The Last Hunt

by Deon Meyer

  He looked at the young man, fit and sporty, cheeks ruddy with excitement. This morning Daniel had told him over the phone that he wanted a fast boat and an ingenious skipper with in-depth knowledge of Amsterdam’s canal network.

  ‘You’ve got the right guy,’ Pelle Baas said. ‘As long as we’re not doing anything illegal.’

  ‘How about exceeding the canal’s speed limit?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘That can be arranged,’ he answered, with a smile in his voice. ‘What do you want to do?’

  Daniel said he just wanted to make sure he wasn’t being followed. ‘I’m not going to tell you who might be following me, but I can tell you that I haven’t broken any country’s laws in the past five years, and that I won’t be breaking any laws while you’re with me. I want to hire you and the boat for the whole day. I’ll pay you whatever you charge, in cash. And I want you to cover up the name of your boat.’

  ‘Three hundred euro, and you tell me the whole story.’

  So they made an appointment, with the instruction that Pelle Baas would wait for him in the Geldersekade. For as long as was necessary.

  ‘Thank you!’ Daniel called out now, above the roar of the engine.

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Daniel looked back, expecting to see someone racing after them.

  There was only a long tourist boat slowly cruising past behind them, a few people waving.

  ‘I think you’re safe,’ said Baas.

  ‘Great job,’ Daniel said. ‘You can drop me off anywhere in the Prinsengracht. And there’s no hurry,’ despite the feeling of urgency he actually felt to get clean away.

  Baas pulled back the throttle and their speed decreased. Daniel took out his wallet and passed the notes to the young man.

  ‘Thank you. But you still owe me the story.’

  ‘I can tell you that I’m trying to bring a bit more liberty to my country. I’m on the side of the good guys. And the bad guys would like to stop me.’

  ‘Cool! Where are you from?’

  He wanted to say he was from a country where the young man’s surname could create an uncomfortable situation. He just shook his head. ‘Africa. It’s better that I don’t tell you more than that.’

  Daniel walked through the narrow streets of the Jordaan district and pondered the nature of paranoia. He was familiar with it. Thirty years ago he had suffered from paranoia when the KGB and the Stasi had deployed him in Paris for the first time in a lease agreement with the ANC. He had been alone, inexperienced, in a strange city, country and culture. His only contact with them was the complicated communication of chalk marks on post-boxes and tense, clandestine meetings with strangers in cafés, envelopes with coded messages handed over in newspapers. Espionage in the era before cell-phone technology and the internet.

  The terrible loneliness of it, all personal connections forbidden. And the fear of capture that had gnawed continually at him, the expectation of a hammering on the door after midnight, a stab of fear at every siren’s wail, or the sharp, focused stare of a policeman. You felt invisible eyes on you everywhere, you saw ghosts and danger where there were none, you trusted nobody. Constant anxiety and stress, until you realised you were at breaking point and had to learn to think differently: either get a grip on reality, or lose your mind.

  And here it was again. He felt it in the pressure on his chest, the pounding of his heart, the delusion of being hunted.

  He kept walking, taking deep breaths, forcing himself to think clearly. He was searching for calm, objectivity, seeking to stick to the facts.

  Nobody had followed him after he had done his research at the South African Embassy. Because nobody had known he was in Paris.

  Olivier Chérain had left his gas stove burning in his drunken state.

  Ditmir was an arms dealer who wanted to make a fat profit out of Barnabas the Swazi. Ditmir had sent two cronies as insurance to follow and search him initially. Standard procedure for a walk-in customer.

  After that Ditmir had not followed him as he was satisfied with the degree of risk.

  The spectre of the Russian in the window was pure imagination, the overactive mind of a down-at-heel fifty-five-year-old former operative who, after a mere week of high tension and stress, had reverted to the fevered state of many years before. Lonely. Paranoid. The Russians were good, but they weren’t that good.

  And to prove that to himself, he kept walking for another forty minutes, to be certain that nobody was following him.

