The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  A waiter came to him. He ordered coffee, leaned back, seeming completely at ease.

  They sat down next door at the Café Poco Loco. One turned his back; the other man looked towards him, trying to be discreet. He suspected they weren’t particularly well trained in the art of tailing.

  His coffee arrived. He sipped it slowly, looking at the colourful flower stalls opposite, at the beautiful old Waag building, six hundred years old, once the place where dealers took their goods to have them weighed.

  He sat.

  They sat.

  He ordered another cup of coffee, spent about forty minutes there, placed his money on the table and got up suddenly, walking briskly around the corner and then on, westward. He lengthened his strides. He needed to find out how good these two were, how serious they were about keeping an eye on him.

  In the Stoofsteeg he saw them come back into striking distance. On the Dam Square, among hundreds of tourists, street dancers and fire-eaters, he shook them off with remarkable ease, forcing him to stop and wait for them to find him again. No, they were not at all schooled in this art. Or maybe Ditmir wasn’t that interested in new customers.

  Amused, he calmly walked down the twists and turns of Raadshuis Street, heading for a bite to eat at the Pancake House just this side of the Westerkerk.

  The Albanian duo arrived at the restaurant at the precise moment Daniel’s food was being served. They walked straight up to his table, pulled out chairs, and sat down.

  ‘I’m really curious,’ Daniel said. ‘What is a “non-knit suit”?’ He looked expectantly from one to the other.

  They scowled in complete bewilderment. Both were in their early forties, he estimated. Dark five o’clock shadows, they smelt strongly of expensive aftershave and faintly of garlic. Their muscular shoulders were from heavy lifting, not from working out in a gym. Hair cut short. The bow-legged one had a small sickle-shaped scar under his left eye. They were more like potato farmers than members of the Albanian Mafia.

  ‘What do you want with Mr Ditmir?’ the one with the sickle scar asked, in a heavy accent. The waiter brought more menus, but they waved him away with an irritated gesture.

  ‘What everybody wants with Mr Ditmir,’ said Daniel, pleasantly. ‘His special products.’

  ‘What special products do you want?’

  ‘I’ll tell Ditmir when I see him in person.’

  ‘Who do you represent?’

  ‘Myself.’

  ‘Who referred you to Mr Ditmir?’

  ‘An African connection.’

  ‘What is his name?’

  ‘They prefer anonymity.’

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Africa.’

  They stared at him intently. He wondered if they were expecting him to wither under their gaze.

  At last Sickle took out his phone and called someone. A long conversation in Albanian ensued. Quite serious. The only word that Daniel could understand was ‘Afrikan’.

  At the end of the call Sickle said to Daniel: ‘Finish your food. Then we will go to the toilet, you and I.’

  ‘Sounds like fun,’ said Daniel. ‘I’ll show you my footwear parts, and you can show me yours.’

  No twinkle in their eyes or even the faintest glimmer of a smile.

  It was uncomfortable for both of them, an embarrassment.

  Daniel and Sickle were in the toilet. It was a small, narrow room, with barely enough room for Daniel to undress, and for the other man to take and hold each piece of clothing and search it thoroughly for some sort of listening device or weapon. It made sense for a man in Ditmir’s business.

  Sickle took Daniel’s cell phone and wallet out of his trouser pocket, examined them, put them in the washbasin.

  Then, when Daniel was naked, the Albanian made an apologetic sound, turned on his cell-phone torch, gestured Daniel to turn around so the man could check for hidden microphones. Daniel swore at him in Xhosa, a short, sharp curse.

  Sickle shrugged, gesturing that he was merely doing his job.

  Daniel turned around.

  Nobody said a word until they were back at the table.

  Sickle returned the phone and wallet. He said: ‘You can leave your phone here with the waiter. Or you can throw it in the canal.’

  ‘The canal is fine,’ said Daniel. He suspected they were afraid the phone could be used to record a conversation. In any case he should start using a new phone, and this would create the correct impression of professionalism with the arms dealers.

  They waited for him to pay his bill.

