by Deon Meyer
Each gang’s hierarchy and ranks varied. The Marauders were led by a ‘captain’. There was also a second-in-command, who was known as the ‘roady’, an abbreviation for ‘road captain’. And a ‘sparky’, who could work the big radio, and one or two ‘drivers’, the men who came to load the gang’s loot with a lorry.
Their life consisted of plundering their region of everything of possible value, especially weapons, ammunition, food, gold and diamonds, power generators, solar panels and specific car and motorcycle spares. The Marauders’ region stretched from Aberdeen in the west to King William’s Town in the east. That was why they were a small clan: their area was poor in the most precious resources and their numbers were too few to challenge another gang for a larger area.
They collected their loot at a temporary base, a safe, secluded place until they heard where the next Sales Conference would be. The Sales Conference was held by the Sales Club, ‘But that’s really just the name we use on the radio, the Sales Club is just this man and woman and their . . . their bodyguards who are sort of wholesalers, they buy our stuff, and they sell it on to other guys,’ said Calitz. And then he added with effusive respect, ‘The woman is a Zulu princess.’
Our Committee members looked at each other; that rang a bell.
‘Wait,’ said Domingo. ‘Have you ever seen her?’
‘Yes. At Maselspoort. At the last Sales Conference,’ said Calitz.
‘What does she look like?’
Calitz described her.
‘That’s Mecky Zulu,’ said Pa.
‘No, they call her the Chair, but her name is Dudu Meyiwa,’ said Calitz.
‘And the man with her?’
‘Clarkson. That’s what they say, his real name is Clarkson. He’s this terribly clever engineer . . .’ And according to the description Domingo and the Committee knew they were the pair who had introduced themselves as Trunkenpolz and Mecky Zulu. Leon Calitz said he had never heard those names before. The man and woman’s radio call signs were ‘Number One’ and the ‘Chair’. They used many hiding places and Sales Conference venues. They were very clever, because everyone wanted to eliminate them. They were the middlemen, they had all the contacts, they controlled everything.
Number One and the Chair told the gangs what ‘products’ they wanted most. The nature and value of these goods had changed in the past nineteen months. Tinned and dried food had been very popular and profitable at first, but nowadays the emphasis was on ammunition, alcohol, spares, motorcycle and truck tyres. There was also a great demand for solar panels and batteries. A good set could easily be worth six hundred litres.
‘Litres of what?’ Pa asked.
‘Ethanol,’ said Leon Calitz. There were four ways the Sales Club paid the gangs: in information and skill to convert vehicles to ethanol, in ethanol fuel itself, in vehicle parts, and in ammunition.
‘How exactly does it work?’ asked Pa.
‘The Sales Club lets us know when there will be a Sales Conference, then we take our products in the lorry to barter . . .’
‘How does the Sales Club let you know?’
‘Over the radio.’
‘What radio?’ asked Domingo.
‘The radios that Number One gave us.’
‘Those CB radios that are built into the bikes?’
‘No, we only use those to talk to each other, or to our sparky. Number One calls us on the big radio. It’s this big . . .’ Leon Calitz gestured with his hands, about sixty by sixty centimetres.
‘Wait a minute.’ Domingo stopped him. ‘How far away is Number One when he calls you on that big radio?’
‘I don’t know. We never know where they are. But the big radios can talk over hundreds of kilometres.’
‘Yes,’ said Domingo. ‘A ham radio can do that, but then you need a long aerial.’
‘We have one.’
‘Where?’
‘At our base camp. That’s where the sparky lives. At the big radio and the CB base station, and the products that we collected.’
‘Where is your base camp?’
‘On the other side of Tarkastad.’
Pa started to say something, but Domingo stood up, a worried look on his face. He held his hand up in the air.
‘That sparky is still sitting there?’
‘Sure.’
‘And every biker gang has a sparky and a base station?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does every gang have its own frequency?’
‘I don’t know. Our sparky always talks about forty metres, there’s nothing on the forty metres.’
