Dearest Hope:
I tried calling you but you were out, probably taking Kip to daycare. I need to talk about what we discussed earlier. I think Hamid is having an affair. I think he is planning to take Eugène away from me. I am not going to let that happen.
R.
I almost choke on my drink. I can hear myself pleading: I did not write that email. It was not me. And yet here it is, in my account, apparently addressed to my closest friend, and signed R. Hope is one of the very few people who knows me by my original name, Rania. Am I going insane? I read the words again, double-check the date, the time the email was sent, the address. How is this possible?
My finger hovers over the delete button. But it is obvious, as I knew it was as soon as I read the words. Someone has accessed my email account and sent an email as me. What better way to provide me with a motive for murder than a cri-de-coeur to my best friend?
I go back further in time. On 4th October, another email, again to the same unfamiliar Hotmail account:
Dearest Hope:
Hamid has started to behave strangely. He is becoming increasingly paranoid, ranting about how I have betrayed him, that I was not a fit mother. Yesterday, for the first time in our marriage, he struck me. I am frightened. What should I do?
R.
There is one more, on 29th September:
Dearest Hope:
I live in fear. Not only for myself, but for my son, his very soul. Yesterday Hamid accused me of apostasy. He called me a whore. He has become radicalised, the worst incarnation of Islam. I know he is planning to leave me, to take my son away. I am not going to let that happen. To think of my son being brought up that way – intolerant, misogynistic, brutal, vile and backward. I would rather he be dead than become such a person. Hope, why don’t you answer me?
R.
I sit and stare at the seatback in front of me. The pattern is abstract, like the eddies in a stream, hues of saxe and heliotrope no doubt designed to soothe, to reassure. My heart is pounding. I cannot breathe. The words I am trying to write come out as scrawls. Just as well. I look back at the screen. There it is: a perfect ternion of growing suspicion and desperation. Paranoia and fear ooze from every word. Whether or not the police have managed to access my email accounts – by now they will have initiated a full-scale search for me – I delete the emails from the sent box and from the trash file. Of course, it makes no difference. I must proceed as if the emails have been sent – they are out there. The moment I try to access my accounts, I am traceable.
I must assume that my motive for murder has now been firmly established. They have placed me at the scene of the crime. My DNA is on everything. No bullets were found with the remains of the bodies in the incinerator, which means they were killed by other means, most likely with a knife. That would explain the blood-stained clothes. My ability to plan and execute such a murder has been established. And now, I have fled the country, reinforcing my guilt.
And yet, as attempts to implicate me in the murders, these emails are beyond clumsy. How could any mother kill her own child? Before I have finished the thought, I realise my error. Of course, it happens all the time. Every day, children are murdered, abandoned, violated by their own flesh and blood. God help us all.
Claymore, Majnun – my tortured soul, where are you? If ever I needed you, I need you now.
* 8 *
The High-Blown White and Blue Aftermath
His eyes were timeless. Reminders of so much that he wanted to forget, of what he could not live without. Glacier-blue mirrors that revealed his own weakness, replayed his betrayals, and in their icy depths, made him acutely aware of how fucking scared he was.
Crowbar smiled, looked at Clay’s Glock.
Clay lowered the weapon. ‘What are you doing here?’ was all he could say.
‘Came as soon as I could.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Same way everybody else did.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Crowbar glanced out towards Flame. ‘How about we deal with this first?’
‘She’s only fourteen,’ Clay said, choking on it. ‘An innocent.’
‘They always are.’
The rain was still coming down, hard and heavy now, the clouds and all of the land and the sea beneath darkened, the sun eclipsed by the storm. Flame had swung almost stern to shore now. A lone figure emerged from below deck and stood in the cockpit. It was the Boer.
‘Moeder van God,’ said Crowbar. ‘What the fok is he doing here?’
‘You know the bastard?’
‘Ja, you could say that.’
Clay stared at the man who had led him through the maelstrom of war, taught him how to kill when he was young enough to learn it well, showed him how to love it. ‘Who is he?’
Crowbar waved his question away. ‘We need to go now,’ he said. ‘While this storm lasts.’
