The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’ Irritated.

  ‘I want to rent your boat.’

  He heard the muffled sounds of someone moving about, another cough, then a head appeared. A man in his fifties, thick dark hair, five days of pepper-and-salt beard, bloodshot eyes. A face that had seen a great deal of trouble and sun.

  ‘Rent?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I come with the boat. I’m the skipper.’

  ‘I understand. I want you to take me to Gijón.’

  ‘Gijón?’ The man looked at him dubiously. He heaved himself out of the cabin. He stopped in front of Daniel. ‘Gijón? Why don’t you take the train?’

  Daniel smelt the sourness of stale booze. He didn’t react, let the silence lengthen.

  ‘Oh,’ said the skipper of L’Ange Fou, with a flash of insight, new light in his eyes. He looked at the sun, considered the weather. ‘Today?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘It can be done. But it’s expensive.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Six hundred euro.’

  Daniel smiled and turned, began to walk away.

  ‘Five hundred,’ the skipper called.

  ‘Two hundred,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Three fifty. Cash.’

  Daniel walked back to the man. The skipper put out his hand. ‘Olivier Chérain,’ he said. ‘And I’d rather not know who you are.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to Gijón. How much will it cost to take me to Brest?’

  Chapter 46

  ‘You’re a sly one,’ said Chérain, with a crooked, conspiratorial grin.

  ‘Can you take me to Brest today?’

  ‘Brest is far. It’s a long trip. That’s a lot of wear and tear on the engines. I would have to buy fuel in La Rochelle. And I’d have to sleep over in Brest – that means mooring fees, hotel expenses. If the weather turns I may only come back in two or three days.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A thousand. And I’m not going to haggle.’

  ‘Six hundred.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping in a third-rate hotel, forget it. Or get someone else.’

  ‘Seven hundred?’

  ‘Not negotiable. And you pay me up front, before we leave.’

  Daniel sighed. ‘Half now, half on arrival.’

  ‘Welcome aboard.’

  Chérain said the vessel was a Jeanneau Leader 850, which meant the boat was 8.5 metres long. It had 250 horsepower diesel engines, ‘and she might need a bit of a face lift, being thirty-two years old, but she doesn’t leak and her engines run like clockwork.’

  They sailed slowly out of the harbour mouth. Chérain stood behind the wheel and Daniel sat on one of the two mounted seats behind the windshield.

  ‘Is this your job?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Kind of,’ said Chérain.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I didn’t ask you why you’d pick the longest, most difficult way to get to Brest.’

  ‘Touché. But how far do you go normally?’

  ‘Far enough. Spanish coast. As far as Santander.’

  ‘How far is that?’

  ‘Eighty nautical miles.’

  ‘And Brest?’

  ‘About two hundred and seventy. More or less.’

  ‘You’ve never gone that far with this boat?’

  Chérain reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a stainless-steel flask, deftly unscrewed it, took a swig and said: ‘I’ve never needed a thousand euros this much.’ He offered the flask to Daniel. ‘A tot to pacify Poseidon?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Chérain held the flask up high. ‘À votre santé!’ Then he drank deeply of the contents and pulled both throttles open.

  The sea was smooth. They sailed north, just a kilometre from the white beach that stretched endlessly on the starboard side, the greenery of pine forests behind. Gulls circled and swooped, a distant rumble of breakers. Chérain pointed out small towns on land – Lacanua Océan (‘There’s a golf course. I don’t get the point of golf. Waste of time, walking after a ball . . .’), Montalivet (‘The most boring town in the world, one giant old-age home – not even the nudists can revive the place . . .’). Daniel listened, grinning at the man’s gloomy outlook. He felt relaxed for the first time and knew he’d made the right choice to travel this way. He was safe, for the moment.

  Just south of the Île d’Oléron Chérain said: ‘I hope you don’t get seasick.’

  ‘I’ve never had the chance to find out.’

  ‘Well, you’re going to find out now,’ said the skipper, and pointed out to sea. ‘West wind,’ he said. ‘It’s going to get rough.’

