Icarus

by Deon Meyer

  Peter McLean: That is correct. At that time I was foreman of Bottling at KWV, and he was the chief in charge of the Accounts Department . . .

  B. Griessel: Also at KWV.

  Peter McLean: That is correct . . .

  V. Cupido: Mr McLean, this is not a court. You don’t have to gooi that ‘that is correct’ every time.

  Peter McLean: Okay. But I’m a bit nervous . . . Anyway, Mr Venske came to talk to me, January of 1990, at the KWV bottling plant. He talked about the sanctions first. Back then the anti-apartheid sanctions were biting kwaai, the KWV lost a lot of business because we couldn’t export wine. Mr Venske said how hard times were, the sanctions were killing us. And the politicians overseas didn’t understand; they were hurting the people they wanted to try and help. The coloured people, the black people. Because take me, for example. There I was, foreman at KWV, and when last did I get a raise? Because of sanctions, and business being so bad. I knew then, he wanted to soften me up, but I didn’t see what was coming.

  Then he asked me, if there was an opportunity for a fat pay cheque, and we could give sanctions the finger, would I be interested? So I asked, how fat, Mr Venske? And he said, a hundred and fifty thousand. Cash, in my pocket. I feel ashamed now when I think of it. That money made me feel weak, that day. A hundred and fifty thousand was more than two years’ salary, to me. A hundred and fifty thousand was more than a house cost, back then. My children were small – four of them. That money was . . . it was a fortune, to a coloured man.

  So I said, I’m in, Mr Venske. And he asked, can I trust you, Peter? Because we want to play this very close to the chest – because of the overseas newspapers, and sanctions and things. The money buys your silence. If you talk, if you say a word, even to your wife, you get nothing.

  I said again, I’m in.

  Then he said to me we are going to make nine hundred thousand bottles of champagne, and we are going to bottle them there with you, at night. They call it Project Champ, and it will take a year or so to make the champagne . . .

  B. Griessel: Who is the ‘we’ that he was talking about?

  Peter McLean: He and a couple of his mates, and guys like me, lower down on the KWV food chain . . .

  B. Griessel: His mates were all from the KWV?

  Peter McLean: No, it was just him.

  B. Griessel: So, it wasn’t an official KWV project?

  Peter McLean: Never.

  B. Griessel: Did he tell you who the champagne was going to be delivered to? And what sort of champagne?

  Peter McLean: Not that day. Actually he never explained the whole deal to me. But if you work for two weeks with him and his mates through the night, then you pick up all these things. And I mean, I’m in the wine industry. I know about Moët & Chandon en Dom Pérignon, some of the most expensive champagne in the world . . . And so here, about the third last evening of the bottling, there was this guy from America. He’d come to look. He took one of the bottles of Moët off the line, and he inspected it from top to bottom, and then he opened it, poured it in glasses and they tasted. And the American man was very happy, and then I heard them talking. So I put the whole thing together, at the end of the day. Mr Venske and his mates bought surplus wine from the KWV; I don’t know what that part of the deal was. And then they made champagne, there in the cellar, here in 1990–91. End of ’91, over the December holiday when it was lekker quiet, we bottled it.

  Those bottles Mr Venske brought in, they weren’t local; we took them out of boxes that said ‘Imported from France’. And the corks were from Portugal. But the labels and the foil were made here. We bottled nine hundred thousand bottles of Dom Pérignon en Moët & Chandon, and we crated them, and those bottles went to Las Vegas. Via Panama, that’s what the waybill said . . .

  V. Cupido: All nine hundred thousand bottles went to Las Vegas?

  Peter McLean: As far as I know.

  B. Griessel: And then?

  Peter McLean: Then I got my money, and everything was hunky dory, back in January of ’92. And then, early February, Mr Venske called us all together, the Project Champ team, and he said, there’s an agent from America, from the AFT or something . . .

  Advocate Prinsloo: ATF? The Bureau for Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives?

