by Deon Meyer
Menzi talked. He told them everything: about Daniel Darret, the assassin, the email communication, the cell phones that Darret would use. And they found everything in the Wendy house. Once they were sure that Menzi had told them all, they said to him: ‘You can shoot yourself, or you can watch us punish Thandi here in front of you.’
Menzi did the honourable thing. There in front of them. It was something to behold.
‘Why did you pick up the shell casing, you dimwit?’ Cupido asked.
‘We didn’t pick it up. I discovered it in the pocket of my jacket. It was just coincidence. It must have shot in there.’
‘And then?’
The SVR, Zungu said, had good connections with Ditmir, an Amsterdam-based arms dealer where Darret had to buy a rifle. They sent a team of agents, and planted a sensor on Darret. He discovered it, but they still had the cell-phone numbers that Menzi had provided. They could follow every move he made. That was how they knew that man, that murderer, that threat to the South African president and the democracy, was lying on a roof in Paris, right now, ready to shoot our president. The Russians had a man stationed on a building right opposite, who could see him at this very moment. It was all visible from the ops room, back here in the house.
And that was the operation they had been running when the Hawks intruded, the operation the detectives were putting in jeopardy. They had set an ambush; they were going to get Darret. The Russians were ready. The president’s bodyguards were ready. Everyone was waiting for Zungu to give the word, so that the president could drive from the ambassador’s residence to the hotel. Timing was critical. The Russians had to shoot Darret just before the president arrived at the hotel. So that there would be clear evidence of the conspiracy and the evil plan. So that all the world and the people of South Africa would see it.
Cupido frowned. ‘What must the people of South Africa see?’ he asked. ‘That this corrupt, captured president was almost shot? What the fuck, dude?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Zungu. ‘Our president is not corrupt or captured. That is fake news, blatant lies spread by White Monopoly Capital. The South African people will see that the vice-president was part of the conspiracy. The vice-president is the captured one, in cahoots with White Monopoly Capital. The vice-president is the leader of this conspiracy.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Cupido. ‘The vice-president is just about the only honest man left in government.’
‘No, we will expose him. He is the man behind Menzi Dikela and his cronies. He is behind the assassination. Because he knows he can’t win the leadership election in December.’
‘Fuck,’ said Cupido, ‘you’re going to frame the vice-president.’
‘No, my friend. He’s guilty. The people will realise our president must serve another term, at all costs. To stabilise this country, to root out the enemies of the Struggle. That’s why you have to release us right now. To help us save South Africa.’
The tension in Daniel Darret reached breaking point at 18.30 when there was still no sign of the presidential vehicle.
He reluctantly pulled off his gloves, took the phone out of his pocket and checked for emails. Nothing.
He feverishly tapped a message to Vula. Any news? Is he late?
Every thirty seconds he checked for an answer. He knew he’d been there far too long. Someone was going to find the ladder down below or spot him on the roof.
But this president was notorious for being late.
He would have to wait. He would just have to wait.
Chapter 80
‘Look, we’d love to save South Africa as much as the next guy, but I don’t believe you. Can you prove all this?’ Cupido asked, in a voice full of sincerity and sympathy.
‘Yes. Take me to the ops room,’ said Lean Man, starting to push down the passage.
‘Benna, I’ll be back now,’ said Cupido. He followed Lean Man.
Griessel kept his weapon trained on Zungu and Goatee. They waited.
Griessel’s phone rang. He took it out of his inside pocket with his left hand.
Alexa. He knew why she was calling. It was already half past six.
‘Alexa, I’ll call you back just now,’ he answered, without taking his eyes off the two agents.
‘Benny, I’m so sorry, I know you’re working. But I just want to know, are you going to be on time? I’m so looking forward . . .’
She sounded so full of hope. Did she suspect anything? Had she discovered the ring in his coat pocket? She never interfered with his clothes.
‘I . . . I hope I will be on time.’
‘Thank you, my darling, see you soon.’
