The First Rule of Survival

by Paul Mendelson

  He recalls friends in London, and realizes that all have fallen away. He analyses the tone of Vaughn de Vries’ voice as he might assess the significance of a bet at the poker table and understands that somehow there is a distance between them, stoked by mistrust, not in each other – but in the world; in things good. He swallows, opens his eyes again, and begins to stride down the beach into the shimmering heat-haze.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ de Vries says.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I showed my hand, Don. Thulani has cornered du Toit and he is going to go along with the politicians and the press and the brass all trying to protect their fucking reputations. He’s got ten years yet and he’s a frightened man.’

  Don says nothing, looks down at the floor.

  ‘What, Don?’

  ‘Maybe he is not the only one.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘I am required to report to Director du Toit, sir. But you have this investigation in your head.’

  ‘I’ve added everything to the crime book.’

  ‘You receive information from a source you will not reveal.’

  ‘Don . . . ?’

  ‘I do not know you well, sir. I respect you, but I do not know you. But you expect me to trust you, while you do not trust me. I have a wife and family members to support. I cannot afford to lose my job, or ruin my career.’

  De Vries hears the anxiety in Don’s voice, notices his right hand, thumb and forefinger rubbing back and forth.

  ‘Sit down, Don.’

  Don sits. ‘I am not questioning—’

  ‘Don. You are a good officer. Your motives are sound. You have to understand: this is no ordinary case. This has haunted me for seven years, day after day, and when those bodies were found, I vowed that I would not stop until I found those responsible. That is how I work, how I function. It is what gets me up in the morning. Because while everybody else is watching their backs and building their careers and being politically . . . expedient, I have only one thought in my head. I will bring these men to justice. I will avenge Bobby and Steven and Toby.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So I am going to tell you. I am going to tell you – but it is for your ears only, and not for Director du Toit. Is that fair?’

  ‘I do not know. I am confused.’

  ‘Well, you have to know,’ de Vries snaps. ‘You have to agree or I won’t tell you. I have to know I can trust you, Don. After this is over, request a transfer, report me, whatever, but I have to know that, right now, I can trust you. You can say no, but if you do, that’s it. I’ll just carry on alone.’

  Don February shakes his head sadly, wordless.

  De Vries struggles up from his chair.

  ‘Be a man; decide what is important to you. You can live an easy life and play the game and smile at the right people and arse-lick your way up the ladder. The way things are now, you have a following wind. Be a black SAPS officer who goes all the way to the top. But is there any point to that, if you leave the rapists and paedophiles and murderers out there? Sit in a big leather chair in your dress uniform and take your money back to your wife in your comfortable home, but what have you actually done?’

  ‘It is not so black and white. There are ways of operating . . .’

  ‘. . . within the rules.’ de Vries snorts. ‘You’re right. Follow the fucking rule book. That is what they want: that is what your wife wants, the brass want and, most importantly, it’s what the gangsters and drug-dealers and child-abusers want. They’d pay you off to do the job like that. And you know what? If that’s what they want, then I want to do the exact opposite.’

  De Vries sits on his desk and looks down on Don. His Warrant Officer does not move. ‘I’m not sitting here much longer, Don, so you have to decide. You can talk to Wertner or even Thulani. Go to du Toit, tell him that I’m leaving the building and going to Durbanville and then back to the Riebeek Valley. Tell him and he’ll suspend me and probably lock me in a cell, and I guarantee you, no one will find this young boy, and whoever took Bobby and Steven and Toby is going into hiding – and he won’t make the same mistake again. Or I’ll trust you and tell you what I know.’

  Don February shuts his eyes and breathes deeply, but silently, through his nose. His head throbs. He draws in his breath and hears himself say:

  ‘Tell me.’

  De Vries leaves the building through a fire exit on the side which opens onto a dark alley, usually only the preserve of confused hobos and furtive police smokers, and knows that an alarm will sound in a control room somewhere. At the corner, he sees the edge of the throng of media assembling at the front doors, turns away from them and, his body aching, trots unevenly down the street towards Don’s SAPS-issue vehicle. He snorts at the thought that he must hide from the media as he goes about his job; that he must disobey his seniors to keep moving forward. It disgusts him that they want to curtail the investigation – his investigation – because it would be neater that way; because it would play well. He has been taught a simple rule by which he lives: get from A to B and never allow yourself to be distracted because, in those moments, the thief will run, the murderer vanish, or the pistol turn on you.

  He reaches the white Toyota Corolla, kicks its rear tyre in frustration and climbs in. He knows his route. He realizes now that he has known it all along.

  Julius Mngomezulu raps lightly on General Thulani’s office door and lets himself in even before there is a reply. He waits until Thulani’s head rises from his desk.

  ‘I thought you would want to know, sir. De Vries has just been informed of the changes you commanded. He has not taken them well. It looked to me as if he was planning on leaving the building.’

  Thulani shakes his head.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ He grabs his telephone and punches three buttons. He waits for a few moments before slamming it back in its cradle. ‘Go and get Brigadier du Toit. Bring him here to my office. That is my direct order to him.’