  ‘I can deliver after five o’clock this afternoon,’ Ditmir said, once they had settled on a price in his man cave. ‘How do you want to do this?’

  Daniel had thought through everything the previous day on the road. He said: ‘We’ll keep it simple. I want you to buy a four-man tent at one of the big camping stores. One that comes in a strong canvas bag. I want you to take out the tent poles and pegs. Wrap the rifle and ammo in the tent and put it back in the bag. Meet me at the National Monument on Dam Square at a quarter past five. I’ll give you the cash. You give me the tent.’

  The Albanian thought about that for a long time before he nodded. ‘You are clever. But you know we will kill you right there if you try monkey business.’

  ‘You know I will find you and kill you if the rifle is not what I ordered.’

  The lackeys laughed. Ditmir too.

  ‘Okay. We’ll see you at a quarter past five.’

  At half past four he counted out the euros on his hotel bed, wrapped the cash in a T-shirt and packed it in Lonnie May’s rucksack. He transferred the remaining cash to his bag, along with the pistols. He booked out of the hotel, rucksack over his shoulder, and dragged his case to where he had found parking the previous night on the Leidsegracht.

  In the Peugeot’s boot was the rest of the camping gear he’d bought yesterday afternoon. A sleeping bag, inflatable mattress, battery lantern, gas stove, pot and kettle, eating utensils, a pair of Zeiss 20x60 binoculars, camping stool and a folding table. With a tarpaulin over it. Nearly full, leaving just enough room for the tent bag.

  He put his case on the passenger seat, locked the car and began walking to Dam Square. It took him sixteen minutes.

  The sun was still high; it would only be dark at half past eight. It was hot, the air fresh, just the long white jet trails to and from Schiphol tracing a network in the blue.

  Lonnie had flown out from there on his final journey. Daniel breathed slowly, looked at everything, the people, everyone going somewhere, on foot, by bicycle. He wanted to be loose and relaxed, calmly watchful, the antithesis of paranoia.

  He reached Dam Square just before five, a middle-aged fossil among the youthful tourists around the National Monument. He listened to the languages they spoke while they took selfies and paraded around for each other in skimpy summer clothing. He looked at the pillar of the monument, a finger pointing at Heaven in memory of the Second World War fallen. He wondered how many of these youngsters knew what sacrifices had been made, what a dreadful toll was taken.

  He thought back to his own battles. He had been the age of so many of these young people when he had been ordered to eliminate enemies of the ANC’s friends, part of the dark side of the Cold War. No monument would ever be built for those dead.

  If only he could be like that again, the way he had been once he had conquered his anxiety and paranoia. Relentless.

  He saw them coming, at a quarter past five. The two potato farmers, sickle-face Laurel and hairless Hardy, passing the Krasnapolsky Hotel. Sickle, the spokesman and leader of the comedy duo, carried the tent bag on his shoulder. With ease. The two expendables, he thought. Ditmir had sent them.

  They saw him. He remained standing with his back to the monument wall until they reached him. Then he took off the rucksack, opened it and took out the T-shirt with the money. He gave it to the other one, Hardy. The man lifted the cloth of the T-shirt just enough to be sure the money was inside. Boldly. He didn’t count it. Just nodded at Sickle.

  Sickle passed him
the tent bag. Daniel hefted the weight of it. It was heavy enough. He loosened the neck of the bag. The barrel of the CheyTac was visible.

  They nodded to each other.

  The potato farmers turned and left.

  Daniel lifted the tent bag to his shoulder, set a course through the crowds, on the way to his Peugeot.

  Too easy, nagged a voice in the back of his mind. It was too easy.

  Chapter 66

  Wednesday, 30 August, Benny Griessel, Bellville

  A huge insight came to Benny Griessel on the way home. The ultimate truth. It was the lust for alcohol that brought it on. He knew the three hours of sleep had unleashed his desire, that, the long day and the struggle with the confusing jigsaw of the Menzi Dikela case. Exhaustion demanded stimulation, sedation, escape, and booze had always given him that. He could already taste it; his nerve endings were begging for that tingle of intoxication.