  Peter McLean: Sounds about right. He said, the guy was there with SAP detectives at KWV, because they were looking at fake champagne that the Las Vegas Mafia had imported from us; they found a lot of cases in Panama. And Mr Venske said, if anyone talked to us, then we say we don’t know a thing.

  B. Griessel: And then?

  Peter McLean: Then nothing. Because the world had changed. F.W. de Klerk made that big speech in parliament, February of 1990. By ’92, nobody cared any more, because the New South Africa was happening. The whole thing just went away . . .

  B. Griessel: And that was the story you told to Ernst Richter? On 24 November this year?

  Peter McLean: That’s the one . . .

  91

  In the sitting room of the Blue Valley homestead Benny Griessel told The Jackal: ‘Your client was an employee of KWV in 1990, in the time that KWV was struggling under sanctions and had a huge surplus of wine in their cellar. Your client made a plan to get rid of the wine, and make a lot of money for his own pocket. Enough money to buy this farm – because a man on a salary could not have done that. According to my information Blue Valley cost at least six million rand, back in ’94 . . .’

  ‘I inherited money,’ said Venske angrily. ‘From my wife’s side.’

  ‘Dietrich, no,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘Duly noted,’ said Vaughn Cupido. ‘By five members of the Hawks.’

  ‘The problem, Mr Venske, is that we are going to seize all documentation and I am reasonably sure we will find no record of such an inheritance, because you were one of the brains behind Project Champ. To tell the truth, a few hours ago I spoke to a man who said he is prepared to give evidence in court that you stood beside him while the champagne was bottled. Nine hundred thousand bottles of fake champagne . . .’ Griessel looked at his notes: ‘. . . French champagne. Moët & Chandon. And Dom Pérignon. Nine hundred thousand bottles. That’s a lot. And there was an American citizen from Las Vegas with you who wanted the champagne for their hotels.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said The Jackal.

  Venske said nothing.

  ‘Nine hundred thousand bottles,’ Griessel repeated. ‘That’s big money, even if you sell it for 10 per cent of what that champagne would have gone for in those days. Enough money to pay for the champagne, the bottles, the labels, and smuggling it to Las Vegas. To pay the guy who bottled it one hundred and fifty thousand rand in cash. And to buy a farm like Blue Valley.’

  Now both the farmer and the lawyer were silent.

  ‘But that’s not where it ends, Mr Venske, because twenty years later the thing comes back to bite you. Now you’re a big wine farmer, and your biggest income is from America because . . .’ and again Griessel consulted his notes ‘. . . your red wine was named by an American, Robert Parker, as the best out of Africa. Is that right?’

  No reaction.

  Griessel continued. ‘So, if a guy comes to you and says he’s going to tell some American newspaper about you and Project Champ if you don’t give him money, then you lure him to your farm and you strangle him under your jacaranda tree . . .’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Van Straaten. ‘You have no evidence.’

  ‘We do,’ said Griessel, observing Venske closely. ‘We have a witness who says he told Ernst Richter the whole story of Project Champ, on Monday 24 November. Does that date sound familiar, Mr Venske? We have forensic evidence that he was strangled under that tree. We have evidence that he was buried with your plastic and your baling twine, and your Triazole was on it.’

  ‘That says nothing,’ said Venske. ‘It could have been anyone.’

  ‘Do
n’t say a word,’ warned The Jackal.

  ‘We have further evidence that Ernst Richter had a secret cellphone that he used to phone you on your wine tasting centre’s number, on Monday 24 November, just before five. He must have left an interesting message for you, because at a quarter past five you phoned that number with your cellphone, and the conversation lasted eleven minutes. That’s a long time to talk to someone that you don’t know at all.’

  Something shifted, subtly, in Venske’s body language.