The ‘ops room’ was one of the homestead’s bedrooms, fitted out with two long tables against the wall that supported four computers, another two monitors, documents and a few cell phones. Cables twisted like fat snakes out of the window.
‘There, see, there he is.’ Lean Man pointed at a monitor. It showed the grainy image of the roof of a European-looking building, the tiny shape of someone lying there.
‘That could be anybody, dude. Where’s the proof?’
‘There, look at that screen. He’s just sent an email. It says, “Any news? Is he late?” That’s him. He’s worried. You have to let us go now!’
‘Not enough proof.’
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Where are those cellular numbers? The ones this guy was using.’
‘There, that list. The ones with a line through them are the phones he’s already used.’
‘So this is the one he’s using now?’
‘Why?’
Cupido took his cell phone out of his pocket. ‘Let’s give him a call.’
‘No! Are you crazy?’
‘Hang on. Let’s just see if the guy on that monitor answers the phone. Then I can be sure I’ll be saving our honourable president, and the whole country, and that you’re not bullshitting me.’
‘You can’t do that – you can’t!’ Lean Man saw Cupido dialling the number. He rushed forward, to one of the keyboards. He contorted and twisted his body to get his cuffed hands from behind his back to beside his hip and with feverish haste he pressed a key, then another one.
The international call in Cupido’s ear took an eternity to connect.
‘I’ve activated the Russians, you fucking idiot, you moron,’ said Lean Man. ‘They’re going to kill him right now.’
The phone rang in Daniel Darret’s hand. He could see it was a South African number and his heart leaped. It was news. The president was late, or he wasn’t coming. ‘Vula?’ he answered.
‘You won’t know me, my brother. My name is Vaughn Cupido. I’m on your side. It’s a trap, get out of there. Now!’
He heard another voice screaming in the background: ‘Moron! Moron!’
He looked up, scanning for danger, spotted a tiny figure appearing on the office building opposite. He saw the movements, the action, recognised them, a sniper taking aim with a rifle.
Time stood still.
He dropped the phone, grabbed the CheyTac, lifted it. He realised it would be too late: the marksman opposite had a start on him. He rolled in against the parapet. The shot smacked into the clay tiles behind him.
He rolled and rolled to his right, jumped up, ran to the back towards the stairs, dodged left, right. Another shot. The bullet plucked at his coat sleeve, clanged into the metal stairs. Then he was on the steps, jumping – he had to get out of view. He flew down an entire flight of stairs, hit the rail, winding himself, feeling a stabbing pain in his ribs as his yellow hard hat clattered down.
He heard footsteps on the rungs, from below. He sat up, pulled the gloves off his hands, grabbed the pistol from his belt, stood. He looked at the narrow gap between the steps that spiralled downward. He hunkered down, ready.
The first one appeared, saw Daniel, lifted a machine pistol.
Daniel shot him in the chest. The man fell back, slid, lay still.
The second ducked away. Then a hand holding a
pistol appeared around the corner of the stairs. A wild shot, hitting the scaffolding behind.
Daniel waited, lifted his own firearm, waited, his breath racing, his ribs throbbing. The urgency in him to get away was almost overwhelming.
He waited. The hand appeared again. Daniel aimed, shot. Red blood mist, the pistol clattered on the stairs. Daniel rushed down, found the man lying there holding pieces of his hand, cursing.
Daniel kicked him in the neck, ran down the steps, boots clattering. Another flight, another flight, and then he was nearly at the bottom and he grabbed the support pole with his left hand to use his momentum to swing himself around in the direction of the fence and the ladder. And the block of a man was there, in full flight towards the stairs. They ran into each other, two big bodies colliding. Daniel fell to the concrete, tried to break the fall, the pistol spinning out of his hand. He scrambled upright.
It was the big Russian bear who had talked to Mamadou Ali, the one whose left ear was misshapen by scar tissue as if a piece had been bitten out of it. The one he had seen in front of Élodie Lecompte’s apartment, and again in Ditmir’s window in Amsterdam. Bear also stood up, lifting a short, chunky weapon from below. Daniel recognised it: the RMB-93, a pump-action shotgun, beloved of Russian special forces, six twelve-bore rounds in the magazine. Usually loaded with double-zero shot: one shot at this distance would rip out Daniel’s heart.