  It scared him, as it always did, because he could foresee the consequences, one after the other, of drinking that first Jack Daniel’s. And the urge to drink and the terror of it gave him the big truth, made him realise why Sunday loomed like a mountain ahead.

  On Sunday he had to ask Alexa for her hand in marriage.

  And if she said no, he would want to resort to the bottle. For solace. To escape the humiliation.

  It really didn’t matter how she was going to try to explain it to him, how she would attempt to soften the blow, a ‘no’ would mean that he wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t marriage material and she didn’t want to walk that road with a worn-out, rehabilitating and often relapsing alcoholic, general fuck-up and minor police captain. In addition it would damage their relationship irreparably. It would fracture the fragile trust they’d built.

  And it would drive him back to drink. It would be his Day Zero, his booze Armageddon.

  Sunday. No question.

  He drove faster. He just wanted to get home.

  She’d made a curry. The aroma in the kitchen was full of delicious promise. He kissed her, hugged her tight for a moment. Then she was clucking over him. ‘You must be so tired. You haven’t slept at all. Come on, Benny, I’ve made the most delicious butter chicken. Can I pour you a Coke Zero?’

  They sat down to eat.

  There was something wrong with the curry. It was faintly bitter. Perhaps she’d been a bit heavy-handed with the turmeric.

  ‘Does it taste okay? It tastes funny to me now,’ she said.

  ‘It’s delicious.’ He looked at her, at her caring face, at her worn beauty. He felt a sea of emotions – the love he felt inside, and the safety he experienced here with her. Here.

  Four days before he was due to pop the question.

  Four days to Armageddon.

  Chapter 67

  Thursday, 31 August

  Three days before he was set to shoot the president of his home country, birdsong woke Daniel at dawn in the wooden chalet of Camping Le Grillon in the Belgian Ardennes forest, on the banks of the narrow Ourthe River. He picked up the cell phone first, activated the Proton application and checked for emails from Vula.

  There were none.

  He sent one of his own:

  From: inhlanhla@protonmail.com

  Subject: Supplies bought

  To: vula@protonmail.com

  Dear Vula

  Your recommended medical supplies dealer was interesting, and the transaction ultimately successful.

  I’m on my way back.

  Best wishes,

  Dr Inhlanhla

  He got up, pulled the curtains wide. His little house was on the river and the view was beautiful. It was already dark when he’d arrived last night. The resort was quiet, because high season had ended eleven days before. He’d made the reservation with the cell phone when he’d filled up with fuel in Maastricht. He had deliberately chosen an overnight spot in this area where the trees were dense, to muffle the rifle shots.

  He looked at the forest across the river. It was still as he remembered it from when he’d come through here on the motorbike. You could disappear in a place like this.

  He badly wanted coffee. He hadn’t realised the kitchen in the Camping Le Grillon restaurant only opened at midday. He would just have to wait.

  His first priority was a place to stay in Paris. He didn’t want to walk into a hotel carrying the big tent bag, and it was just too dangerous to leave it in a car, parked in the open on a Paris street. He didn’t want his name on a hotel register again, didn’t want to endure the scrutiny, uncertainty and discomfort of the my-credit-card’s-been-stolen approach. He wanted a flat on a short-term rental, from tonight till Sunday, that he could pay for with cash. He found it on the Paris Attitude website, a one-bedroom place on the fifth floor of a building on the boulevard Morland. It took him forty minutes to make the reservation and answer the emails. He would have to deposit the cash for the rent into a bank on the way to Paris.

  He washed, got dressed, closed the curtains, double-checked that the door was locked. Then he unzipped the tent bag, took out the tent and unrolled it on the floor of the small living room. The CheyTac’s stock was folded in, the telescope unattached, ammunition in packets, the cleaning set in a canvas bag. He stroked his finger over the rifle’s sleek craftsmanship, the varying textures of the dark grey metal. It was a work of art, he thought. Like all the weapons he’d worked with. He put the rifle on the table and began the ritual preparation.

