Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  “Minister,” said the director in his soft, diplomatic tones, “while we are speaking frankly, may I place a few points on the record. This is the first well-planned counterintelligence operation we have attempted, and may I say it is high time. It is not only necessary but also ingenious. Creative. Nothing that has happened has jeopardized the purpose of the mission. On the contrary, the longer this develops, the more genuine it will look to the CIA. Granted, things haven’t unfolded as planned, but that is the way life goes.”

  “Is that what I must say to the president, Mr. Director? That is the way life goes?” Her tone was sarcastic and cold.

  The director’s tone echoed hers: “Minister, you know shifting blame is not my style, but if the members of the police service were loyal to the collective state, the media would not be having a field day. Perhaps we should place the blame where it belongs: at the door of the minister of safety and security. It is high time he sorted this out.”

  “This operation is my responsibility. My portfolio.” She had calmed down, but the mood was fragile.

  “But the behavior of another department is jeopardizing the operation. Undermining it. We don'’t shirk taking our punishment, but it must be deserved. The circumstances at the airport were such that we wanted to avoid an incident. Our people acted with circumspection. As for the weather: our influence does not stretch that far.” Janina had never heard the director speak with such passion.

  The minister was silenced. The director continued: “Consider for a moment the possibility that we can make a fool of the mighty CIA. Think what it would be worth on every conceivable level. Let them laugh at Africa. We will laugh last.”

  “Will we?”

  “We will conclude the operation successfully. And speedily. But someone must deal severely with the police.”

  “How quickly can you conclude this operation?”

  Janina knew it was her call: “Two days, Minister. No more.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Minister, if the Department of Defence and the police work together, I will stake my professional reputation on it.” Janina heard herself say it and wondered if she believed it.

  “They will cooperate,” said the minister fiercely. “What do I tell the media?”

  Janina had the answer. “There are two possibilities. One is to say nothing.”

  “Nothing? Have you any idea how many phone calls this office has had this morning?”

  “Minister, no country in the world allows the media to interfere with covert operations. Why should we allow it here? Whatever you say, the media will write and broadcast what they wish; they will twist your words or use them against us. Ignore them; show them we will not be intimidated. Tomorrow, the day after, there will be some other event to attract their attention.”

  The minister thought a long time. “And the second possibility?”

  “We use the media to our advantage.”

  “Explain.”

  “The line between hero and villain is very narrow, Minister. It often depends on how the facts are interpreted.”

  “Go on.”

  “The fugitive was previously a member of a drug network that contributed to the collapse of the social structure and ruined the children on the Cape Flats. He misused his MK training for intimidation and violence. We suspect he is still involved— there are large unexplained sums of money in his bank account. He is a man who does not hesitate to parasitize an innocent woman and her child; he does not even have his own house. A reckless man who has seriously injured a young white soldier with deliberate intent, a man who twice chose to obstruct the purposes of the state when he had the chance to surrender himself. Innocent people, good citizens, or heroes do not become fugitives. There are many ex-MK who followed another path. Who chose to build this nation, not break it down. Who even now fight the good fight in the midst of unemployment and poverty. And all we need to do is turn the facts over to the media.”

  The minister of intelligence nudged the gold-rimmed glasses farther up the bridge of her nose, thoughtful.

  “It can work,” she said.

  “You prefer the second option?”

  “It is more practical.”

  From the corner sounded the melodious voice of the minister of water affairs and forestry. “We must remember one thing,” he said.

  All the heads turned.

  “We are talking about Umzingeli.”

  * * *

  Talking nonstop, Koos Kok had unloaded two chairs from the back of his dilapidated twenty-five-year-old Chevrolet El Camino van, and now they were seated at the table, eating bread and tinned pilchards in rich chili tomato sauce and drinking cheap brandy out of enamel mugs.

  “I am the great Griqua troubadour,” he introduced himself in his Griqua dialect, “the guitar player that David Kramer overlooked, skeefbroer by birth, hardly voorlopig a child, always vooraan since I was little, norring crazy for music, langtanne to go to school .”

  “I can’t understand what you’re saying,” Thobela said, halting him.

  “I don'’t speak Xhosa, my brother, sôrrie, it’s a skanne, and Great-Granpa Adam Kok went to live with you and all.”

  “You’'re not speaking Afrikaans, either.”

  “Dutchman Afrikaans? Well, I can.” And his story emerged on a flood of shamelessly self-centered words, the wrinkled, weathered face animated with the telling in conventional language until he reverted to the tongue of his people and Thobela had to frown and put up his hand to get a translation. Here was the Troubadour of the Northern Cape, the entertainer of the “townies” who frequented the dance halls, where he sang of the landscape and the people with his guitar and his verses. “But I don'’t see a chance for the drukmekaar squeeze, I travel in summer, in winter this is my home, I make a fire and write more songs, and now and again when the feeling is too strong I will go jongman-jongman with the girls in Beaufort West.”