Daniel dived at Bear’s midriff, hit him with his shoulder. Hard. The shot resounded in the small space between the scaffolding and the metal fence, the ricochets clanging and banging above them. They fell together. Daniel’s hands were on the weapon, he turned and pulled with all his might to force it from the man’s hands.
Bear was strong, he gripped it, kicked with his knee, hit Daniel against his sore ribs. His grip loosened, then regained. Bear kicked again, the pain sharp. Daniel jerked his head up, hit the Russian on the nose, cartilage cracking. Both men bellowed now, growled, wrestled for possession of the weapon. He tried another whiplash with his head. The Russian was ready for it, and he missed.
Bear wrestled, pushed and rolled, back and forth, to get Daniel off him. Each time with more success.
Daniel knew the Russian was younger. Bigger, stronger. Sooner or later he would wrest the weapon away. And shoot.
He fought back fiercely, trying to neutralise the man’s actions with all his strength and focus. The shotgun was between them now, the barrel pointing upward. Daniel’s finger sought the trigger guard, found it, his finger over the Russian’s: he squeezed. The shots cracked, one after the other, the lead shot tore into Daniel’s left shoulder, the Russian’s right shoulder. Daniel knew it was his only chance, he kept pulling the trigger, counting the shots until the last fell on his now deafened ears. Then he let go of the man, pushed him away violently, aware of his shoulder bleeding, using the momentum to stand up. He saw the pistol on the ground, just out of reach. The ladder was closer, the aluminium ladder he’d left there. He picked it up. Bear stood up. Blood on his face, blood on his shoulder, he dropped the shotgun. He charged. Daniel crashed the top of the ladder into the man’s face. The Russian tried to block and parry, grabbing the ladder with his massive hands. Daniel kicked him with incredible violence, his workboot’s steel cap cracking into the man’s knee.
Bear bellowed, his leg buckled. Daniel rammed the ladder forward again. The Russian lost his balance and fell backwards.
Daniel dropped the ladder, ran the five steps to the pistol, picked it up and turned around. The Russian had thrown the ladder off him and was trying to get up, but his knee was unstable.
‘This is for Élodie Lecompte,’ said Daniel, and shot him between the eyes. He pushed the pistol into his belt, picked up the ladder.
He heard sirens. He put the ladder against the wall, climbed up.
On the other side were people, civilians, wide-eyed, terrified, at the battle raging on the other side of the wall.
Daniel jumped down. And he ran.
The sirens were coming closer. He sped across the street, preparing himself for the bullet from the sniper above – it would hit his back now, in the ten metres that he was running exposed. He dodged between the onlookers: if he could just reach the entrance to the Métro station, if he could just get down there . . . He wriggled out of the jacket, threw it down. He was nearly there, nearly there.
Epilogue
Chapter 81
Griessel wanted to wait until after the main course.
They sat inside, next to the cosy fireplace. They sipped sparkling water, ate a starter of braised wildebeest with orecchiette pasta, wild mushrooms, capers and Parmesan.
‘Benny, this is divine,’ said Alexa. ‘It’s such a wonderful evening.’
‘I’m so glad,’ he said.
‘Tough day, my master detective?’ she asked. ‘I can see you’re not too happy.’
Then he knew he couldn’t wait any more. He couldn’t spoil the evening with his anxiety and nerves, and he couldn’t lie to her here, now.
He took a deep breath. ‘Alexa,’ he said, ‘you are the love of my life . . .’
‘Benny . . .’
He could see her eyes growing moist already. ‘Please, just let me say what I want to say.’ He reached across the table for her hand.
She looked worried. She gripped his hand tightly.
