“It’s a detonator,” said Roelof. “On a timer.” There was no response from Hendrik, so he explained it to me. “It’s a countdown, see? This row of lights is for hours, and this row is for minutes. One light for five minutes. For the last minute the light flashes slowly. See that one? The last ten seconds the light flashes fast. Look at that one flash. Oh …” He gave a mock gasp of surprise as the light flashed and then faded out. “Look at that. Time is ticking.” He looked up at me and his glasses glinted. His entire face was shiny with sweat. “You see?” he asked.
“See what?”
“Even if something happens to me, when the last light blinks, it is all over. Dead man’s switch or no dead man’s switch, Hennie and the fat guy go bang. Not just them. It’s a capacity crowd today. You know how many that is?”
I shook my head. The hand holding the detonator was shaking, and Roelof noticed this. It bothered him.
“Fifty thousand,” said Roelof. “That’s capacity. And they’ll squeeze in a few extra, because who cares for safety and security?”
Roelof stared at me as if he realised that I was still thinking of ways around his plan.
“I’m the only one,” he said, “who knows the code to disable the timers. So don’t think of doing anything stupid.”
Roelof had not been bluffing about the need for him to stay alive. He turned to Hendrik.
“You’re carrying us all in your heart now, Hennie,” he said.
Hendrik gave no indication of listening to Roelof. Roelof drew a deep breath, then placed his Ruger beneath Hendrik’s chin and used it to lift his face so that he was forced to look into his eyes. “It doesn’t matter where you go, or what you do, Hennie. You die, and everyone around you dies. This stadium is full of people. There is nowhere you can go, so be a good boy and meet your buddies in the bar. Take them to a better place.”
Hendrik claimed to need the toilet. Roelof untied the bounds that held him to the chair so he could stand and told him to urinate in the corner of the room. Roelof’s all-purpose Ruger pointed at him in case he did something foolish. But Hendrik didn’t move. With his hands still tied behind his back, he stood staring at the floor.
“I’m not untying them,” said Roelof, “just piss in your pants Hennie.”
Hendrik didn’t react except to look up at Roelof and stare at him. Roelof beckoned to me and untied my hands.
“Take him to the corner, Mossie, and pull his pants down for him. I don’t want to see his dong. You’re pathetic, Hennie, you know that?”
I walked Hendrik to the corner of the room, unbuckled his jeans, and pulled them down for him. He was wearing boxer underpants. I pulled them down too and looked up as I did so. Hendrik’s eyes fluttered nervously to mine as his underpants came down.
“We will get out of here,” I said, and held his eyes to keep his attention. The lack of sleep, the panic of the night, and the hopelessness of the moment had brought on a dangerous despair.
“You and what army?” he said.
“We don’t need an army. We will get out of here.”
“Come on,” called Roelof, “you got stage fright, Hennie?”
Hendrik looked down and started to urinate.
“You fucked her, didn’t you?” he asked. “My girl. You fucked her that night at the farm.”
“I didn’t. Your girl is yours, Hendrik. All yours.”
Hendrik watched glumly as his urine splashed over our shoes and trousers.
“Pull up my pants,” he said. As I did so, he added, “I don’t believe you. Not a fucking word you say. You’re a low-life. A fucking con man. I believe nothing.”
Fat-Boy had closed his eyes and looked as if he was sleeping in his chair. I helped Hendrik back to his seat, where Roelof tied the knots to keep him there and then tied my hands behind my back again. I sat on the floor, reasoning that Roelof would find that less threatening. It was tempting to use Chandler’s Glock to kill him now. But I could still not see a way of getting us out alive.
“Did I hear you asking Mossie about your little underwear model?” Roelof asked with a sudden spurt of vindictiveness. He gave another sharp yapping laugh. “He didn’t fuck her – I did. You know the things she does to me when she needs a little comfort?”
Hendrik’s eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“You saw the pinpricks on her?” Roelof asked. “The little pricks on her bum, below the tan line?”
No response from Hendrik.
“I did that because I thought she might pop. She’s a blow-up doll, that chick of yours. But she didn’t pop, she liked it. So I did it every time. She used to bring her own pins.”