  It was the smell of gun oil that unleashed his rusty memories. Of his training all those decades ago, of the expansive shooting-range plains and intense sniper training, of mathematical distance tables and bleak, frigid hours hiding in the East German woods. He allowed the recollections to flow while he cleaned the rifle, familiarising himself with each part.

  He wrapped the rifle in the tent bag again, and packed it into his car. He left the chalet’s key at Reception, and drove away. He had used Google Earth to choose an area. He drove down the N89 in the direction of Samrée, chose a forest road high in the mountains, turned off to the right, and parked the Peugeot deep among the trees.

  He checked the dirt road that wound into the forest. No fresh tracks.

  It was quiet, deserted.Only a light breeze rustled the leaves and unseen animal life called.

  He pulled out the tent bag, put it on his shoulder and began to walk into the thicket.

  Lithpel Davids’s email was waiting for Griessel and Cupido when they arrived – rested and reset for action – at the office just before seven.

  Cappies!

  Find attached the uncle’s call register, WhatsApps and SMSes.

  PS – It’s not like we hit the jackpot. But, hey, I’m not the detective.

  PPS – Don’t just thank me, thank Cellebrite too. Amazing technology!

  Philip van Wyk and his IMC had recently purchased the Israeli Cellebrite software to unlock phones. They were delighted with it and not shy to admit it.

  The two detectives looked at the attached files in spreadsheet format. The call register had three columns for incoming calls: the number, the time of the call and the duration. There was also a spreadsheet for called numbers under the same three headings. Dikela didn’t use the phone intensively. There were only a few calls, most of them from his daughter over the past week.

  The messages were also chicken feed. A couple to friends texting to make or confirm dates for meals or drinks, bank transaction confirmations, the odd short exchange with his daughter, mostly to say he was missing her.

  ‘No smoking gun,’ Cupido said.

  Griessel stood up. ‘And it’s too . . . I don’t know, too little, Vaughn. Just too little, so few messages . . . Here’s a guy with a secret room in his Wendy house, and his SMSes are . . .’

  ‘So innocent?’

  ‘And so . . . I don’t know, it doesn’t feel right. Let’s go talk to Lithpel.’

  They found him in his workspace, eating his breakfast of sugary cereal.

  ‘Not exactly the breakfast of champions,’ said Cupid
o.

  ‘But it’s yummy. And I’m thin, cappie. I can eat what I want.’

  Cupido processed the reaction with suspicion. Who knew he was on a diet? Who was gossiping?

  Griessel told Lithpel about their problem with the files he’d sent.

  ‘Ja, I feel your pain. My best guess is that the uncle had another phone,’ said Lithpel.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Griessel asked.

  ‘Cappie, computer geeks prefer Android, ’cause why? They can fool around with it, in all different ways. But this uncle had an iPhone? Makes me uncomfortable to start with. Reason number two, he was in that secret den of his, busy with all sorts of shenanigans – I mean, what’s the use of a secret den if you can’t get up to shenanigans? And where there are shenanigans, the odds are good that you’re gonna find burner phones.’

  ‘Not always,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Fair enough. There’s a lot of very stupid criminals out there. But we’re talking about a geek, a very smart man, a guy who used to work for Intelligence. And one more thing. Behind that workbench in his secret den there was a plug adapter with six two-prong slots. And when we arrived only the Ubiquiti Security Gateway was plugged in. I find that a little strange. You don’t waste a good adapter like that when they’re always in short supply.’

  ‘Circumstantial,’ said Cupido.

  ‘If they took the computers, they would have taken the other phones too,’ said Griessel.

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Lithpel, before munching another spoonful of cereal.

  ‘The problem is,’ Griessel said, ‘we can’t just call up the people on his call register, because nobody knows he’s dead yet.’

  ‘And we can’t get a two-oh-five because we don’t have a docket,’ said Cupido.

  ‘Mexican stand-off,’ said Lithpel.

  ‘Rock and a hard place,’ said Cupido.