  He was right. Barely fifteen minutes later Daniel was leaning over the side of the boat retching.

  ‘Big breakfast,’ said Olivier Chérain, impressed. ‘Just don’t make a mess of my deck.’

  He was curled up in misery in the tiny cabin, on sheets that smelt of booze and sweat. Chérain was on deck behind the wheel. Occasionally Daniel heard snatches of song over the never-ending drone of the engines, surprisingly tuneful. He wondered if the man was a smuggler. There were occasional news reports of refugees being smuggled across the English Channel in small boats, or drugs from Spain. He suspected the latter, Santander being Chérain’s furthest journey yet.

  Daniel stayed on the bunk until they were in La Rochelle harbour. While they took on fuel, he recovered enough to emerge again. ‘How far still to go?’ he asked.

  Chérain checked his watch. ‘Another six hours.’

  Another six hours of wretched seasickness. He cursed.

  Chérain shrugged his shoulders in the Gallic way that meant ‘Not my problem.’

  It wasn’t just the discomfort of the journey that bothered Daniel. Brest at nine o’clock tonight: there should still be a train or two to Paris, as it was Sunday night, when everyone travelled back to the city from their beach or country house.

  Chérain paid for the diesel with a card, then sailed to a mooring place.

  ‘What now?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘I’m going to get something to eat. Can I bring you something?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Chérain grinned as he tied the boat to the quay. ‘You’ll find your sea legs in due course. Stay in the cabin, out of the sun. I’ll be back soon.’ The skipper jumped spryly onto the quay, and walked towards the harbour buildings.

  If the constant vomiting hadn’t left him so limp and drained he might have suspected earlier that ‘back soon’ was an empty promise. Realisation only dawned half an hour later, when there was still no sign of Chérain. When an hour had passed Daniel was worried enough to begin searching the cabin for anything that could shed light on the skipper and his life.

  There was a tiny kitchen on the starboard side, basically a two-plate gas stove and a sink, a built-in cupboard on the port side, and the bunk forward, drawers underneath.

  The drawers yielded crumpled clothing, blankets, a few old boat shoes, two soft-porn magazines and three empty booze bottles. The built-in cupboard was where Chérain’s safety equipment was stored – lifejackets, flares, engine parts, a two-way radio that seemed to be broken, a few marine map books of the French and Spanish coast. More reason to suspect that the man was running drugs from Spain, although probably just on a small scale. This was all too disorganised and informal for an important cog in that industry.

  In the drawer under the sink he found a brown envelope beneath a random collection of cutlery. After a quick check to see whether the skipper was returning, he shook out the contents onto the bed. The boat’s registration documents, Chérain’s skipper’s licence, passport and ID card. He examined everything, then packed it away carefully.

  He got off the boat to stretch his legs, walked up and down the quay, too afraid to leave his bag unattended, with the money and pistols.

  When an hour and a half had passed he was certain the man had found more than food. He started to wonder if he should write off his investment of five hun
dred euros and catch a train from there. He decided to wait a bit longer. Brest had definite strategic advantages.

  Just before four a taxi stopped beside the quay. He saw Chérain get out. It was a complicated process, as he was extremely drunk. Chérain paid the driver, talking loudly, took out two plastic bags, pushed the door shut with his hip, staggered on his way. Halfway to L’Ange Fou he stumbled and fell. A bottle broke in one of the bags. ‘Merde,’ Chérain said.

  Daniel sighed, bent down in the cabin and picked up his case. He climbed off the boat and walked to the skipper. He helped him up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Chérain asked, while he held onto Daniel, like a man in a storm.

  ‘Timbuktu.’

  ‘But you said . . .’ he struggled to shape the words ‘ . . . you have to get to Brest today.’

  He stood with his suitcase, halfway between the harbour and the station, on the bridge across the Lac de la Sole. The streets were quiet late on Sunday afternoon. He looked out across the lake and swore softly.