Roelof paused. Hendrik looked up then, and he looked at Roelof. He didn’t say anything or react, he simply looked at him. Roelof couldn’t read the danger signs, and he carried on with an extra burst of anxious enthusiasm.
“She’s going to need some comforting after you’ve played your part in creating a better future for us.” Roelof paused and licked his lips anxiously. Hendrik kept staring at him, and it was irritating Roelof more than the blank gaze at the floor. From all around us came the sounds of the mounting excitement of the crowd. The murmur of a thousand conversations, occasional shouts and laughs, and snatches of rowdy chanting. The main event was due to start in less than ten minutes.
Roelof had many things to do in the last few minutes. He had made a list on a piece of paper that had been folded and unfolded too many times. He double checked the wiring of the detonator on Fat-Boy’s bulletproof vest, and his hands were shaking when he checked the wires of the second detonator strapped to Hendrik. The sweat on his fingers meant that he had to try three times before managing to seat the wires correctly.
The chanting of the crowd developed a rhythm as it moved in waves around the stadium. The air in our stuffy room seemed to vibrate with it.
“Going to be a big crowd,” said Roelof, and his face tightened with a mixture of excitement and fear.
Hendrik was released from his bonds, and he stood beside his chair and stretched his fingers to get the blood flowing. From the stadium came the sounds of the sing-song chants building in strength.
“You don’t want to pull any of those wires out, Hennie,” said Roelof. “You understand? This thing is rigged to blow if you do anything. Anything. You get it?”
Hendrik stared at his flexing fingers as if wondering whether to strike Roelof. But he didn’t. Roelof helped him with his shirt and stood back to admire his handiwork.
“Now the fat one.” Roelof slapped Fat-Boy in the face – Fat-Boy spluttered and opened his eyes. “Get him on his feet.”
That instruction was aimed at me, and I stood up. Roelof untied my hands, and I helped Fat-Boy up by putting my arms under his and heaving his great bulk up. For a moment we stood in the semblance of an embrace, and then Fat-Boy took his own weight on his legs, and we separated. His eyes were bloodshot, his face streaked with dried blood from the gash on his forehead. His eyes held mine as they focused.
“Been an honour,” he said through his swollen lips.
“It’s not over,” I said.
“I love you, Angel. I do. You’re a fucking arsehole, but I love you. It’s been an honour. It has.”
“Yeah, yeah, all very touching,” said Roelof. “Now step away and let’s see if he can stand on his own.”
I stepped away, and Fat-Boy swayed a little, but remained standing.
“Now get dressed, fatso. It’s nearly show time.”
Fat-Boy pulled on the top part of his overalls, and then Roelof held the vest with attached backpack for him to struggle into. Roelof tightened the straps and then stepped back to perform a final inspection. Hendrik and Fat-Boy stood like string puppets left hanging from a hook, but Roelof seemed pleased enough. He turned to me.
“We’ve got to go now, Mossie. It’s time to say goodbye.” He raised the Ruger and pointed it at me. I kept my eyes on his and the gun wavered slightly and drooped a little.
This was my las
t opportunity. I drew Chandler’s Glock but as my finger found the trigger, Hendrik suddenly lurched forwards at Roelof. Roelof caught him, and Hendrik obscured my shot.
Roelof’s panicky eyes saw my Glock, and his hand with the Ruger reached around Hendrik. He squeezed the trigger.
The 9 mm bullet caught the side of my vest under my arm and the impact pushed me over. The pain of a rib cracking and the crunch of my head against the concrete floor overwhelmed me for a moment. But it was only a moment. I turned back to Roelof and saw him raise his gun. I had fallen badly, my firing arm trapped beneath me. I fired, but the shot went wide, and then I heard another shot. Pain from my leg tore up my body. There was no bulletproof vest on my leg. The pain started pulling a curtain across the world. I had to stop myself from falling. Had to stay up here in the world. Had to. I pointed the Glock at Roelof and fired again, but he ducked as he dragged Hendrik out of the room. I tried to get up, but the pain pushed me down. I fell back with my arms and legs reaching up towards a dwindling point of light.