‘Have you heard, recently, of gangs that just . . . went quiet?’
‘Yes, the Road Rage Kings.’
‘The Road Rage Kings?’
‘Yes. Their territory was the N1 between Beaufort West and Colesberg. They were a big clan, more than twenty. And then they just disappeared. Our captain said he thought they were just fed up because everything was gutted, stripped, you can’t make a living in this business any more.’
‘How did you hear that they just disappeared?’
‘Number One asked us over the radio if we knew anything, because the Kings’ sparky said he couldn’t make contact with his captain at all. With none of the Kings. Number One said they would give two thousand free litres for information about the Road Rage Kings. But our captain said we didn’t know anything.’
‘And then?’
‘Then Number One said the offer stands, we must keep our eyes and ears open. He thought another clan might have taken them out. For the territory. But our captain said territory be damned, they were just as fed up as we are.’
Chapter 68
The first KTM war: VIII
Domingo brought Leon Calitz to SpOT headquarters so we could listen to the interrogation. We sat outside on the parade ground in a semicircle, Domingo and Calitz sat on chairs.
‘Tell us about the radio base,’ Domingo said.
That was the first time I saw Calitz close up. He looked like an ordinary guy, a good man. Like one of us. I heard he had been training to be a fitter and turner before the Fever came. This is my enemy, I thought. He could have been me.
‘Ach, there’s really nothing,’ said Leon Calitz. His big Adam’s apple produced a deep baritone, but he looked like someone who suddenly had stage fright.
‘Tell us.’
‘It’s a poor little farm, that’s all.’
He saw this wasn’t going to satisfy Domingo. ‘It’s near Tarkastad,’ he added.
‘Where near Tarkastad?’
‘About twenty, thirty kilometres.’
‘Give me detail.’
‘There’s a farm, we lived on the farm . . . The radio tower is on the mountain just beside the farmhouse. If you climb up to the tower, you can see a long way. You can even see the town, and all the roads leading to the town.’
‘What roads?’
‘The four tarmac roads that run to Cradock and Queenstown and Adelaide and up the mountain.’
‘How far can you see on those roads?’
‘The one that leads to Cradock . . . Actually to Hofmeyr, you can see for at least fifty kilometres. Maybe even further, I never measured it. But that’s why our captain chose the mountain. To see far, and for the altitude, to get the radio aerial high.’
‘What’s going to happen if the sparky up there on the mountain doesn’t hear from you gangstas for a day or two?’
‘Oh no,’ said Calitz, ‘it happens often. He won’t do anything.’
‘And if we are only four or five bikes that he sees coming? Your bikes, your leathers?’
‘He’ll wonder where the others are.’
‘But he won’t do anything?’
‘No. What can he do?’
‘And if a few bikes arrive at the farm with two guys on, and the sparky sees them coming?’
‘It’s okay, the bikes break down, and we have to pillion the guys.’
‘He won’t be spooked?’
‘I . . .�
�� Calitz seemed to be getting more and more tense. He just shrugged, a gesture that indicated he really didn’t know.
‘Leon, what will he do?’
‘He might try to call us on the CB radio, but often when we’re riding fast we don’t hear when someone uses the CB.’
‘Will he tell the other gangs or Number One over the ham radio that there is a problem before we get to him?’
‘No. It doesn’t work like that.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘We never . . . We don’t talk to other clans, and you don’t call Number One if you have trouble, he’s not our boss. He only talks to the clans about product and Sales Conferences and stuff.’
‘Okay. You’re coming with us, we ride tomorrow.’
‘No.’ Leon Calitz shook his head.
‘You don’t have a choice,’ said Domingo.
‘I don’t want to.’ And he crossed his arms in finality. It wasn’t just determination, there was something else too.
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to see them ever again. I’m finished with them.’
‘But it’s just the sparky?’
‘I don’t want to see him again.’
Domingo stood up and walked over to Calitz. ‘Are you lying to us?’
‘No, I told you the truth.’
‘Are there more gangstas beside the sparky at the radio base?’
