Friday, 19 June 2009 10
‘Mr James Mazibuko is here, a little early.’
‘Offer him tea and make some for me too, please. I’ll come out in a minute.’
He felt his secretary’s eyes on him. She was still at the door. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’re in for a surprise,’ she said.
‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ he said again.
James Mazibuko was paging through an old copy of Christophorus, the official Porsche magazine. He wore a blue pinstriped suit with a white button-down shirt, a red-and-blue club tie, and brown brogues which matched his leather belt. Weber’s first impression was of a BEE billionaire or tenderpreneur, gorging on public funds while essential services were being neglected in all provinces.
‘Mr Mazibuko?’ Weber began somewhat tentatively.
James Mazibuko stood up and smiled. He was short and slight. ‘I’m the only one here, aren’t I?’
They shook hands. His hand was soft. There was none of the triple shake some Africans employ. ‘Here’s your brief,’ he said and handed a folder tied with pink ribbon to Weber.
‘Let’s go through,’ Weber said and indicated that Mazibuko should go ahead.
‘You expected someone else,’ Mazibuko said over his shoulder.
‘True,’ Weber admitted. ‘But wouldn’t you have done the same?’
‘No,’ Mazibuko said. ‘You look exactly as I had imagined.’
The grammar was perfect, the tone slightly condescending, the accent, if anything, Zimbabwean rather than local.
They stopped at Weber’s window overlooking the harbour. The view never failed to impress Weber’s clients. Weber opened the brief and glanced at its contents. There was a single typed page and a newspaper. He read the instructions quickly. Counsel is briefed with this morning’s paper and is instructed to consult with client. It was an old joke. When an attorney has no instructions or relevant information to give the advocate, they provide a copy of the morning paper. But they usually came to the consultation. Not this one though, at Weber’s express request.
‘I have a better view than you do,’ Mazibuko said. He pointed at the tall building which stood between Weber’s chambers and the Esplanade and obscured most of Weber’s view over the harbour and the Bluff beyond. ‘I have a penthouse on the top two floors over there, on that side.’ Mazibuko pointed to the left. He would have a view of the ocean from there.
‘You could watch me working, then, if you wanted to,’ Weber said.
‘Only at night when the lights are on. During the day the glass acts like a mirror.’
‘True,’ Weber said again. He needed an opening to start the consultation, but Mazibuko gave no indication that he was in any hurry to sit down.
Weber’s secretary came in with the tea and placed the tray at the centre of the conference table.
‘And you don’t work at night, I’ve noticed,’ Mazibuko said. He turned to the table and lifted the teapot. ‘Milk, sugar?’
‘Black, one sugar.’ Weber said and took his usual seat with his back to the window. He looked over his shoulder at Mazibuko’s penthouse and felt uneasy.
‘Like my girlfriend,’ Mazibuko said. ‘Black, and not too sweet.’
Weber smiled at the joke and watched as Mazibuko poured his own – white, with lots of milk and two and a half sugars – and sat down at the opposite end of the table with just the slightest smile on his lips. The man was toying with him, Weber knew, but he also knew that he’d have to play along.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Weber?’ Mazibuko said. ‘You’re a busy man and I’m sure you would want to get this over quickly.’ He leaned back in his chair.
The small talk was over.
Weber looked down at the brief cover. The State versus James Mazibuko and eleven others. ‘I need help and I believe someone like you can provide it,’ he said.
‘You know who I am and what I do, Mr Weber. How can someone like me help someone like you? It’s usually me asking you people for help.’
Weber settled for the abridged version. ‘My wife has been kidnapped. I suspect that an underground resistance movement is involved. Or someone with very strong connections in the security services, the SANDF, SAPS, NIA. The police are pretty useless and I’ve decided to go private and look for my wife myself.’
‘I agree that the police are pretty useless,’ Mazibuko said. ‘But you can afford the best private investigators money can buy. How about that cop who caught Leigh Matthews’s killer? I hear he’s retired now.’