Twenty-Seven
I clawed my way back to consciousness on the crest of a rising tide of nausea. The concrete walls and floors swirled around me as I knelt on the ceiling and threw up. The room tilted, and I was on the floor again. The stench of bile sharpened my mind, reality returned in small pieces. I felt the physical vibration of the chanting crowd. It had been broken for only a moment. I had time if I acted fast.
I was alone in the room. Roelof had managed to take Fat-Boy with them. I noticed blood on the floor with the vomit; my leg was bleeding badly as the bullet had cut clean through the quadriceps. The bone was still intact, but if I didn’t stop the bleeding, I would achieve nothing. The rope that had bound Hendrik was beside me, and I tied a tourniquet above the wound. Tight as I could make it, although every move caused my chest to spasm in pain. Two broken ribs, at least.
There was a sudden swell in the sound of the crowd, hooting, stamping, cheering and singing.
I picked up Chandler’s Glock and reached the door, more by willpower than by the use of my legs. It had been locked, but it took only two 9 mm bullets to cut the bolt from the wall. I limped through it, choosing my direction by instinct.
I made my way to the main corridor that wrapped around the back of the Northern stand. It was a wide concrete ledge with steel railings to prevent the crowds from dropping fifteen metres to the ground below. An icy wind blew in through the massive buttresses, and in the distance the sheer granite face of the mountain was spilling clouds over the city. I moved as fast as I could, using the pain in my leg to fuel my determination. The ledge was strangely quiet, the sounds of the capacity crowd muffled by the thick concrete walls. Two young men came running toward me, their faces tight with fear.
“Turn around,” one of them called as they passed me. “Get out of here.” They kept running, their loose jackets flapping like wings in the wind.
A woman came next. Fleeing with desperation, her arms and legs flailing like a swimmer being sucked under.
Ahead of me I could see the reason for their panic. A circle of police officers were pointing their assault rifles at a figure sprawled on the ground. Someone was shouting. A tense, high-pitched voice. The figure on the ground was not moving. There was a smear of blood beside him, as if he had been dragged across the floor and then dumped there. Something was wrong about the way he was lying. All jumbled up, his legs twisted unnaturally under him. He was not conscious. It was Fat-Boy.
Andile Dlamini was standing back from the circle of police. Speaking into a radio. His face told me I looked as bad as I felt.
“Where’s Van Rensburg?” I asked.
He shook his head, confused. Still taking in my appearance.
“This man is with me. There are explosives in that bag. They’re on a timer. Get the bomb squad here. You need to find Van Rensburg.”
Andile took that in, fast. He turned to the men behind him and called instructions, then back to me: “He also has explosives?”
“Strapped to his body. He might be heading for the bar in the Railway stand.”
Andile gave orders to his men. I stepped towards the crumpled figure of Fat-Boy, but Andile held me back.
“I need to see if he’s alive,” I said.
“We clear that bag first,” said Andile.
I pulled clear of his grip and pushed past him. An officer shouted at me, but I had my hand on Fat-Boy’s neck. There was no pulse. He was face down, so I turned him onto his side. Pulled his arm forward. Felt again for the pulse. Nothing. I unclipped the vest that bound the backpack to him, all five clips. And ripped it away from him. Two police officers grabbed me by the shoulders and tried pulling me away, but I kicked at them with my good leg. Fat-Boy rolled onto his back and I bent over him. Then I felt the flutter. Weak, intermittent, but he had a pulse.
I tugged the bag with the explosives free. There was only one blue LED light showing.
I stood. Andile helped me find my balance. His hand gripped my arm. Beyond him I could see the bomb squad sprinting down the corridor towards us, carrying their heavy shields.
“Van Rensburg?” I asked.
“Not yet. We’re looking.”
“Keep this man alive. Send a team up to the Media-Mark box. Roelof’s got a dead-man’s switch. They must do nothing until he’s disarmed.”
Andile started to reply, but I was already out of earshot. My leg was sending distress signals, great waves of pain through my body. But I kept running. Roelof’s plan was still underway, and I knew where he would be. Up in that box, standing beside his uncle and boss, waiting to see the expression of loss on his face.