  Sickle said: ‘Let’s go. Back to the office.’

  They walked on either side of him. At the bridge over the Herengracht he took his cell phone out of his pocket, let it drop into the canal. Three Chinese tourists gaped at him in disapproval.

  Sickle nodded, satisfied, and gestured to him to hurry up. The Albanian walked two steps behind him now, all the way to Oudezijds Achterburgwal, number 82D.

  This time the front door swung open automatically, as if someone had seen them coming. They climbed the stairs only to the first floor. Sickle took keys out of his pocket, and unlocked the heavy door. Daniel went in.

  There was another world inside. Dark wall panelling, heavy curtains excluding light. A thousand tiny lights on the ceiling and all down the long shelves. Here and there a heavy, old-fashioned lamp with dim yellow light. It looked like an old-world men’s club, gleaming, polished wooden surfaces, large easy chairs in dark brown leather, arranged around heavy coffee-tables. The bar occupied the length of the rear wall; bottles of liquor and crystal glasses reflected the lights. A firmament of alcohol. It smelt of cigars and cigarettes, beer, leather polish and carpet shampoo.

  Five men were seated on high stools at the bar counter. Four were armed with what looked like Agram 2000 machine pistols from the former Yugoslavia slung over their shoulders. They were younger and leaner than the two potato farmers, their eyes watchful. There were two laptop computers, closed, on the surface in front of them.

  In the middle of the small group was a bigger man with a short, styled beard. Unarmed, surrounded by an air of importance.

  All five weighed Daniel up, from head to toe.

  The door behind him closed.

  The bearded one said: ‘I am Ditmir. If you waste my time, you will be sorry.’

  Chapter 62

  Ditmir was a talker. While he sat with his back against the counter and his arms folded, in passable English with an East European accent he said: ‘My guys asked you what is your name, who referred you, who do you represent. You give them funny answers. You want to come to me for business, you say who you are and who you represent. You don’t give funny answers. I do a lot of business in Africa. I have great respect for Africans. I respect their culture, I respect their ways. But you must come in here and respect mine. I give you my name, you give me yours. Maybe we take a drink, or we eat together. You say you represent this general or that president, or whoever you represent. In business everything is about respect. Respect for the client, respect for the product, respect for the relationship. That’s why I make good business. So, because I respect you, I’m going to ask you again. What is your name?’

  ‘Barnabas,’ said Daniel. The name in his Swazi passport.

  ‘Okay, Barnabas, thank you. Can I offer you something to drink? We have the world’s very best whisky. Or gin, perhaps. Would you like the best Dutch gin?’

  ‘No, thank you. I don’t drink when I’m doing business. That’s my culture.’

  ‘Okay, I can respect that. Now, who do you represent?’

  ‘I represent myself.’

  ‘Yourself? We all represent ourselves, Barnabas. I understand. But where are you from?’

  ‘Swaziland.’

  ‘Swaziland? Is that a place? A real place? A country?’

  ‘Yes. As real as Albania.’

  Ditmir seemed to weigh up the stateme
nt for a possible insult. But then he nodded. ‘Who referred you to me?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you that. Confidentiality agreement.’

  That caused a long silence. Looks were exchanged.

  Eventually: ‘Are they from Africa?’

  ‘Yes, they are from sub-Saharan Africa. They are revolutionaries. I can’t tell you more.’

  ‘Okay, I understand. You want to buy my products for your country? For mighty Swaziland?’

  ‘There seems to be some misunderstanding,’ said Daniel. ‘I want to buy a rifle. Just one. For myself. For private use. A military-grade sniper rifle, with an effective range of at least one thousand to one thousand five hundred metres. And a hundred rounds of ammunition. And a cleaning kit. I will pay in cash. Full price on delivery. That’s all.’

  ‘That is all?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ditmir swung his knees back towards the bar, as if he was losing interest. He exchanged a look with two of the watchful ones. ‘I do business with countries, Barnabas. Not one-man shows.’

  ‘Then I have been misinformed.’ Daniel turned and began walking towards the door. The two potato farmers stood in front of it, unmoving.

