He signed the message and took it to reception.
“This must go to Interpol in Stockholm immediately,” he said. He did not recognize the receptionist.
He stood over her and watched her fax the message. Then he returned to his office. He thought it might be too late.
If he were not on sick leave, he would have demanded an immediate investigation into who was responsible for sending only half of his telex. But as things stood, he couldn’t be bothered.
He continued to attack the stacks of paper on his desk. It was nearly one o’clock by the time he was done. He had cleared his desk. Without a backward glance, he left his office and closed the door behind him. He saw nobody in the corridor, and managed to get away from the station without being seen by anybody apart from the receptionist.
There was just one more thing he had to do. Once that was done, he was finished.
He walked down the hill, passed the hospital, and turned left. All the time he thought everybody he met was staring at him. He tried to make himself as invisible as possible. When he got as far as the square, he stopped by the optician’s and bought a pair of sunglasses. Then he continued down Hamngatan, crossed over the Osterled highway, and found himself in the dock district. There was a café that opened for the summer. About a year ago he had sat there and written a letter to Baiba Liepa in Riga. But he had never mailed it. He walked out onto the pier, ripped it into pieces, and watched as the scraps floated away over the harbor. Now he intended to make another attempt to write to her, and this time he would send it. He had paper and a stamped envelope in his inside pocket. He sat down at a table in a sheltered corner, ordered coffee, and thought back to that occasion a year ago. He had felt pretty gloomy then, too. But that was nothing compared to the situation he found himself in now. He started writing whatever came into his head. He described the café he was sitting in, the weather, the white fishing boat with the light-green nets moored not far from where he sat. He tried to describe the sea air. Then he started writing about how he felt. He had trouble finding the right words in English, but he persevered. He told her how he was on sick leave for an indefinite period, and that he was not sure whether he would ever return to his post. I may well have concluded my last case, he wrote. And I solved it badly, or rather, not at all. I’m beginning to think I am unsuitable for the profession I have chosen. For a long time I thought the opposite was true. Now I’m not sure anymore.
He read through what he had written, and decided he was not up to rewriting it, even if he was very dissatisfied with his writing, which seemed to him vague and unclear. He folded up the sheet of paper, sealed the envelope, and asked for his check. There was a mailbox in the nearby marina. He walked over and mailed his letter. Then he continued walking out onto the jetty, and sat down on one of the stone piles. A ferry from Poland was on its way into the harbor. The sea was steel gray, blue and green in turn. He suddenly remembered the bicycle he had found there that foggy night. It was still hidden behind the shed at his father’s place. He decided to return it that same evening.
After half an hour he got to his feet and walked through the town to Mariagatan. He opened the door, then stood staring.
In the middle of the floor was a brand new stereo system. There was a card on top of the CD player.
Get well soon and hurry back. Your colleagues.
He remembered that Svedberg still had a spare key he had gotten so he could let in the workmen doing the repairs after the explosion. He sat down on the floor and gazed at the equipment. He was touched, and found it difficult to control himself. But he didn’t think he deserved it.
That same day, Thursday, June II, there was a fault in the telex lines between Sweden and southern Africa between noon and ten at night. Wallander’s message was therefore delayed. It was half past ten before the night operator transmitted it to his colleagues in South Africa. It was received, registered, and placed in a basket of messages to be distributed the next day. But somebody remembered a memo from some prosecutor by the name of Scheepers about sending all copies of telexes from Sweden to his office immediately. The cop in the telex room could not remember what they should do if messages arrived late in the evening or in the middle of the night. They could not find Scheepers’s memo either, although it ought to have been in the special file for running instructions. One of the men on duty thought it could wait until the next day, but the other was annoyed because the memo was missing. If only to keep himself awake, he started looking for it. Half an hour later, he found it—needless to say, filed away in the wrong place. Scheepers’s memo stated clearly and categorically that late messages should be conveyed to him immediately by telephone, regardless of the time. By then it was nearly midnight. The sum total of all these mishaps and delays, most of which were due to human error or sheer incompetence, was that Scheepers was not telephoned until three minutes past midnight on Friday, June 12. Even though he had made up his mind the assassination attempt would be in Durban, he had difficulty in getting to sleep. His wife Judith was asleep, but he was still awake, tossing and turning in bed. He thought it was a pity he hadn’t taken Borstlap with him to Cape Town after all. If nothing else it would have been an edifying experience. He was also worried that even Borstlap thought it was odd they had not received a single tip about where Victor Mabasha might be hiding, despite the big reward waiting to be collected. On several occasions Borstlap had said he thought there was something fishy about the total disappearance of Victor Mabasha. When Scheepers tried to pin him down, he just said it was a hunch, nothing based on fact. His wife groaned when the bedside telephone started ringing. Scheepers grabbed the receiver, as if he had been waiting for a call all the time. He listened to what the Interpol duty officer read out for him. He picked up a pen from the bedside table, asked to hear it one more time, then wrote two words on the back of his left hand.
Sikosi Tsiki.
He hung up and sat there motionless. Judith was awake by now, and wondered if anything had happened.
