Hamburg
Friday, 26 June 2009 41
De Villiers woke to the noise of the early morning traffic on Rothen-baumchaussee. He packed his bag and went downstairs for breakfast. It was 8 a.m. Central European Time. It would be the same time at the lodge, where they would be setting off on the day’s first game drive. Earlier would have been better, but the luxury guests’ sense of opportunity did not match that of the animals they had come to watch. In Kawerau, he knew, it was 10 p.m. and pitch-dark, but that would be good for an assault on the kidnappers’ house.
But it was too early for action. Everything had to be synchro-nised.
It was going to be a busy day once De Villiers had made the phone calls to set the operation in motion.
He took his time over breakfast, but it was still not 10 a.m. when he left the brasserie. There was a travel agent with a small kiosk in the hotel foyer. He headed in that direction, but the sign on the door said that it would open at 10.30. He sat down in the lounge and read The Australian, the only English-language paper with news he had any interest in.
Then he waited.
With Teutonic precision, the travel agent’s door opened at exactly 10.30. De Villiers went across and bought a first-class ticket on Singapore Airlines for Hamburg-Frankfurt-Singapore-Auckland and paid in cash. The first flight would leave at 4.30 p.m. He had less than six hours to complete the operation.
He checked out, paying in cash. He left the hotel with his backpack slung over his shoulder. It contained his New Zealand passport, a clean shirt, two pairs of clean socks, two pairs of underpants and a pair of well-worn Australian boots. He had his UK passport and about a thousand euros in cash in the right-side pocket of his cargo jeans. The opposite pocket held the three cellphones he had bought at Frankfurt International. His own cellphone was in its usual place around his neck. The Leatherman was strapped to his ankle. The bicycle spokes he kept in his shirt pocket in a drinking straw cut in half.
He took an apple from the bowl on the reception counter and ate it on the way past the railway station to the central business district. He sat down on the grass in front of a statue of Friedrich Schiller. He looked at his watch again. It was exactly 11.00 a.m.
It was time.
He took out the three operation-dedicated cellphones and made the calls.
It was 1 a.m. in New Zealand. The hour sailors call the ghost watch, the hour when the body is in its deepest sleep.
They answered on the first ring.
‘Lieutenant, it’s time.’
‘Right, Major.’
‘Is she safe?’
‘The whole house is quiet. The lights are off. The rubbish went out this morning. There were children’s drawings in it.’
‘They’ll have someone standing guard. Be careful.’
‘We’ve done this before, Major. No need for you to worry about the finer details.’
‘The police will be there in less than an hour.’
‘The place will be secure and we’ll watch from a distance.’
‘Phone me as soon as she comes out the door.’
‘Will do.’
‘Good night, Lieutenant. And thank you.’
‘The pleasure is all ours, sir. We miss the action.’
‘We’ll get together when I’m back in Auckland,’ De Villiers promised. ‘And then I’ll hear what you’ve been up to.’
Detective Chief Inspector Tau Kupenga must have expected the call, because he was wide awake.
‘Give me the address,’ he said. It sounded like a command, not a request.
De Villiers complied. ‘Tau, will you call my wife and tell her as soon as you have news, please?’
‘Sure. It’s what we do in these cases.’
‘She’s not there with you, is she? Because she’s not answering the phone at home.’
‘She is.’
For a moment De Villiers didn’t know what to say. ‘Can I speak to her?’
‘No,’ Kupenga said. ‘She’s sleeping. We told her we’d wake her up when we were ready to move in.’
The call to Johann Weber was even more abbreviated.
‘I’m ready,’ De Villiers said.
‘So are we,’ Weber said.
‘Go all out then, and say hello to Liesl from me.’
He got up and started making his way towards St Catherine’s Church. By his calculation, the first call should come within the next half an hour.