  ‘But that’s not where it ends, Mr Venske. The day that Richter disappeared, the day that he was murdered, you spoke to him again three times on that same cellphone. At 16.42, at 17.18 and at 19.34. Our Information Centre tells us that that cellphone was static, here near Stellenbosch, till after eleven that night. And then it travelled all the way to Blouberg. And then it went off, just after midnight. Permanently off, never switched on again. Our Information Centre is now busy plotting your cellphone number. And I think we’re going to find exactly the same pattern on it. Stellenbosch, to Blouberg, back to Stellenbosch. Will you be able to explain that?’

  Deathly silence.

  ‘You lured him here with the promise of money. But you did not intend to pay him. You crept up on him from behind while he waited for you under the tree. You strangled him with baling twine. If you strangle a man, he kicks wildly; we see that a lot. Richter’s trainers came off in the kicking. You buried him without the shoes, as far from you as you could, in a place where the sand was loose and soft, because you wanted to do it as fast as possible. I think you burned the trainers and the other cellphone, the one that you communicated on, and buried them together in another place. You left his Audi TT here in Plankenbrug. I wonder if you were wearing gloves? There are two sets of fingerprints that we haven’t identified yet. Maybe you were stupid, maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. Plankenbrug is exactly ten point four kilometres from here; I measured it this afternoon. It’s too far to walk, Mr Venske, so late at night, for a man who is in a hurry to dispose of a body. I think you phoned someone to come and pick you up there: a foreman or a labourer or maybe your wife. Your phone records will give us that number, and we will also talk to that person.’

  Venske took off his glasses and wiped his fingertips over his eyes.

  ‘And one last thing,’ said Benny Griessel. ‘The man who will testify for us about the bottling said that in 1992 and again in 1997 there were questions about the counterfeit champagne, from the American ATF, the Bureau for Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. And it was reported in a South African newspaper. Our witness said he told Ernst Richter about it. I think there were emails as well, Mr Venske. I think Ernst Richter sent you an email, perhaps with a reference to one of the articles that appeared in the Mail & Guardian in 1997. I think you were so worried about that email, that you bribed a member of the SAPS at Stellenbosch station to steal Richter’s laptop for you. We are busy going through your cellphone to see which SAPS member you communicated with. And that’s how we are going to nail you. When he also testifies to us to save his own backside.’

  Venske fought against his temper. It was an interesting show to watch. The Jackal held his hand in the air to stop him, but for one moment Venske let the mask slip. ‘Fuck you,’ he spat, with naked rage.

  ‘Arrest him, Benna,’ said Vaughn Cupido. ‘Our work here is done.’

  ‘Benny Griessel?’ the journalist from the Son asked over the phone. ‘You’re not shitting me?’

  ‘That’s right, Maahir,’ said Captain John Cloete. ‘Cupido was JOC leader, but Griessel made the breakthrough. Your little bird is singing a very false tune. About the time of Richter’s death, and about the alleged drunken assault. If you ask me, and off the record, it’s jealousy. The SAPS also have their share . . .’

  ‘Well, I . . . John, you know how it is, I’m just doing my job. If the birdies sing, then I just do my job.’

  ‘I understand that, but you must think long and hard about this particular birdy.’

  ‘Fair enough . . . My apologies. I had it wrong.’

  ‘No harm, no foul, Maahir. Merry Christmas.’

  There was a small Christmas tree on a coffee table in Alexa’s sitting room and his heart leapt. He called her name, but she didn’t answer. The house was empty.

  92

  Christmas.

  San du Toit woke before sunrise on Klein Zegen and realised her husband was no longer in the bed.

  She found him on the veranda with a mug of coffee in his hand.

  She sat down beside him, put her arm around him. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said.

  He didn’t answer. She looked closely at him and saw the tears running down his cheeks.

  ‘Francois, I understand. About everything. It’s okay.’

  He shook his head. And when he had regained control, he said: ‘It’s because of the Christmas present. From the stars.’

  Only later, when they saw the sun come up together, did he tell her what he meant.

  The music woke Griessel.

  He thought at first he was dreaming, but then it dragged him from his sleep: it was very clear and close.

  In the street?

  He got out of bed, walked to the window.