“Nothing of danger to us,” he said. “But it could be dangerous for somebody else.”
He dialed Borstlap’s number.
“A new telex from Sweden,” he said. “It’s not Victor Mabasha, but a guy called Sikosi Tsiki. The assassination attempt will probably take place tomorrow.”
“Goddammit!” said Borstlap.
They agreed to meet at Scheepers’ office without delay.
Judith could see her husband was scared.
“What’s happened?” she asked again.
“The worst that could possibly happen,” he replied.
Then he went out into the darkness.
It was nineteen minutes past midnight.
Chapter Thirty-five
Friday, June 12, was a clear but somewhat cool day in Cape Town. In the morning a bank of fog had drifted into Three Anchor Bay from the sea, but it had dispersed by now. The cold season was approaching in the Southern Hemisphere. You could already see lots of Africans on their way to work, dressed in woollen hats and thick jackets.
Nelson Mandela had arrived in Cape Town the previous evening. When he woke up at dawn, he thought about the coming day. It was a custom he had grown used to during the many years he spent as a prisoner on Robben Island. He lapsed into thoughtful silence. So many memories, so many bitter moments, but such a great triumph in the end.
He was an old man now, more than seventy years old. His time was limited: he was no different from anybody else and would not live forever. But he ought to live a few more years at least. Together with President de Klerk, he had to steer his country along the difficult, painful, but also wonderful path that would eventually lead to South Africa ridding itself of the apartheid system forever. The last fortress of colonialism on the black continent would finally fall. Once they had achieved that goal, they could withdraw, even die if need be. But he still had a great lust for life. He wanted to see it all through, and enjoy the sight of the black population liberating itself from the many hundreds
of years of subjugation and humiliation. It would be a difficult path, he was aware of that. The roots of oppression ran deep into the African soul.
Nelson Mandela realized he would be elected the first black president of South Africa. That was not something he was striving to achieve. But he would have no grounds for declining.
It is a long way, he thought to himself. A long way to go for a man who has spent almost half his adult life in captivity.
He smiled to himself at the thought. But then he grew serious again. He thought about what de Klerk told him when they last met, a week ago. A group of highly placed boere had formed a conspiracy to kill him in order to create chaos and drive the country to the brink of civil war.
Could that really be possible, he wondered. He knew there were fanatical boere. People who hated all blacks, regarded them as animals without souls. But did they really think they could prevent what was happening in the country by means of some desperate conspiracy? Could they really be so blinded by their hatred—or was it fear, perhaps—that they thought it was possible to return to the old South Africa? Could they not see they were a dwindling minority? Admittedly with widespread influence still. But even so? Were they really prepared to sacrifice the future on the altar of a bloodbath?
Nelson Mandela shook his head. He had difficulty in believing that was true. De Klerk must have been exaggerating or misreading the information he had received. He was not afraid of anything happening to him.
Sikosi Tsiki had also arrived in Cape Town on Thursday evening. But unlike Nelson Mandela, he arrived unnoticed. He came by bus from Johannesburg, and got off unobserved when they reached Cape Town, got his bag, and allowed himself to be swallowed up by the darkness.
He had spent the night in the open. He slept in a hidden corner of Trafalgar Park. At the break of dawn, roughly the same time as Nelson Mandela had woken up and stood at his window, he climbed up the hill as far as he needed to, and installed himself there. Everything was in accordance with the map and instructions he had received from Franz Malan at Hammanskraal. He was pleased that he was being backed by such good organizers. There was nobody around; the barren slope was not suitable for picnics. The path to the summit, 350 meters high, meandered upwards on the other side of the hill. He had never used an escape car. He always felt freer moving around on foot. When it was all over he would walk quickly down the hill and blend in with the furious crowds demanding revenge for the death of Nelson Mandela. Then he would leave Cape Town.
Now he knew it was Mandela he was going to kill. He realized that the day Franz Malan told him when and where the assassination was to take place. He had read in the papers that Nelson Mandela was due to speak at the Green Point Stadium in the afternoon of June 12. He contemplated the oval-shaped arena stretched out in front of him, some 700 meters away. The distance did not worry him. His telescopic sights and the long-range rifle satisfied his requirements of precision and power.
He had not reacted to the news that it was Nelson Mandela who was to be his target. His first thought was that he ought to have been able to work that out himself. If these crazy boere were to have the slightest chance of creating chaos in the country, they would have to get rid of Nelson Mandela first. As long as he continued to stand up and speak, the black masses would be able to keep their self-control. Without him everything was more uncertain. Mandela had no obvious successor.
As far as Sikosi Tsiki was personally concerned, it would be an opportunity to right a personal wrong. It was not actually Nelson Mandela who had kicked him out of the ANC. But as he was the overall leader, he could nevertheless be regarded as responsible.
Sikosi Tsiki looked at his watch.
All he had to do now was wait.