Phalaborwa
Friday, 26 June 2009 42
The minibus arrived at the lodge minutes after the day’s first round of game drives had left. Each of the lodge’s Land Rovers carried a full complement of crew, with a driver, a game warden carrying a large-calibre rifle, and a scout occupying the spotter’s seat on the bonnet. There was space on the back of the specially reconstructed vehicles for nine passengers sitting in rows of three. Both Rovers were full. Back at the lodge, the cleaners were going about their work, making beds, cleaning bathrooms and toilets, emptying dustbins.
When the minibus stopped in front of the reception hall, there was only one person in a supervisory role on duty, the girl who had previously answered the phone when James Mazibuko had phoned to make a reservation. She now looked up in surprise when she saw him standing in front of her.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Mr Mazibuko, I remember.’ She looked past the men flanking him. ‘Where is Cindy?’
‘Cindy isn’t coming,’ Mazibuko said. ‘But I’ve brought the Zimbabwean national cricket team with me.’
The girl knew enough about cricket to know that there should be more of them. She counted seven. And then there was James Mazibuko. They were all dressed alike, in flannels, black shoes, white shirts with red ties, and navy blue blazers. Each carried a red bag with a cricket logo on the side. Behind them stood an elderly white man, Johann Weber, nondescript in grey flannel slacks and a leather jacket. He wore a white cricket hat pulled low over his face and dark-rimmed sunglasses. The receptionist assumed that he was the head coach or a technical advisor to the team.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Mazibuko?’ she asked. ‘The lodge is full. We are full every weekend and you have to book in advance.’
‘That’s a pity,’ Mazibuko said. ‘Perhaps we could do a game drive then before we leave.’ He looked around. ‘Where are the others?’ he asked.
‘They’ve gone already,’ she said, ‘and the next drive is at four. You see,’ she explained, ‘the best time for viewing the animals is early in the morning or at dusk.’
‘Could you organise us some tea, then?’ Mazibuko asked.
The receptionist pressed a button and a bell rang somewhere. A waiter came out of the kitchen and hastily buttoned his coat. ‘Yes, madam?’
‘Our guests will take tea in the main lounge,’ she said. ‘And I’m sure they would appreciate some scones with cream and strawberry preserve.’
‘That’s most kind of you, madam,’ James Mazibuko said. ‘I know the way to the lounge.’ He turned and started walking. His men followed with their bags. Mazibuko pointed to the veranda in front of the lounge. ‘Wait here,’ he said to Johann Weber. ‘We’ll pick you up on the way out. We want your wife to see a friendly face when we bring her out.’
Weber knew better than to argue and went out onto the veranda. In the distance he could see a figure in a wheelchair on the deck overlooking the river.
The passages to the residential wings started in the lounge, Mazibuko knew from his previous visit. He divided his men into four teams of two and sent one team into each passage. He led the way into the passage leading to room 1. As expected, there was a man at the door with a pistol in a holster under his arm. He stood up when he saw them approaching.
‘Oh,’ Mazibuko said. ‘It’s you again.’
‘Yes,’ the guard said. ‘It’s me. Are you lost again? This section is not for guests.’ The guard kept his hand on the holster without making a great show of it.
Mazibuko turned to the men behind him. ‘Are we lost, do you think?
’
They had been well drilled and put their bags down simultaneously. When they came upright again, each had an AK-47 in his hands. They were pointed at the guard.
‘We’re not lost, boss,’ Mazibuko said. ‘We know precisely where we are. Give me the key.’
‘What key?’ the guard said.
‘The key to room number 1.’
The guard glanced at the door behind him. Mazibuko casually leaned across and removed the guard’s pistol from its holster. He cocked it and prodded the guard between the eyes. ‘What’s your name, brother?’ he asked.
‘Koos,’ the guard replied.
‘Well, if that door is not open in ten seconds, you’ll be the late Koos.’
‘Okay, just be careful with the guns,’ the guard said. He took the key from his top pocket and turned slowly to unlock the door.