Mazibuko drank his tea like an Englishman. He held the saucer in his left hand and raised the cup to his mouth with the other. He looked at Weber over the rim of the cup. He wore rimless spectacles that reflected the light from the windows behind Weber and obscured his eyes.
‘I need muscle as well as intelligence,’ he said. ‘And you have access to both. I need you to find my wife and bring her home, whatever the cost.’
Mazibuko put his cup down slowly. ‘In money or lives?’
‘Either or both, as the circumstances may require.’
Mazibuko removed his spectacles and made a show of polishing them. ‘Mr Weber, you may think of me as a bank robber, as a man who shoots up the cash-in-transit vans, but I’m a businessman. What’s the bottom line? What’s in it for me? You’re obviously asking me to do something which is dangerous and illegal. So, I have to ask, what’s in it for me?’
‘I’ve told Steph van Onselen that I’ll defend you free of charge on all the counts you currently face. It seems to me that there were four separate heists, one of which resulted in a charge of murder, and that there are numerous ancillary charges such as possession of unlicensed firearms and ammunition, theft of the guards’ weapons, car thefts for the getaway vehicles, malicious damage to property, resisting the police, bribery and corruption, all in multiples. All consolidated in one trial with multiple accused, where one man who turns state witness can bring the whole house down.’
The recital had no effect other than to make Mazibuko smile. ‘I knew all of that before I came here,’ he said.
‘Then there is the contention that this was organised crime, leaving you vulnerable to asset forfeiture and minimum sentencing regimes, including life imprisonment.’
‘I already have an advocate,’ Mazibuko said. ‘And I’m quite happy with him.’
‘I’m a far better advocate than Van Onselen, Mr Mazibuko. And by the sound of things, you are going to need the very best defence you can get.’
‘A case like that could drag on for years. And witnesses die and disappear, you know. Or they no longer remember, or have reason to forget, or they change their story.’
Weber was convinced that he had found his man. ‘You’re a businessman. You want to think about reducing your risks. You’re running the risk of losing everything,’ he said.
‘I don’t take risks, Mr Weber. I’m never at the scene. The men who do the job don’t know my name and have never seen me or heard me speak. I always have an alibi, and there are loyal men – men who would rather go to jail than talk – between me and the men who wield the guns and drive the getaway cars. I am clean. The cops and prosecutors have nothing to link me to the crimes.’
Weber started explaining again, but Mazibuko kept shaking his head and then said, ‘I can afford any lawyer I want. You’re expensive, I’ve heard, but your fees are peanuts compared to what I take home.’
‘Will you at least think about it, Mr Mazibuko?’ Weber asked. It sounded like a desperate plea even to his own ears. ‘You have the contacts in the NIA and the police to be able to find her, and the men to bring her back unharmed once you have found her.’
Mazibuko nodded slowly, as if unwilling to concede anything, and stood up. ‘Call me James,’ he said. ‘I just can’t get used to being called Mister.’
‘James it is then,’ Weber said. ‘And I’m Johann.’
‘Well, Johann,’ Mazibuko said. ‘Can you explain to me why someone would want to ab
duct your wife? Has anyone demanded money for her return?’
‘I have no idea,’ Weber said. ‘And no. No one has asked for money.’
‘But they will,’ Mazibuko said. ‘Everything is about money these days.’
Weber didn’t answer. In Mazibuko’s world, perhaps, but not his own. He had reached the level of comfort where he was earning more than he needed to maintain his existing lifestyle and he and Liesl had no desire to visit exotic places, to do adventurous things or, in fact, to do anything other than what they were doing. Practising law. Helping at an Aids clinic. Watching their sons develop into young men with careers and, they hoped, children of their own who would visit their grandparents often to be spoilt rotten by them.
‘I can’t see how it can be about money,’ he said, but had to watch as James Mazibuko looked him in the eye and slowly shook his head.
They formally shook hands again at the lift.
‘Tell you what,’ Mazibuko said as the lift arrived. He entered and held the door open. ‘If you throw in your Carrera, I might consider it.’
