The White Lioness

by Henning Mankell

  I have no idea where I am, he thought. I know I’m in Sweden. But that’s all. Perhaps that’s what the world is really like. No here nor there. Only a now.

  Eventually the strange, barely noticeable dusk descended.

  He loaded his pistol and tucked it into his belt.

  He no longer had his knives. But then, he was determined not to kill anybody, if he could possibly avoid it.

  He glanced at the gas gauge. Soon he would be forced to fill the tank. He needed to solve the cash problem—still, he hoped, without killing anyone.

  A few kilometers farther on he came upon a little store open at night. He stopped, switched off the engine and waited until all the customers had gone. He released the safety catch on his pistol, got out of the car and went quickly inside. There was an elderly man behind the counter. Victor pointed at the cash register with his pistol. The man tried to say something but Victor fired a shot into the ceiling and pointed again. With trembling hands the man opened the cash drawer. Victor leaned forward, switched the pistol over to his injured hand, and grabbed all the cash he could see. Then he turned and hurried out of the store.

  He didn’t see the man collapse on the floor behind the counter. As he fell, he hit his head hard on the concrete floor. Afterwards, they would decide the thief had knocked him down.

  The man behind the counter was already dead. His heart could not cope with the sudden shock.

  As Victor hastened out of the store, his bandage caught in the door. He had no time to carefully extricate it, so he gritted his teeth against the pain and jerked his hand free.

  Just then he noticed a girl standing outside, staring at him. She was about thirteen, and wide-eyed. She gaped at his bloodstained hand.

  I’ll have to kill her, he thought. There can’t be any witnesses.

  He drew his pistol and pointed it at her. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He dropped his hand, raced back to the car and drove away.

  He knew he would have the cops after him now. They would start looking for a black man with a mutilated hand. The girl he hadn’t killed would start talking. He gave himself four hours at most before he would be forced to change cars.

  He stopped at an unmanned gas station and filled his tank. He had noticed a signpost for Stockholm earlier on, and this time he made a point of remembering how to retrace his steps.

  He suddenly felt very weary. Somewhere along the way he would have to stop and sleep.

  He hoped he would manage to find another lake with still, black water.

  He found one on the great plain, just south of Linköping. He had already changed cars by then. Near Huskvarna he turned into a motel and managed to crack the door lock and short-circuit the ignition of another Mercedes. He continued driving until his strength ran out. Shortly before Linköping he turned off onto a minor road, then onto a still smaller one, and eventually came to a lake stretched out before him. It was just turned midnight. He curled up on the back seat and fell asleep.

  He awoke with a start just before five in the morning.

  Outside the car he could hear a bird singing in a way he had never heard before.

  Then he continued his journey northward.

  Shortly before eleven in the morning he came to Stockholm.

  It was Wednesday, April 29, the day before Walpurgis Eve, 1992.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Three masked men turned up just as dessert was being served. In the space of two minutes they fired 300 shots from their automatic weapons and disappeared into a waiting car.

  Afterwards there was a brief moment of silence. Then came the screams from the wounded and shocked.

  It had been the annual meeting of the venerable wine-tasting club in Durban. The dining committee had carefully considered security before deciding to hold the banquet after the meeting at the golf club restaurant in Pinetown, not far from Durban. So far Pinetown had escaped the violence now becoming increasingly common and widespread in Natal. Moreover, the restaurant manager had promised to increase security for the evening.

  But the guards were struck down before they could raise the alarm. The fence surrounding the restaurant had been cut through with wire cutters. The attackers had also managed to throttle a German shepherd.

  There were fifty people altogether in the restaurant when the three men burst in, guns in hand. All the members of the wine-tasting club were white. There were five black waiters, four men and a woman. The black chefs and kitchen hands fled the restaurant through the back door with the Portuguese master chef as soon as the shooting started.

  When it was all over, nine people lay dead among the upturned tables and chairs, broken crockery, and fallen chandeliers. Seventeen were more or less seriously wounded, and all the rest were in shock, including an elderly lady who would die later from a heart attack.

  More than two hundred bottles of red wine had been shot to pieces. The police who arrived at the scene after the massacre had a hard time distinguishing blood from red wine.

  Chief Inspector Samuel de Beer from the Durban homicide squad was one of the first to reach the restaurant. He had with him Inspector Harry Sibande, who was black. Although de Beer was a cop who made no attempt to conceal his racial prejudice, Harry Sibande had learnt to tolerate his contempt for blacks. This was due not least to the fact that Sibande realized long ago he was a much better cop than de Beer could ever be.

  They surveyed the devastation, and watched the wounded being carried to the stream of ambulances bound for various Durban hospitals.

  The badly shocked witnesses to whom they had access did not have much to say. There were three men, all of them masked. But their hands were black.

  De Beer knew this was one of the most serious raids carried out by any of the black army factions in Natal so far this year. That evening, April 30, 1992, open civil war between blacks and whites in Natal had come a step closer.