‘I’ll do it,’ Mazibuko said. He took the key, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
Liesl Weber was sitting at a small table. ‘We’ve come to take you home, ma’am,’ James Mazibuko said. ‘I’m James Mazibuko, and in case you’re worried, your husband is waiting for you on the veranda.’
She stood up and followed Mazibuko to the door.
Mazibuko’s men pushed the guard to the bed and trussed him up like a chicken. They put duct tape over his mouth and drew the curtains. Mazibuko locked the door behind them and pocketed the key.
The four teams reassembled in the lounge.
When Johann Weber saw his wife emerging from the passage, he rushed over to her and hugged her, but she winced and drew away from him.
He held her gently by her shoulders. ‘Did they hurt you?’
She nodded.
‘How?’ he asked.
She lifted her blouse. There was a blue-green weal with yellow streaks across her lower ribs, extending from one side to the other, where the rifle had been pulled up into her body nearly two weeks earlier.
Weber froze. ‘Get in the minibus,’ he said. ‘James will look after you. I’ll be back in a minute.’ He watched as she walked away with Mazibuko.
Johann Weber quietly opened the door leading to the veranda and walked towards the figure in the wheelchair.
General Spokie van den Bergh was snoring lightly.
Weber walked on tiptoe until he stood behind the wheelchair. He looked up into the sky. He looked at the riverbank on the other side. He looked at his hands. He looked up into the sky again.
When he released the handbrake, the wheelchair rolled slowly to the edge of the deck and fell into the water below. He watched as the ripples reached the sandbank on the other side. The crocodiles slid into the water without making a splash and disappeared beneath the surface.
De Villiers took the long way round, through the park at the heart of the Neustadt, that part of Hamburg which was ancient, but newer than the adjoining Altstadt or old city. He remembered from the many times he had got lost in 1992 that the sun would always be in the wrong part of the sky for him here. Back home – in both South Africa and New Zealand – the sun would always be on his left shoulder when he faced east. But here it was on the right shoulder. For someone used to navigating by the sun during the day, mostly without even being aware of doing so, the adjustment came slowly, and De Villiers again took several wrong turns before he arrived in the park.
Planten und Bomen had an odd old German name and was, as the name suggests, a horticultural delight, the exquisite plants being tended by a horde of workers. De Villiers walked through the park and waited at the southern end for the calls.
‘Is she safe?’ De Villiers asked when the first phone rang.
‘Yes, fine,’ Weber said. ‘She says they treated her remarkably well here. But they were pretty rough when they took her outside the clinic.’
De Villiers looked at his watch. It was too early by far for the second call to come. Kupenga would still have to get his men from Whakatane to Kawerau, a three-quarter hour drive if they stuck to the speed limit. ‘Tell me how you did it,’ he said to Weber.
Weber didn’t answer.
‘Where are you now?’ De Villiers asked.
‘Still at the game lodge.’
‘Where’s Liesl?’
‘In the minibus with Mazibuko. We’re about to leave. We need to get out before the game drives return.’
‘A simple operation, was it?’ De Villiers asked. He was hoping it would be the same at Kawerau.
Again Weber didn’t answer and neither spoke for some time. ‘Pierre,’ Weber said eventually. ‘Mazibuko wants money. He says my car is too much work and not quite his style. Can you take down his bank details?’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ De Villiers said. ‘Give me the name of the bank and the account number.’
Across the river the last crocodile slid into the water. Weber watched the turbulence under the surface for a moment, then turned and left.
In Hamburg, Pierre de Villiers destroyed the first of his three operation-dedicated cellphones.
The Kawerau calls came half an hour later in quick succession.
‘The police are here, Major, and they are coming out of the front door with her as we speak. She’s walking by herself.’
‘Thank you again, Lieutenant. We’ll get together when I’m back there.’
‘For sure.’
De Villiers removed the battery and SIM card from the second phone and flicked the parts of the dismantled cellphone in different directions into the undergrowth.