  Mngomezulu turns on one shiny leather sole of his black boots, emitting one perfectly toned squeak on the dark linoleum, and pulls the door to after him.

  De Vries endures the slow-moving traffic on the M5 link road, completed after so long a time and now, unbelievably, dug up anew. Finally, he swerves onto the flyover which takes him towards the N1 – the road which bisects the entire country, as far as Johannesburg and Pretoria. He accelerates past Century City, cursing the traffic, jockeying for position and, in Cape Town-style, undertaking and overtaking to gain a little advantage. He almost misses the dividing road which takes him towards the N7 and Durbanville. His shoulder aches and his head throbs. He fumbles for the painkillers in his top shirt-pocket, tips what he hopes are two into his mouth and swallows them dry. The bitterness lingers in his throat as he feels them descend slowly through his oesophagus.

  Don February sees Julius Mngomezulu whisper in Director du Toit’s ear; witnesses the draining of colour from his boss’ face, the petulant turn and, when Mngomezulu holds the door open for him, the Director’s hand on the black officer’s chest, holding him back.

  Don goes to the desk he is using and picks up the phone. Then he replaces it, walks out of the squad room and down the corridors towards the stairs. These scarcely used walkways enjoy the best views of the city, a narrow gash of Waterfront vista. The sun casts hot white panels of light against the textured concrete walls. He steps out of one into the shade, takes out his cellphone and speed-dials de Vries.

  When he hears his voice, he says, ‘Director du Toit has just been summoned by that snake, Mngomezulu. Maybe they know about the abduction; maybe he saw you leave.’ He hears de Vries curse. ‘Perhaps they will warn Durbanville. Maybe do not stop and carry on.’

  He hears the line disconnect.

  ‘Do you understand, Henrik? Do you?’

  Thulani and du Toit stand by the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the Central Business District. Thulani is standing too close to him and du Toit would like to take a st
ep back, but the General has him cornered.

  ‘The Commissioner wants de Vries out of sight, out of reach of the media; ideally out of this building. When we have concluded this matter, that is what will happen. You told me that he would accept your assumption of command. Where is he?’

  ‘In his office, working some last leads.’

  ‘Leads? At this stage? Anyway, I hold you responsible.’ Thulani jabs the air. ‘Keep him away from me. I fucking hate the sight of him.’

  ‘With respect, sir—’

  ‘No, not with respect. With nothing. That is the end of the matter. De Vries is off the case. You have it. You finish it and we move on. As for you, God knows where you’ll go now, because this is not the end; it will taint all of us here in the Western Cape.’

  Du Toit wants to agree and bow out of the office. He wants to stand smiling in front of the press and announce that the investigation is concluded. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘De Vries has new information. I have instructed him to work it from within this building. No one knows more about this investigation. It would be illogical, immoral . . . to prevent him.’

  ‘Immoral! How, immoral? To say “after seven years, you’ve had your chance and now we put an end to it”. Is that what you’re telling me?’

  ‘Let me be clear then, sir,’ du Toit tells him. ‘My department has this inquiry and I take responsibility. But I will not compromise justice for the expediency of a neat ending and a dazzling headline. If you order me to relinquish control, then I assume you have another senior officer in mind who can bring it to its conclusion?’

  Thulani’s face darkens; the prospect of responsibility in any form disagreeable.

  ‘Let me remind you. This has been your case for seven years. You were chief investigator in 07 and now you are the director of the unit – the unit for which you canvassed so hard – which has control of the case at this time. You want to end it now, or are you not content until all faith in the SAPS is destroyed in the public eye?’

  Du Toit hesitates, but only momentarily. He knows that he has travelled too far in just a few emotional seconds to step back, realizes that he does not want to retreat any more.

  ‘Another child has been abducted. Are you, sir, aware of that? He is a white boy, aged eight, name of Joe Pienaar. He was taken close to Durbanville from a side road off the N7. A witness reported seeing him taken by a white man forty-eight hours ago.’ He sees Thulani freeze for a second. ‘You want to close down this inquiry? Imagine how it will look if this is connected and you tell the press it’s over and it starts all over again? That is why I have not concluded my report, and that is why – until I hear otherwise – I remain in command of this until it is resolved. For the sake of the reputation of the SAPS.’

  Thulani takes a step back, turns away towards his desk. He turns round. ‘When was this reported to you?’

  ‘Moments before your insolent attaché took me away from the Incident Room.’

  ‘Control yourself.’

  ‘I was attempting to contact the chief at Durbanville. You would have been informed the moment I had confirmation.’

  ‘I want a report in one hour. I want to know what evidence connects this alleged crime to your investigation, and I want to know that de Vries is contained within this building and that he is allowed nowhere near the press. Do you understand?’