  ‘But I like you,’ said Ditmir.

  Daniel stopped.

  ‘And I believe markets should be developed,’ said Ditmir. ‘Grown. I believe in networking, in making contacts. Maybe if you’re a satisfied customer, you will go to the president of Swaziland, and you will tell him Ditmir is a good man to do business with.’

  ‘The king,’ said Daniel, as he turned back to face the man.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Swaziland has a king, not a president.’

  ‘Okay. But tell me, in Swaziland, do you and your king know about economies of scale?’

  ‘Oh, yes, the clever white bwana taught us a lot back in the bad old days. We are forever grateful.’

  Either Ditmir wasn’t bothered by the sarcasm or he didn’t get it.

  ‘Okay, so you will understand, a rifle like that will be very expensive,’ he said. ‘Because you buy only one. Economy of scale. Supply and demand. Good capitalism.’

  Daniel nodded. ‘I’m willing to pay a premium price for a premium product.’

  Ditmir got up from his chair. ‘I like that, Barnabas. Premium price, premium product. I like that. We must talk. Come, sit down. Coffee? How about a good cup of coffee?’

  The coffee was excellent. They sat at the bar counter in front of the two laptops. Ditmir used them to run through a display of his products.

  He boasted a little. ‘Maybe, Barnabas, you were FBI, you were the Dutch General Intelligence and Security Service, or Interpol, and you came in here looking to arrest Ditmir, the great weapons trader. Maybe you come with your whole SWAT team, and what will you find, Barnabas? Nothing. Because there is nothing here. My catalogue is just bytes, floating around in the cyberspace. Just bytes. It’s like Amazon . . . You know Amazon? Where you buy everything on the internet? You know Jeff Bezos? Big Amazon billionaire?’

  ‘Not personally, but one can dream,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Well, my friend, you have now met the Jeff Bezos of the weapons trade,’ Ditmir said proudly, still unreceptive to irony or sarcasm. ‘That is me. Look. You can search categories on my web shop, you can add quantities, it gives you the price straight away, all deep in the dark web . . .’ While one of his machine-pistol cronies demonstrated it all on the computer screen.

  They searched ‘sniper rifles’. Sixteen matches were listed on the Amazon of Arms. Daniel looked through the choices, pointed at one with his finger and said: ‘That one.’ It was the Amerikaanse CheyTac M200.

  ‘Four oh eight, or three seven five?’ asked the one operating the computer.

  ‘Four oh eight.’

  ‘Very good choice, Barnabas. You know your rifles,’ Ditmir said. ‘But that one is very expensive.’

  ‘It says right there it’s thirteen thousand dollars,’ said Daniel.

  ‘No, my friend. Economy of scale. If your king bought a hundred, then the price would come down. For you it is twenty-five thousand dollars. Hard cash. Ammo included.’

  ‘Fifteen,’ said Daniel. ‘And I have euros.’

  ‘Can’t do that. Economies of scale. A lot of trouble, a lot of hassle for just one rifle. Not worth my while. And I don’t like euros as much as I like dollars. So the price is twenty-five thousand euros, take it or leave it.’

  ‘I’ll have to take it,’ said Daniel. ‘So, what’s the next step?’

  It was time to get away clean, as per his plan, so that Ditmir wouldn’t know where he was staying or where he was keeping his cash. The Albanian was informed now: Daniel was solo, a solitary independent operator. He wanted to pay in cash. A considerable amount of cash. He posed little risk to them, should they decide to take the money without delivering the rifle. Follow him to where he lived, put a gun to his head, take the euros and say: “Leave or you’ll be very sorry.” No danger of a lot of trouble, a lot of hassle.

  They would most likely also want to follow him because they didn’t trust anyone in their industry. It was just too suspicious when an unknown buyer arrived without an introduction.

  That was why he’d hired Pelle Baas to wait for him with his motorboat on the Geldersekade. His reasoning was that, in Amsterdam’s crowds you could follow anyone unnoticed, if you knew what you were doing and your prey was on foot, bicycle or in a car. But if he used the canals, things became complicated.