  La Rochelle wasn’t a big city. He felt exposed, visible, and he hadn’t entirely recovered from his seasickness. That bloody Chérain. He was annoyed at his own poor judgement – he’d thought it was clever to charter a boat, sail up the coast, throw those looking for him completely off the scent. Brest would have been much safer, a longer, less-predictable leap. To a bigger city. But in his self-congratulatory wisdom over his mode of transport he’d slipped up in his choice of skipper.

  Adjust, improvise: that was what they’d drilled into him back then. Things would go wrong, but success depended on how you managed the chaos. He had no more stomach for dealing with chaos, especially after tossing up enough breakfast to feed all the fish in the Atlantic Ocean.

  He would have to visit the station to find the time of the next train to Paris. There would be cameras. He bent down, opened his case and took out the red baseball cap. He took off his jacket and packed it in the case. He pulled the cap down low over his eyes and started walking. At least there was solid ground under his feet.

  He noted the cameras on the pretty sandstone building of the Gare de La Rochelle. He kept his head down, walked in and studied the timetables. There was a six o’clock train to Montparnasse station in Paris. Eighty minutes until he could buy a ticket, just before departure.

  He went out again, still uneasy. The station was in a predominantly residential area. He had only one real choice – the 164 Espresso Bar across the street.

  He sat down inside so that he could watch the street. There were no newspapers to read, but behind the counter a TV was showing a football match. He didn’t feel like coffee yet so he bought a Coke and watched the TV and the street in turn. Neither produced any excitement.

  After five his innards had recovered sufficiently for him to order a panini with ham and cheese, and another Coke. At twenty to six he left and went to buy a ticket, Le Monde and a couple of motorbike magazines at Relay.

  He waited on the platform. Just before six he boarded the train to Paris.

  He thought about the workshop in Bordeaux. Tomorrow morning Henry Lefèvre would walk into it and resume work after his holiday. He would inspect Daniel’s table, and then he would stoop over a piece of furniture and begin to make it whole again.

  Daniel’s greatest desire was to be there with le génie now.

  Chapter 47

  He felt an enormous sense of relief when he disembarked at the Gare Montparnasse wearing a new blue collared shirt and his jacket. Even a big black man could disappear in the crush and hurly-burly of this station and city. He hailed a taxi outside, asking the driver if he could recommend a good, affordable hotel near the Luxembourg Gardens. He wanted to stay on the Left Bank tonight, far from the Marché des Enfants Rouges where he had to be the next morning.

  The taxi dropped him off in front of the Hôtel Le Sénat. He took a deep breath before he entered: he would have to lie convincingly.

  He greeted the woman at reception with what he hoped was a combination of friendliness and indignation. He told her something bad had happened on the Métro: his cell phone and his wallet had been stolen on the way from the Gare du Nord. A pickpocket, so bloody sly. He was left with only the cash he had in his case, a good sum at least, thank God, otherwise he didn’t know what he would have done. But he felt bad, embarrassed that he didn’t have any form of identification with him. He knew hotels required a passport or something similar. But he had a very important meeting tomorrow: he had to rest, prepare. He was happy to pay in advance, any amount she thought proper, if he could only have a room. He took out some notes from his inner jacket pocket, a bundle he had assembled with care on the train – enough to show he was well-to-do, but not so thick that she might imagine he’d robbed a bank.

  All the time he was talking he was sure he didn’t sound very convincing or practised. Rusty. And reluctant, he thought, unwilling to fall back completely into the constant deception of the old life.

  She looked uncomfortable. ‘Just a minute.’ She disappeared into the back. He knew she was going to check with the night manager.

  She returned with another woman, somewhat older, who assessed him, his smart jacket and quality luggage, while he repeated his story, smoother this time, better.

  ‘Actually,’ the night manager said, ‘we’re not permitted to do that. How long do you intend to stay?’

  ‘Two nights maximum,’ he said. ‘I understand, it’s a dilemma, but I don’t know what else to do.’