‘I could sell that car for a lot of money, maybe as much as two and a half million rand,’ Weber said.
‘I know,’ Mazibuko said as the lift doors started closing. ‘It would look good on me.’
The question Mazibuko had asked troubled Weber. Why would anyone want to abduct Liesl Weber? The question had troubled Weber from the start. His wife was doing welfare work. It was difficult to conceive of a motive arising from her work. The demands which had been made thus far also did not give a hint as to why she could possibly be a target.
The answer has to lie in the past, he thought. But where in the past? There was an obvious link to Pierre de Villiers, but he had not lived in the country for the past – what was it now? – seventeen years. And except for a short period during the previous winter when De Villiers had come to Durban for treatment for his cancer, De Villiers had not been in South Africa at all.
As far as I know, Weber qualified his own thought.
The answer had to lie in the past and, it become obvious to Johann Weber, it had to be sought in the events of the distant, not the recent past.
He continued to stare out over the harbour. A ship he knew would carry locally manufactured BMWS to Australia and New Zealand was being manoeuvred into position by two tiny tugs. It never ceased to amaze Weber that such tiny engines could move such large objects. The thought crossed his mind that insignificant events of the past could have resulted in this improbable situation. He wondered whether he could have done something in the past which would have made his wife a legitimate target.
The more he thought about it, the more the answer eluded him. But of one thing he was certain. There had to be something in the past where both he and Pierre de Villiers were involved.
The moment he thought of that, he also thought of a ship. Not much more than a boat, really. But an unusual one. A converted fishing vessel. The name was so unusual that he had no difficulty recalling it. The Alicia Mae. Described in the court papers as the m.v. Alicia Mae. The motor vessel Alicia Mae.
It had to be that ship.
Pretoria
1992 11
When De Villiers woke up, he was groggy and his eyes would not focus properly. He was aware of severe pain in his leg and chest. His leg was suspended at an angle by a set of wires and pulleys. He saw a figure slumped in a chair in the corner.
‘Johann?’ he said. His voice was hoarse.
Johann Weber stood up and came over to the bed. His eyes were bloodshot and he was unshaven. He shook his head, thinking, Dear God, why am I always the one who has to deliver bad news? ‘Pierre,’ he said. ‘Are you awake?’
‘What does it look like?’ De Villiers said. ‘Why am I here?’
‘You’re in hospital.’
‘I can see that,’ De Villiers said. ‘1 Mil. But why?’
‘Pierre, I have bad news. You’ve been shot. Annelise and Marcel and Jeandré are dead.’
De Villiers went into convulsions. Weber had to call the nursing staff.
It would be three months before De Villiers was fit to leave the hospital. He was on crutches and the army ambulance dropped him in front of his house.
He went inside. De Villiers sniffed the air and smelled cleaning materials. Soap. Disinfectant. Jeyes Fluid.
He walked slowly, placing the crutches carefully on the parquet floor. He stood next to their bed. He could smell Annelise in the room. He turned and went to Jeandré’s room. Her teddy bear was on her pillow. He walked to the end of the passage and turned into Marcel’s room. There was an unfinished school project on Marcel’s desk. He turned and fled but fell down in the passage. Excruciating pain shot up from his leg. He turned over on his back and cried. He felt his stomach muscles tightening and raged. He struck the walls with his crutches and raged and raged until he was out of breath. Most of all, he was angry with himself for allowing the killers to get near his car, for not seeing them coming with their guns, for not killing them first.
When he couldn’t cry anymore, he leopard crawled to the front door, dragging his crutches with him. He grabbed the door handle and pulled himself upright. He made his way to the garage and pressed the remote. The garage door lifted slowly, groaning and squeaking from opposite ends. De Villiers walked to the driver’s door. The keys were in the ignition. There were bullet holes in the dashboard and several windows had been broken. There were glass shards on the seats. De Villiers could smell the blood. The blood was on the seats. On the inside of Annelise’s window, De Villiers saw her bloody handprint on the glass.