  De Beer called Intelligence in Pretoria immediately. They promised to send him assistance first thing in the morning. The army’s special unit for political assassinations and terrorist actions would place an experienced investigator at his disposal.

  President de Klerk was informed about the incident shortly before midnight. His Foreign Secretary, Pik Botha, called the presidential residence on the presidential hot line.

  The Foreign Secretary could hear de Klerk was annoyed at being disturbed.

  “Innocent people get murdered every day,” he said. “What’s so special about this incident?”

  “The scale,” the Foreign Secretary replied. “It’s all too big, too crude, too brutal. There’ll be a violent reaction within the party unless you make a very firm statement tomorrow morning. I’m convinced the ANC leadership, presumably Mandela himself, will condemn what’s happened. It won’t look good if you have nothing to say.”

  Botha was one of the few who had President de Klerk’s ear. The president generally acted on advice he received from his Foreign Secretary.

  “I’ll do as you suggest,” said de Klerk. “Put something together by tomorrow. See I get it by seven o’clock.”

  Later that evening another telephone conversation took place between Johannesburg and Pretoria concerning the Pinetown incident. A colonel in the army’s special and extremely secret security service, Franz Malan, took a call from his colleague in BOSS, Jan Kleyn. Both of them had been informed of what happened a few hours earlier at the restaurant in Pinetown. Both reacted with dismay and disgust. They played their roles like the old hands they were. Both Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan were hovering in the background when the Pinetown massacre was planned. It was part of a strategy to raise the level of insecurity across the country. At the end of it all, the final link in a chain of increasingly frequent and serious attacks and murders, was the liquidation Victor Mabasha was to be responsible for.

  Jan Kleyn called Franz Malan about an entirely different matter, however. He had discovered earlier in the day that someone had hacked into his private computer files at work. Afte
r a few hours of pondering and a process of elimination, he had figured out who it must be that was keeping them under scrutiny. He also realized the discovery was a threat to the vital operation they were currently planning.

  They never used their names when they telephoned each other. They recognized each other’s voices. If they ever got a bad line, they had a special code to identify themselves.

  “We have to meet,” said Jan Kleyn. “You know where I’m going tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” replied Franz Malan.

  “Make sure you do the same,” said Jan Kleyn.

  Franz Malan had been told a captain by the name of Breytenbach would represent his own secret unit in the investigation of the massacre. But he also knew he only needed to call Breytenbach in order to ensure that he could take over himself. Malan had a special dispensation to alter any particular assignment he found advisable, without needing to consult his superiors.

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  That was the end of the conversation. Franz Malan called Captain Breytenbach and announced that he would be flying over to Durban himself the next day. Then he wondered what could be bugging Jan Kleyn. He suspected it had something to do with the major operation. He just hoped their plans were not collapsing.

  At four in the morning on the first of May, Jan Kleyn put Pretoria behind him. He skirted Johannesburg and was soon driving along the E3 freeway to Durban. He expected to get there by eight.

  Jan Kleyn enjoyed driving. If he wanted, he could have had a helicopter take him to Durban. But the journey would have been over too quickly. Alone in the car, with the countryside flashing past, he would have time to reflect.

  He stepped on the gas and thought the problems in Sweden would soon be solved. For some days he had been wondering if Konovalenko really was as skillful and cold-blooded as he had assumed. Had he made a mistake in employing him? He decided that was not the case. Konovalenko would do whatever was necessary. Victor Mabasha would soon be liquidated. Indeed, it might have happened already. A man called Sikosi Tsiki, number two on his original list, would take his place and Konovalenko would give him the same training Victor Mabasha had received.

  The only thing that still struck Jan Kleyn as strange was the incident that brought on Victor Mabasha’s breakdown. How could a man like him react so violently to the death of an insignificant Swedish woman? Had there been a weak point of sentimentality in him after all? In that case it was a good job they found out in time. If they hadn’t, what might have happened when Victor Mabasha had his victim in sight?

  He brushed all thoughts of Victor Mabasha to one side and returned instead to the surveillance he had been subjected to without his knowledge. There were no details in his computer files, no names, no places, nothing. But he was aware that a skillful intelligence officer could draw certain conclusions even so, not the least of which would be that an unusual and crucial political assassination was being planned.

  It seemed to Jan Kleyn that in reality he had been lucky. He had discovered the penetration of his computer in time, and would be able to do something about it.

  Colonel Franz Malan climbed aboard the helicopter waiting for him at the special army airfield near Johannesburg. It was a quarter past seven; he figured he’d be in Durban by about eight. He nodded to the pilots, fastened his seat belt, and contemplated the ground below as they took off. He was tired. The thought of what could be worrying Jan Kleyn had kept him awake until dawn.

  He gazed thoughtfully at the African township they were flying over. He could see the decay, the slums, the smoke from the fires.

  How could they defeat us? he wondered. All we need is to be stubborn and show them we mean business. It will cost a lot of blood, even white blood, as in Pinetown last night. But continued white rule in South Africa doesn’t come for free. It requires sacrifices.

  He leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep.