‘Today Vaughn and I took on the State Security Agency. We ruined an operation of theirs, because we believed it was the right thing to do. Because they are a bunch of corrupt bastards. We left three of their agents in front of a farmhouse, handcuffed to the door handles of a BMW X5. We hope it’s very cold out there tonight. When I get to work tomorrow morning I’m going to get fired. I’m absolutely certain of that. Because Vaughn took a photo of the three of them chained to the BMW. He sent it to the newspapers, so that he could tell his girlfriend’s little boy that he is not captured. And so that Mbali Kaleni can have a new photo for the gap on her wall. I told him I supported him in all of it. Alexa, I will get another job. There are opportunities in the private sector. I promise you now, I will get another job.’
‘Benny,’ she said and squeezed his hand. ‘You know—’
‘Wait, Alexa, I’m not finished yet. I promise you I will get work. The thing is . . .’ Now he just had to get Vaughn Cupido’s recommended speech straight in his mind. ‘You are the love of my life, and I want to be with you for ever . . .’ He put his hand into his pocket, produced the little box. He had tried to fix it with a bit of Sellotape from his murder case.
He let go of Alexa’s hand, opened the box. The little ring sparkled in the soft light of the Overture restaurant. ‘I would be so very honoured if you would be my wife, Alexa.’ And then, because the box was crooked and the ring small, and her face slowly began to melt, and he knew what she was going to say, because it was like his dream, just as he had dreamed it, he added: ‘Please.’
The tears rolled down her cheeks. She took his hand again and, with all-embracing tenderness, she said: ‘I will, Benny. I will . . .’
Daniel Darret walked into the workshop. Le génie was sitting at his workbench, bent and focused on a beautiful old chair.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur,’ said Daniel.
The old man didn’t greet him, just looked at the bandage on his shoulder, showing from under the sleeve of his T-shirt.
Then he pointed with the chisel to where planks and shavings and sawdust were heaped up. And he said: ‘Vite, vite.’
Lefèvre’s head dropped down again, as he gave himself over to his work.
Daniel smiled, went to fetch the broom.
Then he spotted the farmhouse table. Monsieur had done the final finish for him. And it was beautiful.
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Acknowledgements
The Last Hunt would never have been written without the advice, support, generosity, knowledge, time, insight, imagination, friendship and love of a large number of wonderful people. The mistakes and deficiencies (and poetic freedom!) in this
book are mine alone. The rest are thanks to their unselfishness. Many, many thanks to:
My agent Isobel Dixon, Afrikaans editor Etienne Bloemhof, British editor Nick Sayers, and my brilliant English translator Laura Seegers. I am enormously privileged to be able to work with you.
Commissaire Divisionnaire Jean Paul Faivre and Commandant Brigitte Volle of the French National Police in Bordeaux. Jean Paul, thanks for allowing us to attend your retirement celebration. It proved once again that crime fighters are an international brother–and sister–hood. Benny and Vaughn would have been completely at home there.
My dear friends Henry Lefèvre, Stephanie and Stephane Doublait of Bordeaux. Thank you, Henry, for lending me your and Sandrine’s names, and for your incredible help, support and enthusiasm, and for ‘our’ house in Bordeaux. Stephanie, thank you for filling in my many French deficiencies, and for sharing the history of Bordeaux. Stephane Doublait, thank you for the comfortable office chair so that I could keep writing there.
Outstanding crime-fiction colleague and journalist Olivier Truc, and Le Monde journalist Jacques Follorou, for deep insight into the French intelligence world.
Kerneels Breytenbach, who introduced me to the legendary diplomat the late Leo Conradie, and his wife, Renée. Renée, thank you for your and Leo’s hospitality and great help. It was a privilege to get to know him, even if it was for a short time. You remain in our thoughts.
Joy Strydom, Brenda Vos and all the delightful people of Rovos Rail, for the unforgettable journey between Cape Town and Pretoria, and the never-ending questions you answered. You (and the world’s most luxurious train) are incredible.
Catherine du Toit who corrected my French so precisely, Schalk Joubert (my and Benny’s bass-guitar idol), my neighbour and anaesthetist Dr Johann Steytler, geology prof Ian Buick, and His Excellency Monsieur Christophe Farnaud, French ambassador, for the chicken story.