Then he took the call from Detective Chief Inspector Kupenga on the third.
‘De Villiers.’
‘De Villiers, your daughter is safe and with Emma. Sitting in my car,’ Kupenga said.
‘Thank you, sir,’ De Villiers said. The guilt which had followed him all the way from Auckland now overwhelmed him. ‘Thank you,’ he said again. His voice was hoarse. He took a deep breath and felt the tension slowly draining from his neck muscles.
‘Now tell me how you knew where I would find her,’ Kupenga said.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,’ De Villiers said. He turned his head from side to side and heard the muscles creak. ‘You found her, not me.’
‘You and I know that’s not true,’ Kupenga said. ‘And how do you think I’m going to explain the fact that, when the AOS entered the house, they found two men and two women, all unarmed but tied up in pairs with duct tape and with their weapons in the freezer, and your daughter sleeping peacefully upstairs?’
‘It’s got to be Rumpelstiltskin,’ De Villiers said. ‘He’s the only man who can do wonders at night when the rest of us are sleeping.’
‘I’ll never understand you fucking South Africans,’ Kupenga said. ‘This is no time for joking. You like taking the law into your own hands.’
De Villiers was unrepentant. ‘Tau, may I speak to my wife please?’ he asked.
‘You fucking South Africans,’ Kupenga went on, ‘are really something. Your daughter wouldn’t even allow me to carry her. She said she could walk on her own. What is it with you people?’
‘We don’t take shit from anybody, Tau,’ De Villiers said. ‘That’s what. We don’t take shit from anyone. Now, can I speak to my wife, please?’
‘Come home,’ Emma said.
De Villiers removed the batteries and SIM card from the phone and discarded the component parts in the shrubbery.
He stood up and started walking towards the docks. It was time.
Hamburg
Friday, 26 June 2009 43
De Villiers recognised that it was no longer necessary to complete the mission in the form he had planned. The successful rescue of his daughter and of Liesl Weber meant that he and his brother-in-law had won the battle. With General van den Bergh out of the way, he no longer had any reason to keep his appointment with the major. He had the Luxembourg account number and could go to the bank, transfer the money and close the account. Let the major steam at the docks, he said to himself. It will do him good.
There’s
no need for this to go on, De Villiers said. No need at all. I can walk away. Yet his feet carried him inexorably closer and closer to St Catherine’s.
Walk away, the voice of his conscience said.
But his feet kept walking towards the docks.
He was an hour early and gave St Catherine’s Church a wide berth. He took up a position on the quay from which he could observe the front of the complex. Still, he vacillated between walking away and staying to finish the job.
He didn’t have long to wait. A man arrived from the south and entered the grounds. He wore sunglasses. The man walked around the church twice. To De Villiers’s trained eye, the man was plainly a scout. This was a man who had, De Villiers thought, received extensive military training. The way he walked and carried himself as he walked around the church. The way he studied the same places De Villiers had studied. The way he ignored the architectural features and tourist attractions of the church. The way he stood still from time to time to think, his body unmoving but his head slowly turning from side to side as he took in the salient details of the landscape.
De Villiers had not expected the major to double-cross him, but his training as a Special Forces operator had made him instinctively careful, hence his own observation of the churchyard from a distance. After completing his reconnaissance, the scout lay down on the front steps of the church and pulled a hoody low over his face. He took on the appearance of a hobo, sleeping off the effects of hunger and alcoholism in the sun.
From a distance, De Villiers could see that the scout had dark hair and a full beard.
The major arrived from the opposite direction half an hour later. He too was early. De Villiers watched from his stakeout. The major stopped at the front steps. He casually – too casually – studied his scout. De Villiers was too far away to hear what was being said. The traffic on Bei den Mühren drowned out all other sound except the screeching of the seagulls patrolling the quay for scraps of food. He saw the bearded man nod twice and knew. It was a trap.
A Sailor's Honour Page 23