  Soon he would find out what had been bugging Jan Kleyn.

  They got to the cordoned-off restaurant in Pinetown within ten minutes of each other. They spent a little over an hour in the bloodstained rooms together with the local investigators, led by Inspector Samuel de Beer. It was clear to both Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan that the attackers had done a good job. They had expected the death toll to be higher than nine, but that was of minor importance. The massacre of the innocent wine-tasters had the expected effect. Blind fury and demands for revenge from the whites had already been forthcoming. Jan Kleyn heard both Nelson Mandela and President de Klerk independently condemning the incident on his car radio. De Klerk even threatened the perpetrators with violent revenge.

  “Is there any trace of whoever carried out this crazy outrage?” wondered Jan Kleyn.

  “Not yet,” said Samuel de Beer. “We haven’t even found anyone who saw the escape car.”

  “The best thing would be for the government to offer a reward right away,” said Franz Malan. “I shall personally ask the Minister of Defense to propose that at the next cabinet meeting.”

  As he spoke there came the sound of a disturbance on the barricaded street outside, where a crowd of whites had gathered. Many of them were brandishing guns, and blacks who saw the crowd turned off and went another way. The restaurant door burst open and a white woman in her thirties barged in. She was highly excited, verging on the hysterical. When she saw Inspector Sibande, the only black man on the premises, she drew a pistol and fired a shot in his direction. Harry Sibande managed to fling himself to the ground and took refuge behind an upturned table. But the woman kept on going straight for the table, still shooting the pistol which she was holding stiffly in both hands. All the time she was screeching in Afrikaans that she would avenge her brother who had been killed the previous evening. She would not rest until every single kaffir had been wiped out.

  Samuel de Beer grappled with her and disarmed her. Then he led her out to a waiting police car. Harry Sibande stood up behind the table. He was shaken. One of the bullets had gone through the table top and ripped the sleeve of his uniform.

  Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan had observed the incident. It all happened very quickly, but both of them were thinking the same thing. The white woman’s reaction was exactly what the previous night’s massacre was intended to provoke. Only on a larger scale. Hatred should engulf the whole country in one giant wave.

  De Beer returned, wiping sweat and blood from his face.

  “You can’t help but sympathize with her,” he said.

  Harry Sibande said nothing.

  Jan Kleyn and Franz Malan promised to send all the assistance de Beer thought he needed. They concluded the conversation by assuring one another this terrorist outrage must and would be solved quickly. The they left the restaurant together in Jan Kleyn’s car, and drove out of Pinetown. They went north along the N2 and turned off toward the sea at a sign for Umhlanga Rocks. Jan Kleyn pulled up at a little seafood restaurant right on the seafront. They could be undisturbed here. They ordered langouste and drank mineral water. Franz Malan took off his jacket and hung it up.

  “According to my information, Inspector de Beer is an outstandingly incompetent detective,” he said. “His kaffir colleague is supposed to be much brighter. Persistent as well.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’ve heard,” said Jan Kleyn. “The investigation will go around and around in meaningless circles until all the relatives have forgotten what happened.”

  He put his knife down and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  “Death is never pleasant,” he went on. “Nobody causes a bloodbath unless it’s really necessary. On the other hand, there are no winners, only losers. Nor are there any victors without sacrifices. I suppose I’m basically a very primitive Darwinist. Survival of the fittest. When a house is on fire, no one asks where the fire started before putting it out.”

  “What’ll happen to the three men?” asked Franz Malan. “I don’t remember seeing what was decided.”

  “Let’s take a little walk when we’ve finished eati
ng,” said Jan Kleyn with a grin.

  Franz Malan knew that was the nearest he would get to an answer for the time being. He knew Kleyn well enough to be aware it was a waste of time asking any more questions. He’d find out soon enough.

  Over coffee Jan Kleyn started to explain why it had been so necessary for him to meet with Franz Malan.

  “As you know, those of us who work undercover for various intelligence organizations live in accordance with several unwritten rules and assumptions,” he began. “One of them is that we all keep an eye on everybody else. The trust we place in our colleagues is always limited. We all take our own measures to keep tabs on our personal security. Not least in order to make sure nobody trespasses too far into our own territory. We lay a minefield all around us, and we do so because everybody else does the same. In this way we strike a balance, and everybody can get on with his job. Unfortunately, I have discovered that somebody has been taking too great an interest in my computer files. Somebody has been given the job of checking me out. That assignment must have come from very high up.”

  Franz Malan turned pale.

  “Have our plans been exposed?” he asked.

  Jan Kleyn looked at him with eyes as cold as ice.

  “Needless to say, I am not as careless as that,” he said. “Nothing in my computer files can reveal the undertaking we have set ourselves, and that we are in the process of carrying out. There are no names, nothing. On the other hand, one can’t get away from the fact that a sufficiently intelligent person could draw conclusions which might point him in the right direction. That makes it serious.”

  “It’ll be difficult to find out who it is,” said Franz Malan.

  “Not at all,” said Jan Kleyn. “I already know who it is.”