He fainted.
When he came to, he turned over and stared at the sky. His stomach muscles convulsed in waves of spasms. He lay there for a long time, waiting for the convulsions to stop. He made a decision. I’m going to have to go back into the house, he said to himself. And I’m never coming back.
He leopard crawled back into the house. He went past the bedrooms to his study. He pulled himself upright. He dialled the numbers of the combination lock and opened the steel cabinet. He stood on one leg and looked at the contents. His army backpack hung on a hook on the side. His passport lay on a shelf near the front. His army dog tags were on top of the passport.
De Villiers undressed and threw his clothes on the floor. When he was naked, he looked at his wounds: bullet holes in his chest and leg, scars where the titanium rods had been inserted. He dressed slowly, taking the necessary items from the backpack, one by one. Underpants. Cotton socks. Denim shirt. Faded army-issue cargo pants. Canvas belt. Brown army-issue jacket with four pockets, two at the chest and two at the hip. He placed the survival knife back on the shelf in the cabinet and took a small scabbard from the shelf above. He pulled the Leatherman multitool from the scabbard. The stainless steel was clean and shiny. A gift from his brother-in-law. He placed it in the scabbard and strapped it to his sound ankle. It belonged on the other side, under his right hand, to be used at a moment’s notice, but that leg was out of commission. For the time being.
De Villiers’s identity document had a photograph of Annelise and the children in a sleeve. He put that in the top pocket over his heart. The passport followed. He rummaged in a drawer until he found their joint will. He folded it carefully and put it in the backpack. He leaned down and picked up his discarded trousers. His wallet had bloodstains, but it was his own blood. There was cash and a credit card inside. He slipped the wallet into another pocket.
De Villiers hopped on one leg to the front door and locked it behind him. He retrieved his crutches from the garage and made his way towards the street. He passed the fish pond on the way. It was empty but for a drift of leaves.
The bus stop was blocks away, but he made it.
The centre of Pretoria was familiar to him. The Air Force building where the car bomb had exploded was diagonally across the street. It still carried the scars. He took the lift upstairs. The receptionist told him he could wait until one of the partners was free. She offered him
something to drink and he settled for a strong coffee. Sweet and black.
The young man who came out to meet him in the reception area looked far too young to be a partner. He introduced himself as Gerhardt Breedt and carried De Villiers’s coffee to his office. Breedt walked patiently next to his client. He made small talk, but didn’t ask where De Villiers had suffered his injuries. This was a city of wounded men, carrying the scars of the conflict in Angola.
‘What can I do for you?’ Breedt asked when they were seated. His office was small but tidy. There were no files in sight.
‘My wife has been murdered and I need to sort out the estate.’
‘Oh,’ Breedt said. ‘Now I know who you are. It was all over the news.’
De Villiers didn’t want to talk about it. ‘I want to sell my house and I need to get some money out of the country,’ he said
Breedt became businesslike and made a note on a sheet of yellow paper. ‘Let me make a list,’ he said. ‘We need to report an estate. So you want us to be the executors?’
‘I am the executor,’ De Villiers said. He pulled the will from his pocket and handed it to Breedt.
Breedt read the will in silence and nodded. ‘We can do the administration for you.’
They spoke for half an hour while Breedt took detailed notes. He made copies of the will and De Villiers’s passport and ID document. ‘Let’s recap,’ he said to De Villiers. ‘You are – uhm, were – married out of community of property. In terms of the will, you inherit everything anyway. I’ll report the estate and finalise it. I’ll sell the house on your behalf. What else is there?’
De Villiers placed the keys to the house and the remote for the garage door on the desk. ‘You may give everything in the house to a charity of your choice,’ he said. ‘The keys for the car are in the ignition.’ He didn’t tell Breedt about the blood.
Breedt placed the keys and remote on top of his yellow pad. ‘I’ll prepare the documents immediately. It should take about two hours. Can you wait, or do you want to come back tomorrow?’
A Sailor's Honour Page 7