Georg Scheepers and Inspector Borstlap landed at Malan Airport on the outskirts of Cape Town just after ten on Friday morning. They were tired and washed out after being on the go since one in the morning, trying to find out about Sikosi Tsiki. Half-asleep detectives had been hauled out of bed, computer operators controlling various police registers had turned up in overcoats over pajamas, having been collected by patrol cars. But when it was time to go to the airport, the result was depressing. Sikosi Tsiki was not in any of the registers. Nor had anyone ever heard of him. He was totally unknown to everybody. By half past seven they were on their way to Jan Smuts airport, just outside Johannesburg. During the flight they had tried increasingly desperately to formulate a strategy. They could see their chances of stopping this man, Sikosi Tsiki, were extremely limited, practically nonexistent. They had no idea what he looked like, they knew absolutely nothing about him. As soon as they landed in Cape Town, Scheepers went off to call President de Klerk and tell him that if possible, he should try and persuade Nelson Mandela to cancel his appearance that afternoon. Only when he went through the roof and threatened to have every police officer at the airport arrested did he manage to convince them who he was, and they left him alone in a room. It took almost a quarter of an hour to contact President de Klerk. Georg Scheepers told him as briefly as possible what had happened during the night. But de Klerk had responded in ice-cold fashion to his suggestion, saying it would be pointless. Mandela would never agree to cancel his engagements. Besides, they had gotten the time and place wrong before. That could happen again. Mandela had agreed to increase his bodyguard. There was nothing more the president of the Republic could do at the moment. When the conversation was over, Scheepers again had the uncomfortable feeling that de Klerk was not prepared to go to any lengths to protect Nelson Mandela from assassination. Was that really possible, he wondered indignantly. Have I misunderstood his position? But he had no time to go on thinking about President de Klerk. He found Borstlap, who had meanwhile picked up the car the police had ordered from Johannesburg. They drove straight to Green Point Stadium, where Nelson Mandela was due to speak three hours later.
“Three hours is not long enough,” said Borstlap. “What do you think we’ll have time to do?”
“We have to succeed,” said Scheepers. “Its as simple as that. We have to stop the man.”
“Or stop Mandela,” said Borstlap. “I can see no other possibility.”
“That’s just not possible,” said Scheepers. “He’ll be on the platform at two o’clock. De Klerk refused to plead with him.”
They showed their IDs and were allowed into the stadium. The podium was already in place. ANC flags and colorful streamers were everywhere. Musicians and dancers were getting ready to perform. Soon the audience would start arriving from the various townships of Langa, Guguletu, and Nyanga. They would be greeted by music. For them, the political meeting was also a festival.
Scheepers and Borstlap stood on the podium and looked around.
“There’s a crucial question we must face up to,” said Borstlap. “Are we dealing with a suicide pilot, or somebody who will try to get away afterwards?”
“The latter,” said Scheepers. “We can be sure about that. An assassin prepared to sacrifice his own life is dangerous because he’s unpredictable. But there’s also a big risk that he would miss the target. We are dealing with a man who is expecting to get away after shooting Mandela.”
“How do we know he’ll be using a gun?” asked Borstlap.
Scheepers stared at him with a mixture of surprise and irritation.
“What else could he do?” he asked. “A knife at close range would mean he’d be caught and lynched.”
Borstlap nodded gloomily.
“Then he has lots of possibilities,” he said. “Just look around. He could use the roof, or a deserted radio cabin. He could choose a spot outside the stadium.”
Borstlap pointed to Signal Hill, which loomed up half a kilometer away from the stadium.
“He has lots of possibilities,” he repeated. “Too many.”
“We have to stop him even so,” said Scheepers.
They could both see what this implied. They would be forced to choose, to take chances. It was simply impossible to investigate every pos
sibility. Scheepers suspected they might have time to check about one in ten; Borstlap thought perhaps a few more.
“We have two hours and thirty-five minutes,” said Scheepers. “If Mandela is on time, that’s when he’ll start speaking. I assume an assassin won’t delay things any longer than necessary.”
Scheepers had requested ten experienced police officers to assist him. They were under the command of a young sergeant.
“Our assignment is very simple,” said Scheepers. “We have a couple of hours in which to turn this stadium inside out. We’re searching for an armed man. He’s black, and he’s dangerous. He must be put out of action. If possible we should take him alive. If there’s no other choice, he has to be killed.”
“Is that all?” asked the young sergeant in surprise when Scheepers had finished. “Don’t we have a description of the guy?”
“We don’t have time for arguing,” interrupted Borstlap. “Arrest anybody who seems to be acting at all strangely. Or is somewhere he shouldn’t be. We can find out if we have the right person or not later.”
“But there has to be some kind of description,” insisted the sergeant, and was supported by murmurs from his ten officers.
“There has to be nothing of the kind,” said Scheepers, noticing he was starting to get annoyed. “We’ll divide the stadium into sections and get started right away.”
They searched through cleaners’ closets and abandoned storerooms, crept around on the roof and out onto girders. Scheepers left the stadium, crossed over Western Boulevard, the broad High Level, and then started climbing up the hill. He stopped after about two hundred meters. It seemed to him the distance was far too great. A potential assassin couldn’t possibly pick a spot outside the stadium itself. He returned to Green Point soaked in sweat and short of breath.
The White Lioness Page 52