‘No, I swear, it’s just him. But . . .’
‘But what, Leon?’
‘If you . . . If he . . . What if something goes wrong, and he lets Number One know?’
‘Why are you suddenly afraid of Number One?’
‘You don’t know them. They’ve got bodyguards, they’re psychos. Murderers. They . . . Some of the clans . . . There were clans who wanted to take them out, Number One and the Chair, clans that wanted to become wholesalers. The bodyguards hanged those guys in the trees, with their tongues pulled through their throats . . .’
‘How is Number One going to know about you? About us?’
Leon Calitz just shook his head, refused to say more.
‘What could go wrong, Leon?’ Domingo was suspicious and aggressive now. He stood directly in front of Calitz. ‘What is it you don’t want to tell us?’
Calitz’s voice rose in pitch. ‘I . . . Nothing. I swear I told you everything.’
‘What could go wrong?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. There’re no guarantees in life.’
‘Guarantees schmarantees,’ said Domingo. ‘Tomorrow you’re coming along. If I get there and there’re more than just the sparky, I’ll shoot both your kneecaps off. Understand?’
Calitz studied Domingo as if weighing up one threat against another. He dropped his head, shook it gently as though he were being done a great injustice. But he said, ‘I understand.’
3 February
At four in the morning Team Bravo stood at attention and in full combat gear beside the Volvo.
‘I’m expecting you to do a lot better today,’ Domingo said.
‘Yes, Captain,’ we shouted.
‘We’ve worked hard.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘We’ve learned a lot.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘We’re going to stay calm.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
‘We’re going to be pro soldiers.’
‘Yes, Captain.’
I glanced surreptitiously over to where Leon Calitz stood to one side, staring at us dumbfounded, his eyes wide in amazement. Or maybe just fear.
‘Let’s go,’ said Captain Domingo.
We drove to where Team Alpha had had their skirmish. There Domingo, Calitz and four Spotters climbed on to the motorcycles that had been hidden in the dry stream bed – the only four of us who could ride well. The rest would remain in the back of the Volvo until Hofmeyr.
It was a tiny hamlet. Leon Calitz said it was totally deserted. Domingo didn’t believe him and made Team Bravo scour the place, the beautiful old municipal buildings, the little park with the monument and the old slave bell, the peculiar church with its four ugly pillars. We saw that the village had been ransacked of anything the Marauders could sell.
We found no one. Calitz had a wounded I-told-you-so attitude.
The Volvo and the rest of Team Bravo were to wait in Hofmeyr.
The six motorcycles rode on – three now with passengers. I was one of them, thanks to my marksmanship skills. Domingo was in front, then Calitz. Jakes – who was driving – and I rode alongside Calitz. Domingo said if it looked like Leon Calitz was veering off, I was welcome to shoot him. The other three bikes brought up the rearguard.
Chapter 69
The first KTM war: IX
We rode into Tarkastad. In the middle of the town was the only traffic circle. Leon Calitz stopped there. ‘I’m not going any further,’ he said when Domingo approached him angrily to ask what was going on.
‘You’re riding.’
‘No. I’ll explain to you how to get there.’
Domingo was suspicious. ‘Can he see us, Leon? Is this a sign for your sparky? I’ll shoot you, Leon, you hear me? I’ll shoot you easily . . .’
‘No, no, I swear, but I’m a traitor, I can’t look Loots in the eyes. I’m staying here.’
Domingo swore.
‘Curse me if you want,’ said Calitz. ‘I’m staying here.’
Domingo climbed off his motorbike, drew his pistol, grabbed Leon Calitz and shot off his little finger. Calitz screamed like a girl.
‘You’re coming,’ said Domingo.
‘No,’ said Calitz.
Domingo shot off his ring finger. Calitz screamed, wild with fear, but he shouted, ‘Okay, okay, okay!’ His hand dripped blood on the handlebars of the motorcycle.
‘Ride in front,’ Domingo said and pointed with the pistol. That was all he needed to do.