  Alexa’s car was parked in the street.

  The music was coming from downstairs, from her hi-fi.

  Then he recognised it. A golden oldie: Vince Vance & The Valiants and ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’. One of Alexa’s favourites.

  His bladder was full, but he grabbed a dressing gown, and jogged down the stairs to the sitting room.

  She was standing there, with Carla and Fritz, his children. Each had a present for him.

  At four o’clock, as Vaughn Cupido drove back home from his parents’ house in Mitchells Plain, his belly full after the big festive meal, he received an SMS. From Desiree Coetzee.

  Vaughn Stroebel leaked database. No doubt.

  And he thought, that’s it? That’s all that Desiree had to say to him?

  Okay. So be it.

  Vaughn Stroebel nogal. The little scoundrel. Probably thought he had to do something to boost his ego after he lost face so badly with his big confession about the dagga. He should have seen it, because it was Tricky Ricky Grobler who said the wonderful data security, as Ernst Richter presented it to the media, was a myth. Any of the programmers could scratch around in the database as they liked.

  Still, should have known. But he hadn’t been focused on the database leak.

  Never mind.

  That was tomorrow or the day after’s worries anyway.

  Then his Christmas present arrived.

  From Desiree again:

  Merry Christmas. Waiting for your call.

  EPILOGUE

  It was a Woolies Christmas dinner in Alexa Barnard and Benny Griessel’s house in Brownlow Street, Tamboerskloof, but nobody minded, because Alexa was generous with her gifts again, as she had been the previous year.

  Carla received an envelope with a contract in it. For a small role in a new Afrikaans music film that Alexa had invested in.

  Griessel received an iPhone 6. And his son Fritz a PlayStation 4, that he unpacked immediately, connected to the TV and turned on. So that he could play Need for Speed: Rivals.

  Griessel sat and watched. And thought. He was remembering his unease in Ernst Richter’s house, something that didn’t fit. Only when they sat down at the table to eat, did he ask Fritz whether one could play Xbox games on the PlayStation as well.

  Fritz was used to his father’s technological ignorance. He laughed and said: ‘Duh.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘No, Pa, you can’t, because then Bill Gates wouldn’t make so much money.’

  ‘So, if you have an Xbox and a PlayStation, then you won’t just have games for the PlayStation?’

  ‘Only if y
ou’re a moron.’

  ‘Why do you ask, Pa?’ Carla piped up, feeling she ought to come to her father’s rescue.

  ‘I think I know where someone hid cellphones and false ID documents,’ said Griessel. ‘Inside an Xbox casing.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Fritz.

  When they dropped the children off again at Anna and the lawyer’s house, and he was driving back with Alexa, she said to him, ‘You can just put your old sim card in the new phone. I have already synchronised everything for you.’

  And Griessel remembered that she had done that with his iPhone 5 as well, a year ago. And he thought he knew now how she could pinpoint where he was. Something to do with the phone . . .

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and smiled at her. ‘Thank you so much.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Icarus is pure fiction. Not a single character in this book is based on or inspired by real people.

  The intrigue, however, is partly a highly fictionalised version of events that allegedly took place in the nineties in the then KWV – at that time still a semi-governmental institution. For the sake of credibility I was obliged to have my fictional characters ‘work’ in specific positions in that institution, but I wish to be very clear that there is no connection whatsoever between them and any real personnel from the KWV.

  Nor did I talk to any former or present employee of KWV about any relevant intrigues that took place in the nineties. Newspaper archives were used almost exclusively as sources.

  I also wish to explain that the KWV of the apartheid era and the new dynamic private company with the same name are two completely different entities. The present KWV is in fact controlled by a Broad-Based Black Economic Empowerment (BBBEE) shareholder.

  Another aspect that has been partly fictionalised, is the way Apple’s Touch ID technology works on iPhones. Of course, when an iPhone is completely switched off, a pin code and fingerprint is needed to unlock it. I have taken a little poetic licence with this order of events in an effort to make the book more interesting.