‘It’s me they want,’ said Clay. ‘I’m going out there.’
Crowbar nodded. ‘Leave the two blacks in the speeder to me. Can you take Manheim?’
‘That his name?’
‘Still got that habit of asking stupid questions.’
And then, without even knowing it, he was back there, in the war. He stiffened. ‘Sorry, my Luitenant,’ he said. ‘Yes. I can take him.’
Crowbar inclined his head. ‘Wait for me to hit. Then take out Manheim. Don’t kill him. Just neutralise him. He and I, we need to talk. Get going.’ Crowbar disappeared into the scrubland.
Clay dragged the dinghy to the water’s edge, pushed off, started rowing. He’d adapted the left oar with an extension he could hook his elbow into, but even so, progress into the wind was slow. A determined chop had risen, and the dinghy’s bow ploughed through the water, raising puffs of spray. By now, Manheim was standing in the cockpit, watching him. The two blacks in the jet boat were standing too. He had everyone’s attention.
A hundred metres off Flame’s port stern, Clay pulled up, drifted just inside the reef. Rain pelted the dark surface of the water.
Manheim stood, raised a shotgun, pumped the action and levelled it at Clay. ‘Come on in,’ he shouted. ‘Try anything, you get a new ventilation system.’
One of the black men laughed. Across the water, with the wind, it sounded like he was right there in the dinghy with Clay.
Clay nodded, dug in the oars. As he got closer, he could see that they had trussed Zuz with one of the extra jib sheets from the forward locker, tied her hands behind her back and bound her ankles up against the backs of her legs with all the extra chain they had been able to find. There was tape over her mouth, and the big spare Danforth hung from her knees. She swung from the boom, suspended by a single line that ran back to the cockpit. If the line was released, she would sink to the bottom as surely and quickly as her mother and brother had.
Ten metres away now, and Clay could feel the big twenty-four-gram Foster slug loaded atop forty-five grains of powder, imagine the hole the projectile and its 4,200 joules of energy would blast through his body. And it would all happen before he’d even heard the shot.
‘Stop there,’ Manheim said. ‘Whatever you’re carrying, toss it here.’
Clay pulled the G21 from his waistband, held it a moment then underhanded it up into Flame’s cockpit.
Manheim jerked the shottie. ‘Now, come along side, Straker.’
Clay sculled nearer, grabbed for Flame’s toe rail and cleated the dinghy’s bow line.
Manheim stood back in the cockpit, the shotgun levelled. Clay climbed aboard.
Manheim motioned for him to sit. ‘Now we wait,’ he said, sitting facing Clay.
‘Let her go,’ said Clay.
Manheim laughed. ‘So attached to your kaffir friends, aren’t you, Straker?’
‘I’m here. You’ve got what you want. Let her go, asshole.’
Manheim smiled. ‘You’re stupider than they said you were.’
Clay said nothing. By now Zuz had registered his presence, an
d was staring at him wide-eyed. He didn’t acknowledge her.
‘I don’t give a shit about you,’ Manheim continued. ‘Or her. You’re just the lure, Straker. Shame, really, when you consider it, no? That you and your little kaffir whore are going to die like bait on a hook. Serves you right. Both of you.’
Manheim reached for the line holding Zuz, uncleated it, held it in one hand. Her weight was now borne by two wraps on the starboard winch, nothing more.
‘Come to think of it,’ he said, ‘we don’t need her anymore, do we?’
‘Please,’ said Clay. ‘Don’t. She is nothing, like you said. I’ll do anything you want. Just let her go.’ Whatever Crowbar was planning, he had better do it soon.
Manheim smiled. The bastard was enjoying this. ‘Not a very appealing proposition, Straker. You’ve already done everything I wanted. You’ve cooperated very nicely, in fact. Just a little longer, and it will all be over.’ He let the line slide through his hand. It spun through the winch. Zuz started to fall.
‘No!’ shouted Clay, springing forwards, reaching out for the line.