  Therefore he had hatched a plan. Laid the groundwork.

  But what he hadn’t bargained on was a glimpse of the Russian.

  When he walked out onto the street again, the light suddenly bright after the gloom of Ditmir’s salesroom, he instinctively looked up at the building, Oudezijds Achterburgwal 82D, because he was certain there would be eyes on him. He looked at the windows on the first floor, where he had just been doing business. A reflex. But it was movement in a window on the second floor, where Rosemary and Thyme worked, that drew his attention.

  Just a hint, a glimmer, a second or even less, when he had sight of a man’s face before it disappeared again. The big Russian, the bear whose left ear was deformed by thick scar tissue, as if a chunk had been bitten out of it. So quick, so fleeting that Daniel realised he must have imagined it. It was just not possible.

  Chapter 63

  Wednesday, 30 August, Benny Griessel, Bellville

  Lieutenant Colonel Mbali Kaleni’s office was different. On the one hand it was because she wanted to create a small oasis for herself in the almost entirely male environment. On the other, she knew she didn’t possess the most jovial personality in the Directorate for Priority Crimes Investigations. Consequently she tried to cultivate a touch of welcoming warmth and feminine softness. She did it with a skilful hand, just a touch here and there. Like the subtle scent of air freshener and cut flowers. Today there were three perfect white arum lilies in a slender vase. Like the white teacup with green wings that she had bought at a Pylones shop in the Netherlands, six years ago. There was the colourful, original painting by Lazarus Ramontseng opposite her, beside the door: three happy women in a township carrying big bags of Snowflake flour on their heads, on the way home. The Zulu love letter that was attached to her computer screen, below left: the colour of the beadwork was predominantly white and blue to confirm her virginity and faithfulness; the triangle’s point showed that she was an unmarried woman.

  And the two small squares of glass she had had made. Not so much for other people, as they were positioned so that only she, not her visitors, could read the words. One with a light green background was a quote from the writer R. H. Sin. It read: Some women fear the fire. Some women simply become it. The one next to it, in flamboyant black letters against a light rose background: There is no force equal to a woman determined to rise, crediting the sociologist W. E. B. Du Bois with this wisdom.

  All of this was on display today, as always, including the neatly stacked files, the practically empty in-
tray, and the metal name-plate with her rank and name at the end of the desk.

  But when Griessel and Cupido walked in that morning, as the rain sifted drearily down outside, there were various clues to suggest that all was not well. Kaleni’s body language hinted at melancholy. Her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and she seemed small and vulnerable behind the large desk.

  And there was a gap in the gallery of photos behind her on the wall.

  They were accustomed to the perfectly spaced frames that chronicled her life and career: a photograph of her as a young constable, fresh from police college, wearing her blue uniform with a serious expression, full of the zeal to do well; then of her three graduation ceremonies, her parents proudly beside her; of her with Musad ‘the Camel’ Manie at a special awards ceremony for loyal service; of her with former National Police Commissioner Bheki Cele. But now the pièce de résistance, the heart of the arrangement, right in the centre of the wall, was gone: Mbali Kaleni as a plump eighteen-year-old girl, shy and overwhelmed, wearing a dress festooned with too many purple flowers, beside the current president. Twenty-two years ago, when he was still a provincial politician. At an ANC celebration in Pietermaritzburg where her parents were invited as teachers’ trade-union members.

  She must have removed it that morning. Griessel knew it would have been a painful act. It made him hesitate to deliver bad news to her now. But he had no choice.

  ‘We have determined that the gun in Mr Dikela’s hand was licensed to him,’ Griessel said.

  She nodded.

  ‘We’ve also spoken to Uli Gerber at Forensics again.’

  ‘Yes?’ Resigned, she knew what he was going to say.

  ‘He says the gunshot residue on his hand is consistent with Menzi Dikela pulling the trigger himself. There was no discernible interference from a third party. He says that also corroborates the blood-spatter pattern, and he can give us absolutely no reason to believe it was staged. His conclusion is that it was suicide.’