As entrances go, my arrival at the Media-Mark box was an impressive one. It started off simply enough. I didn’t bother knocking, but fired a bullet into the lock and pushed the door open.
Piet was standing at the glass wall, looking dishevelled. His jacket was creased, the collar of his open-necked shirt was twisted, and his jaw was spattered with white stubble. In his hand was a tumbler containing a generous dose of rum. He turned with a start as the door sprang open. And that was the first impressive moment. Piet’s mouth opened and his eyes widened comically.
“What the fuck?” he said in a voice that was too loud.
Roelof had his back to me, focused on the tablet he was holding in his left hand. He looked up at Piet and then turned to see what had caused his surprise. The look of fury that flushed his face was the next impressive element of my entrance, complemented by the gasp of horror and the hand that Melissa lifted to her mouth to choke it. Judging from the looks on their faces, I was not a pretty sight.
“What the fuck?” said Piet again, and he spilt some of his drink onto the carpet. He looked around for Kenneth before remembering, and a moment of panic flashed over his face. “Call security, Rudi.”
“There’s no time for security,” I said. Melissa stepped closer to Roelof and huddled beside him for safety.
“Don’t move,” I snapped, “and keep away from him.”
“You can’t come in here …” protested Piet, but I cut him off.
“Show me the trigger,” I shouted and pointed my Glock between Roelof’s eyes. I could see the racing thoughts. He needed a moment to process everything and reach the decision to lift his thumb. I couldn’t give him that moment, because I had little doubt that he would lift the thumb when he’d had the time to think it through. As long as he had no time to think, his thumb would stay where it was. “Show it to me,” I shouted again, and this time it was almost a scream. Both Piet and Melissa pulled back in fright.
Roelof’s right arm was in the arm-sling, as if he had sprained it. Within the cloth of the sling, I could see the outline of his hand holding the joystick trigger. Roelof dropped the tablet to the floor where it bounced off the soft carpet, and he reached with his left hand for the Ruger. He pulled it out and pointed it at me. His left hand was not his shooting hand, so it was hardly a threat, but it was gaining him time.
The dead man�
��s trigger presents many complex problems, and I didn’t have the time to think them through. I wanted badly to squeeze the trigger of the Glock and rid the world of Roelof, but I knew that would kill Hendrik and all around him. And possibly Fat-Boy and the police officers gathered around him too.
“This man’s thumb is on a trigger,” I announced to the room, keeping the volume up high so there would be no refuge for Roelof’s mind. “A trigger that is linked to explosives strapped to your son’s body. Show us the trigger, Roelof.”
“That’s nonsense,” said Roelof, and his tongue flickered over his lips unpleasantly. The Ruger wobbled, and I guessed he wanted to fire another bullet at me, but he realised that my words had changed the situation.
“What’s he talking about, Rudi?” said Piet.
“He’s a criminal,” said Roelof. “He’s a thief, a con man …”, but his voice had a new desperate whine, and his words were like the pleading of a drowning man.
“Please, would somebody tell me what the fuck is going on?” said Piet.
Melissa’s big, blue eyes had been gazing at us in a dizzy way, as if she’d over-juiced herself. But then she did an extraordinary thing. She stepped up to Roelof and reached up a hand to touch his arm. His attention was still on me and the Glock. It flickered, but he didn’t look at her. She stroked his arm and pushed the Ruger gently aside with the other hand, then reached her hand around him as if she was about to embrace him. Instead, her hand made its way into the sling and wrapped itself around his right hand. A long-nailed thumb with glittering nail polish pressed down onto his thumb. Roelof looked down, and he shook his hand as if trying to shake a spider from it. But Melissa’s hand stuck, and her thumb held his in place.
I felt the impulse to squeeze the trigger now. I could drop Roelof with a single shot. But he was heavier than Melissa, and the sudden failure of his muscles would likely rip his hand and the trigger from her grasp, no matter how tightly she was clinging to it. I stayed the impulse, and Roelof looked back up at me with a glow of triumph in his eyes. He knew I couldn’t do it.
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