of that. He liked the boy, cared for him dearly, and he was determined to try and bring him out of his shell and toughen him up because he was just too soft for his own good. But the girl. There was something about her that he found hard to resist. His niece could be a little madam at times, a real drama queen, but she had a side to her nature that, well, it melted his heart if truth be told. Which was silly! But she had a spark, a toughness to her that was severely lacking in her older brother. Johan, basically, doted on her.
“Listen,” Johan said to her now, “you could come along with us tonight, if you like? If your mother says it’s ok. What do you say?”
He glanced at Famke, who nodded and gave a shrug.
Lotte turned to him, a big smile lighting up her face.
The nearest large town was Mooi River, a sixty-minute drive away along unlit dirt tracks.
All three of them sat up front, with Lotte crammed in the middle. She and her uncle chatted away, both completely comfortable in each other’s company, an easy rapport that they shared and enjoyed. Yet Bart barely joined in, their voices were just a faint murmur as his concentration was elsewhere. He stared out of the window into the night, seeing the moths fly by in the truck’s headlights but not really noticing them.
A feeling of dread had been building up inside him all day long, leaving a solid knot of tension deep in his stomach, so much so that he felt queasy and nauseous. He suffered in silence. If the others knew, if they even suspected how he thought about tomorrow’s hunt, then his Uncle Johan would admonish him severely, maybe even mete out a physical punishment. And his sister would laugh and ridicule him something rotten, the way she did whenever he cried or withdrew into his private little world. Lotte could be incredibly cruel like that. Her spitefulness, her name-calling, was horrid at times, even though deep down he knew she loved him. So Bart kept his thoughts to himself as they drove through the black night.
They reached the outskirts of town and drove by the white suburbs and gated-communities, the expensive homes with their swimming pools and barbeques and private security firms, and then drove along the narrow road that ran parallel to the main N3 Toll-road that bisected Mooi River. Passing a truck stop and then the tiny police station with its rifle range, they soon turned right and followed the road across the bridge over the modern motorway, and entered the poorer eastern section, where the blacks lived.
Sitting quietly in his seat Bart observed through wide eyes this sudden transition from wealth and comfort to poverty and hopelessness, from those that had a bright future and the security that their privilege brought, to the poor black community with no prospects, no hope, just a lifetime of struggle, beaten down over years of neglect. The change was stark and a shock to those unprepared for it, and it brought a lump to his throat and a tremble to his lips.
Bart glanced sideways out of the corner of his eye at his Uncle and sister. Uncle Johan was unfazed, he was humming to himself and his fingers were drumming along the top of the truck’s steering wheel. Lotte’s face was blank, totally devoid of expression, her small mean mouth just a tiny gash in her pretty face.
Bart turned away lest they see the pain on his face.
On the hillside here, a small township had sprung up over the years, a collection of shabby huts and dilapidated shacks, an area of poor lighting and high crime. They drove by a few people loitering at the kerbside – “fucking floppies” as Uncle Johan referred to them – and then turned off the road into a tiny parking area in front of a small building.
The hand-written wooden sign above the door read: DABULAMANZI’S TUCK SHOP.
Looking out through the windscreen Bart saw it was a run-down liquor and food store that had obviously seen better days: the window was boarded over, the few advertising signs were either rusted brown or pockmarked with bullet holes from passing drivers, and the door was shut with a notice telling customers to ring the bell to gain entry. There were no other vehicles parked up, just a low wall with a couple of men sitting and drinking from a shared bottle. A single lamp buzzed and hummed with nocturnal insects.
Uncle Johan wound down his window and leaned his elbow on the sill.
“Hey!” he called across to the men.
One of them looked up. The other was too drunk or stoned to care.
“Come here my friend.”
The man, a tall and lanky individual in his mid-twenties Bart guessed, came ambling across, a nervousness brought on by experience making him hang back as he approached their truck.
“You looking for work?” Uncle Johan asked gruffly.
“Yes sir,” he responded, his voice little more than a whisper, his eyes downcast.
“Well I need some help on my farm for a few days. Odd jobs around the place. I’ll pay you well, and it includes food and lodgings for a couple of nights. You interested?”
“Yes sir, thank you sir,” the man said, but he glanced back at his friend.
“Just you,” Johan told him. “Best get in the back, then.”
Just like that, Bart thought to himself.
. . .
They rose at 5am the following morning, so as to avoid the worst of the mid-summer heat.
A low-lying early-morning mist hung in the valley bottoms and shrouded the rolling countryside around the farm, lending a chill to the air, but this would soon burn off once the sun climbed higher. It promised to be a scorching hot day.
The ideal time for hunting was before noon. Therefore they had brought the man out from the old stable block where he had spent the night tied and gagged, and bundled him into th
e back of the 4x4 Hilux pickup. At Johan’s instructions, Dalton the gardener had briefly removed the gag to allow him to drink some water, and the man had used the opportunity to quietly plead for his life, his eyes looking at his captors beseechingly.
Ignoring him, Johan had told Dalton to stay in the back.
“If he gives you trouble, just kick him.”
Then he and Bart had climbed into the front, and off they set.
Johan explained the rules to Bart as they drove along. They were simple, and fair. They would travel to a chosen starting point several miles from the farm buildings, deep into the hilly countryside and well away from any main roads and prying eyes. This was private land which had belonged to the family for generations, and so what went on here was nobody else’s business, he explained.
Once at their destination they would set their quarry loose and give him a thirty-minute head-start, which was only right considering that he would be on foot and they, Johan, Bart and Dalton, would be riding in the pickup. If he made it as far as the outskirts of the tiny community of Elandkop at the foot of the mountain range – a distance of around about 12 miles as the crow flies – then he could go free. If they caught him before he reached safety, then sadly there could be only one outcome. The man, Johan told a terrified Bart, was young and fit, so it was by no means guaranteed that they would have a successful hunt. Some you win and some you lose, he had chuckled.
A short time later and they had arrived, and Bart climbed out on unsteady legs. The day was heating up and he felt a trickle of sweat roll down his fat neck and under his collar.
Uncle Johan thrust a hunting rifle at him, and then slung another over his own shoulder.
“Make sure the safety is off until we are in position,” his uncle reminded him, even though they had spent the preceding few days shooting at tin cans for practice. “And when you do take the shot, remember to line up ahead of the target: he will probably be running fast, and this thing can kick like a mule. Plus, we want a head shot if possible, or into his heart. It’s less messy that way. You ready boy?”