Calitz led us up the mountain. It was an old tarmac road, riddled with potholes and gullies, that turned into a bad gravel road. On top of the mountain the road forked. Calitz kept left. He rode slower and slower, looking at me more often where I sat behind Jakes with my rifle ready to shoot Calitz.
Into the yard of the farm Bergfontein.
The man must have heard us coming, he came running out of the farmhouse, calling, ‘Captain, Captain, there were guys here, Captain, there was a chopper,’ his face twisted in excitement. He was a tall man, wearing only old jeans, a bushy black beard over a skinny chest, his head clean shaven.
We all stopped, the man ran up to Domingo’s motorcycle, still babbling on about the ‘chopper’. Domingo removed his crash helmet and aimed his rifle at the skinny man.
When the man saw it wasn’t his captain he stopped talking, bewildered. He reeked of stale booze.
Leon Calitz climbed off his bike, trembling like a reed. ‘This is the sparky,’ he said to Domingo. Then he took off his helmet and told the sparky: ‘Loots, everyone is dead, I’m the only one left.’
It was as if the sparky didn’t register what Leon was saying. His eyes darted from Calitz to Domingo, the rest of us, then back to Calitz. ‘Leon, there were guys here . . .’
‘What guys?’ asked Calitz, his voice full of tension.
‘Chopper guys.’
‘What chopper guys?’ Domingo asked.
‘I don’t know. Who’re you?’ the sparky asked Domingo.
‘Were you drunk?’ asked Domingo.
‘It’s war, Loots. They shot us,’ said Calitz. ‘They shot us all, I’m the only one left,’ an emphasis in his voice, as though he were trying to give Loots a message. But Loots was too upset and confused to pick up on it.
‘Are you the chopper guys?’ he asked.
Domingo grabbed Loots-the-sparky by the scruff of the neck and he asked, ‘Who are the chopper guys?’
Loots was scared of Domingo, dazed, in shock. ‘They came last night. Middle of the night. One a.m. I heard the chopper, so I got up, and I s
aw it land. Just over there. And four guys jumped out with night sights and laser lights and they saw me and shot at the door, look, here are the holes. And I held up my hands, and they came and pushed me on the ground, and I was lying there, I thought they were going to shoot me. And they were shouting stuff, they were asking me stuff about people I don’t know, and I said I don’t know, I swear. I thought they were going to kill me, Leon. Then they looked for the radio, and they just left everything again, and they got in the chopper and flew away. Chopper guys, Leon, I think it’s Number One’s chopper guys . . .’ A light went on in his eyes, he focused on Domingo: ‘Number One sent you.’
‘No,’ said Domingo.
‘Did they take anything, Loots?’ Leon Calitz asked. With a sly, meaningful tone.
‘No,’ said Loots. And then, without thinking: ‘Everyone is still here.’
Domingo tackled him to the ground, he pushed his pistol against Loots’s temple, and shouted, ‘Who’s everyone?’
Loots was confused. ‘The girls,’ he said.
Leon Calitz gave a despairing groan.
‘What girls?’
‘There in the store.’
Domingo told me and the other troops, ‘Bring Calitz. Be careful.’
Domingo grabbed the sparky by the beard and dragged him in the direction the man indicated, to the outbuildings beside the farmhouse.
Calitz resisted. Jakes and I each held an arm. We had to drag him, until Jakes lost his temper and grabbed Calitz by his bleeding fingers and said, ‘Now you come with us.’
One of the outbuildings was a storeroom with a padlock. ‘That one,’ Loots said.
Again that despairing sound from Leon Calitz.
‘Open up,’ Domingo said.
Loots’s hand shook as he took the key out of his jeans pocket. He unlocked the padlock. Domingo walked in. The others waited outside.
Domingo came out, pistol in hand. He was beside himself with fury, I had never seen him like that before, his breath fast and ragged, his eyes wild with rage. He walked up to Loots, pressed his pistol against the sparky’s forehead and pulled the trigger. Loots collapsed.