  ‘You will pay for both nights in advance, and a deposit for the bar fridge?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘You’re an angel,’ he said.

  To his relief her mouth twitched into a faint smile as she began to tap the computer keyboard. ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Olivier,’ he said. ‘Olivier Chérain. And I know my ID number off by heart at least.’

  Later, in the shower, rinsing off his sweat, salt and the whiff of seasickness from his pores, he smiled for the first time since Lonnie had made him laugh in Au Bistrot. He stood still, thinking about the day, about Chérain, the alcoholic smuggler skipper. If he had stayed aboard L’Ange Fou, they could be halfway to South America by now.

  Perhaps he would come to regret not staying on the boat.

  But at least he’d got half a journey, a temporary name and an identity number for his five hundred euros.

  Monday, 28 August

  He switched on the TV while he washed and dressed. The sixth news clip reported on the South African president who would be arriving on Thursday for a short visit to France. On Friday he might be meeting the young, newly elected French president.

  He ate breakfast, and after that decided to walk. It was the best way to move around the city if you wanted to make absolutely sure you weren’t followed. The Russians would need a great deal of luck to pinpoint where he was now. But the Marché des Enfants Rouges was only a clever public meeting place if both parties fulfilled the responsibility to arrive undetected.

  He wanted to stretch his legs and spend time in his favourite spots, try to relax. Like the place Saint-Michel, where Paris-the-Lover had overwhelmed him that first time, more than thirty years ago, his eventual deployment after an eternity of military and intelligence training. He, who till then knew only the hills of the Eastern Cape, the remote bush of Angola and Tanzania, the plains of southern Russia and the grey concrete of East Berlin. He had come by train from Munich, then on the Métro from Gare du Nord, his first sight of Paris. He walked up the steps of Saint-Michel station, and emerged onto the street. The atmosphere of pure electricity: dancers and students, musicians and tourists, mime artists, cars and bicycles. The energy, sound and colour of the square overwhelmed, shocked and enchanted him. Swept him into its vibrant heart. He had stood there, glued to the spot, for hours, drinking it all in. The boy from Kat River. Astounded by la ville lumière.

  Now here he was again, sitting for a while, remembering. Lord, what a cou
ntry bumpkin he’d been. So naïve. And so unaware of it.

  The only aspects that had changed in the three decades at Saint-Michel were the student fashions and the shapes of the cars. And himself.

  He kept an eye on the time, walked on, over the Seine, up to the Fontaine Stravinsky, where he had coffee. Tension was gradually building inside him. He strolled through the Anne Frank Gardens, and eventually through Le Marais. He used all his skills, all the nearly-forgotten techniques, to make sure nobody was on his trail.

  At a minute to twelve he sat down at a table in the Marché des Enfants Rouges, close to Le Traiteur Marocain. His heart beat faster. He was aware of everything, his senses sharpened. He wondered who would be there.

  The covered market was a happy place, full of seductive aromas: stalls for vegetables, fruit, flowers and cheese, a bakery, kitchens selling Italian, Oriental and Moroccan food. Tables and chairs to sit at and eat. Very busy this time of day.

  Suddenly a man was beside him, right up against him, and he stiffened.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but these tables are reserved for customers.’

  One of the restaurant employees.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘How do I order?’

  ‘Over there at the counter.’ The man pointed at Le Traiteur Marocain.

  Daniel thanked him, stood up, joined the line. He looked at photos of the various dishes, shuffling forward as the queue progressed. A quiet voice behind him, feminine, speaking French, but with the accent and rhythm of South Africa: ‘I can recommend the tagine kefta. It’s delicious.’

  Slowly he turned and looked at her. ‘Merci,’ he said.

  She was young, early thirties perhaps, pretty and elegant, wearing a bright yellow strapless dress and a black beret. There was a fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead. In her right hand she held a large shopping bag from Galeries Lafayette. She smiled at him, but he could see she was tense.

  ‘Can I buy one for you too?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, thank you so much, that would be delightful.’