Manheim smashed the shotgun’s stock into Clay’s shoulder, knocking him to the cockpit floor. Manheim grabbed the line. It jerked and went taut. Zuz let out a muffled scream. She swayed from the boom, her knees touching the surface, the forty kilos of steel that hung from her legs dragging in the chop.
Clay pushed himself to his knees, worked his shoulder.
‘Try that again, and I’ll use the other end,’ said Manheim. ‘Sit down.’
Clay sat. Zuz was staring at him through the rain. He could see her nostrils flaring and closing, pumping air as adrenaline cascaded through her system.
Manheim glanced at Zuz, cleated the line, and started winching her back up again, keeping one hand on the shotgun’s pistol grip. ‘See that? Stupid little bitch shit herself,’ he said, laughing through the words.
Clay said nothing.
‘Now that stinks,’ said Manheim, pinching his nose with his free hand. ‘Nothing stinks worse than kaffir shit.’
As he said it, a geyser of water erupted just off Flame’s port side where the jet boat was rafted up. There was a shout, a muffled cry, and then, in rapid succession, three silenced gunshots: Tfk, tfk, tfk.
Manheim jumped up, peered across the coach roof towards the jet boat, raising the shotgun. As he did, he let go of Zuz’s line. The rope spun through the winch and Zuz hit the water. Manheim’s twelve gauge erupted just as Clay dove over the side.
By the time Clay reached her, Zuz was on the bottom, struggling against her ropes. The anchor’s crown was half buried in the sand. He could see that she had already expended most of her oxygen. Her eyes were stretched wide in adrenaline-fuelled terror. Bubbles poured from her nostrils, her muffled screams ringing through the water like so many nightmares.
With the anchor and chain, she weighed almost as much as he did. There was no way he could propel her to the surface on his own. Clay reached under his shirt, unsheathed his neck knife. Then he steadied the girl between his legs and started cutting the loops of rope that secured the anchor to the lines around her knees. He severed one loop, pulled free the line, then the other. The anchor’s shank fell to the seabed. He grabbed at the chain, but it was tied to her body. She was out of time. She was going to let go, take that deep breath her body so desperately wanted. Clay steadied her, ripped the tape from her mouth, and, just as she opened her mouth, put his mouth to hers and exhaled, filling her lungs. He held her there a moment, staring into her eyes so she would know he was there, so she might calm herself. She stared back. He nodded, pointed to the surface. She nodded.
With three kicks, Clay was at the surface, gasping in air. He took two deep breaths and plunged back down. He cut away more rope, pulled off about a fathom of chain, not nearly enough. Zuz remained weighted to the seabed. He knew that she was almost at the end of her reserves, that the little air he’d been able to give her wasn’t nearly enough. In her state of agitation, she was burning through her oxygen five times faster than normal. Seconds remained. Once more he steadied her, filled her lungs with whatever remained in his, looked her in the eyes, and kicked towards the light.
As he broke surface, the concussion of Manheim’s twelve-gauge pierced the air. He looked up, surprised to be alive, but saw nothing. He sucked in air, purged his lungs, filled them again, and dove. As he reached Zuz, he heard the rumble of the jet boat’s engine starting up, and then the roar as it accelerated and sped away. He cut away the last of the chain, gathered her in his arms, and kicked towards the surface.
Clay cut away Zuz’s ropes, stripped off her clothes and let the sea wash her. She was shivering, going into shock. He held her close, rubbed her back and arms a while, then he got her aboard. He wrapped her in a blanket, carried her below and laid her in the starboard berth.
The storm had passed and the sun had returned. Steam rose from Flame’s teak decking. He found Crowbar draped across the foredeck. His platoon commander was unconscious, bleeding from the head and shoulder, but alive. Clay made him comfortable on the foredeck, propping his head under a pillow from the main cabin. The gash in Crowbar’s head was nasty and would need stiches, but wasn’t life-threatening. He’d taken what appeared to be a partial load of shot in his right shoulder, most of it in the big fleshy deltoid. Some of the pellets were badly deformed and several had penetrated a few millimetres beneath the skin. Clay picked out what he could and bandaged the wound, but it was messy. He would need to get him to a doctor soon.