  De Vries sees the Durbanville Hills on his right as he speeds up the N7 freeway towards Malmesbury and the Riebeek Valley. He has drunk his share of wine from those vines. He reaches the top of the long rise where the road narrows and becomes a single lane in each direction. He wishes he had a blue light, a siren, but he knows that the puny engine in the car would not propel him past the speeding BMWs and Mercedes, that the insulated drivers, cocooned in their leather cockpits, would neither see nor hear him, euro-pop blaring from their umpteen speakers. He changes down a gear, tries to pass an articulated lorry before it is too late, struggles to make up the ground and swerves ahead of it just in time. Before him, the long, straight road stretches like a tarmac scar across the endless brittle landscape. He grits his teeth and repositions his hands on the wheel.

  Don February hides out in the cleaners’ storeroom on the ground floor of the stairwell. He reasons that if du Toit cannot find de Vries, it is better that he cannot find him either, assumes perhaps, that they are at work together elsewhere in the building. He calls Ben Thambo. The officer answers as usual on the second ring.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Riebeek-Kasteel.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘On the main street.’

  ‘You know the news?’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Another child has been taken, the day before yesterday, from Durbanville. Colonel de Vries thinks it could be the same people. I have emailed you the picture of the boy, the witness description too, but it is only that it is a white man – probably – tall, of average build. What have you seen? Anything at all?’

  ‘Nothing. I speak to the same people again. That is all. Why would he return to this town? Why would he come back here?’

  ‘We are told that it is possible. Go to the guest-house where you stay. Colonel de Vries will meet you outside just now. Have all your files, all the statements ready for him.’

  ‘De Vries? But I thought he—’

  ‘He is on the warpath, man. Just do as he says and keep notes of his orders. We have ourselves to protect, too. You understand what I am saying?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so. He thinks they have brought the boy back to the Valley?’

  ‘That is what he thinks, yes.’

  ‘We will need more men. Will you coordinate with the locals or bring in people from town?’

  ‘Ben – listen. De Vries is coming alone. He is on a mission, man. Nothing will stop him. Give him what he wants, but stay out of it. If anyone from HQ calls you, anyone at all, do not tell them anything. You have not spoken to me and you have not seen de Vries.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘He is . . . Just do as he says, that is all. He will either find this boy or get us all sacked and himself killed. One or the other.’

  Once he has negotiated Malmesbury, cut through the narrow side streets to the main country road, de Vries guns the car out of town and up towards the bulge of mountain which stands between him and the Riebeek Valley. He strains up the short pass through the mountains, and sees the vista open over rolling vines and olive plantations which encircle the towns of Riebeek West and Riebeek-Kasteel. He crests the apex and changes gear to freewheel fast down the other side, the centrifugal force of the bend pushing him out against the driver’s door. He brakes, crudely changes gear to take the left turn onto the road to Riebeek-Kasteel. He slows and turns onto the main street, down towards the landmark steeple of the Dutch Reformed church. The guesthouse they stayed in is past the church, but he sees Ben Thambo standing in the shade on the opposite side. He pulls across the road, winds down the passenger window.

  ‘Get in the car.’

  Thambo hesitates.

  ‘Bring those files with you, but get in the car.’

  Thambo pulls open the door, ducks inside.

  ‘You have talked to everyone around here, in the town, in Riebeek West?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There are only three of us, but teams have worked through both towns twice. We have no new information.’

  ‘Around the bunker, there are farms, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want you to tell me who is there and who you have talked to.’

  ‘It’s all in the report.’

  ‘We don’t have time for reports. Whoever held those boys lived within the vicinity, must be known to people. This man has spent seven years living this life and he may not have anywhere else to go. If he took Joe Pienaar, he could bring him back here, because no one knows who he is. Take me to the farm or farms which back onto the Fineberg olive farm.’

  ‘Yes, I can show you.’

  �
�You were sent the picture of this new boy who has been taken? Joe Pienaar?’

  Thambo produces the crudely printed emailed photograph of a smiling young boy.

  ‘Show me.’ De Vries grabs the picture from Thambo’s hand and flattens it against the centre of the steering wheel.

  ‘No one will have seen this boy except for those involved, but you study that, because we are going to be meeting him again, Thambo. I’m not leaving till we do.’

  They drive for twenty-five kilometres, deeper into farming country, only tin-roofed workers’ shacks and the occasional derelict farmstead blighting the near-perfect view of pastoral life. Thambo indicates the first of the two farms adjoining the Fineberg olive farm, and de Vries takes the turn too quickly; he skids on the dusty red gravel and accelerates down the dirt-path, its surface rutted with tiny waves, like the hard sand by the water’s edge on the beach. The Toyota jiggles and weaves; a plastic fitting from a maplight above his head falls into Thambo’s lap.

  ‘How far is this place?’

  Thambo looks up. ‘About four kilometres down this track. Thuissen’s farm adjoins the Fineberg farm on the western side.’

  ‘Was this the guy we couldn’t get hold of originally?’

  ‘Ja. He says he had trouble with his bakkie; spent three days in Riebeek West with a friend while it was being repaired. I spoke with him last week and he said he hadn’t seen anything at the Fineberg farm. Had never had any dealings with them there, didn’t even know who owned it.’