Clay scanned the horizon, but there was just the dark ridgeline of storm cloud moving off towards the mainland and the high-blown white-and-blue aftermath above and the darker blue of the channel below.
Clay went below and grabbed a bottle of whisky and the medical kit. When he returned topside, Crowbar was sitting up, his back against the mast.
‘That for me?’ said Crowbar, pain in his voice, relief.
Clay clambered forward, handed Crowbar the bottle, checked his wounds.
‘It’s not bad,’ said Crowbar, raising the bottle to his mouth. ‘I was behind the mast.’
‘You need a doctor.’
Crowbar tried to move his shoulder, winced. ‘It’s lekker.’
‘Manheim?’
‘Bliksem took off in the speeder,’ said Crowbar. ‘The other two are shark food.’
Clay nodded. ‘What are you doing here, Koevoet?’
‘Came to warn you.’
Clay applied a compress, tied it in place. ‘You came a little late.’
‘Did my best, ja.’
‘How did you know?’
Crowbar closed his eyes a moment, opened them.
‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’ said Clay.
Crowbar shook his head.
‘Manheim told me that I was bait. What the hell does that mean?’
Crowbar’s eyes narrowed. It was almost imperceptible, but for him it was tantamount to an exclamation mark. ‘What did he say?’
‘He said he didn’t give a shit about me or Zuz. That we were just the lure.’
‘Kak.’
‘What’s going on, Koevoet?’
Crowbar pushed himself up with his good arm, crouched, got to his feet. ‘Follow me,’ said Crowbar, stepping carefully towards the cockpit.
Clay followed him below into the main cabin. Zuz was there, curled up under the blanket, shivering.
Crowbar walked past her, opened the forward port wet locker, crouched and reached inside.
‘What the hell are you doing, Koevoet?’
Crowbar withdrew his hand, held it up for Clay to see. A small disc about the diameter of a tin of tuna and as thick again nestled in his palm. On one side was an opening – a USB port.
‘What is it?’ said Clay.
Crowbar handed it to him. ‘Transmitter. There’s a line that runs up the mast.’
The implications of this ripped through Clay like hot shrapnel. They’d been tracking him. Probably for a long time. ‘J
esus,’ he managed. ‘How long?’
‘Since Maputo. They went in and did it when you were testifying to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Johannesburg. I didn’t know until a few days ago.’
Clay slumped onto the starboard berth, put his head in his hands. Jesus Christ. ‘Who is “they”, Koevoet?’
‘Who do you think, Straker?’
‘The Broederbond.’
Crowbar nodded. ‘Question is, how did Manheim know?’
Clay looked at the object in his hand. ‘If I was the bait, who was the prey?’
Crowbar grabbed the transmitter from Clay’s hand, walked to the main hatch, and threw the thing overboard. ‘God damn it, Straker,’ said Crowbar. ‘Isn’t it obvious? He was after me.’
Part II
2nd November 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 09:35 hrs
I stand on the balcony and look out across the buildings of Ma’adi towards the Nile. This is one of the city’s older neighbourhoods and there are still big trees shading the streets and the walled gardens. The greenery attenuates the din of traffic along the corniche and cools the cement. A brume cloaks the city, hangs in the streets, drifts among the buildings. The colour is hard to describe, an admixture of wood smoke and eyeshadow. And the smell betrays its provenance. Above, the sky is clear and blue. The sun is already high and it is hot. If I lean over the railing I can glimpse the Nile, and beyond, through the haze, the washed-out green of papyrus growing on the banks of one of the islands.
Each morning since I have arrived here, the reality of my situation walks into the room and sits down facing me. It comes in the form of a dour Islamic matron. Her black headscarf is pulled severely around her face. Not a wisp of hair shows. Her skin is the colour of a dust-covered olive withering on the branch in one of the stony groves of my childhood. Black down shadows her upper lip. She informs me in my mother tongue that I am now a widow, childless and a fugitive. She knows there is vengeance in my heart. Repent, she says, in a whisper. Repent.
Absolution Page 7