  That morning he had had the radio on in his rusty old Chevy bakkie when he heard the news and later listened to John Modise, so he knew about the big, bad Xhosa biker running around loose in the area, and when he saw the motorbike behind his winter quarters, he knew straightaway. It was the work of the Lord, it was divine guidance, and he was not going to look on with pa-phanne, no, he was going to help.

  “You are going to help me?” asked Thobela, his belly properly full and the brandy in his blood.

  “Ja, my brother. Koos Kok has a plan.”

  * * *

  Tiger Mazibuko called Team Alpha together at the open door of the Oryx helicopter. The rain had diminished; blue cracks shone through the clouds, the drops were fine, and the wind restless.

  “This morning I crapped out Little Joe in front of you all and I want to apologize. I was wrong. I was angry. I should have stayed calm. Joe, it wasn'’t your fault.”

  Little Joe Moroka nodded silently.

  “I just can’t handle it when something happens to one of my men,” Mazibuko said uncomfortably. He could see the fatigue drawn on their faces.

  “We are going to Kimberley Anti-Aircraft School. There will be hot food and warm beds. Team Bravo will do first standby. The army and police will do the roadblocks.”

  A few faint smiles. He wanted to say more, to restore the bond and minimize the damage. The words would not come.

  “Climb up,” he said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  * * *

  Allison Healy drove to the southern suburbs, to Johnny Klein-tjes’s house, as it was in the telephone book. She used the hands-free cell-phone attachment to call the office for a photographer and then dialed Absa’s number. She wanted to ask Miriam about Thobela’s alleged drug involvement. She did not believe it. The radio contribution was thin on facts, heavy on insinuation.

  “Mrs. Nzululwazi is not here,” said the receptionist.

  “Can you tell me where she is?”

  “They came to fetch her.”

  “Who did?”

  “The police.”

  “Police?”

  “Can I take a message?”

  “No.” She felt like pulling over but
she was on De Waal drive with the Cape stretched spectacularly before her. There was no road shoulder: she had to keep going, but her hands began to tremble. She searched for the number of the SAPS liaison officer and pressed the button.

  “Nic, this is Allison. I need to know if you have taken Mrs. Miriam Nzululwazi in for questioning.”

  “I wondered when you would phone.”

  “So you have got her?”

  “I don'’t know what you’re talking about, Allison.”

  “She is the common-law wife of Thobela Mpayipheli, the man on the motorcycle. Her employers said the police fetched her at work.”

  “I know about him, but I don'’t know about her.”

  “Can you find out?’

  “I don'’t know. ”

  “Nic, I’m asking nicely .”

  “I’ll look into it. And get back to you.”

  “Another thing. There are rumors that Mpayipheli was involved with drugs on the Cape Flats. ”

  “Yes?”

  “Who would know?”

  “Richter. At Narcotics.”

  “Would you?” “Okay.” “Thanks, Nic.”

  * * *

  “Till the day I die I will feel responsible for that man,” said the minister of water affairs and forestry. He sat silhouetted against the window, the late-morning light forming a halo around him. Janina wondered if it was sorrow that made his voice so heavy.

  “I was chief of staff: operations. I had to make the decision. We owed the Germans so much.”

  He rubbed his hands over his broad face, as if he could wipe something away. “That’s not relevant now,” he said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He folded his hands as if to pray.

  “Once every six months I had a visitor from Berlin. A goodwill visit, you might say. A verbal progress report, nothing on paper, a diplomatic gesture to let me know how Tiny was getting on. How pleased they were with him. ‘He is a credit to your country.’ It was always a tall, lean German. They were all lean. Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.’ Every time they would update the score. Like a sport. ‘He has done six.’ Or nine. Or twelve.”

  The minister of water affairs and forestry unfolded his hands and crossed his arms on his chest.

  “They used him seventeen times. Seventeen.” His eyes leaped from the minister to the director to Janina. “The one they couldn'’t talk enough about was Marion Dorffling. CIA. A legend. Thirty or forty eliminations— it boggles the mind. Those were strange times, a strange war. And Umzingeli got him. Sniffed him out, tracked him for weeks.”

  He smiled with fond nostalgia. “That was my suggestion, Umzingeli. The hunter. That was his code name.”

  He shook his head slowly from side to side; the memories were incredible. He had forgotten them; for a minute or longer he was absent from the room. When he began to speak again his voice was lighter.

  “He came to see me. Two months before the ’ninety-four elections. My secretary, well, there were so many people wanting to talk to me, she didn’'t tell me. She thought she was doing right to keep them away. Late one afternoon she came in and said, ‘There’s this big guy who won’t go away’ and when I went to see, there he was, looking apologetic and saying he was sorry to bother me.”

  The head shook again. “Sorry to bother me.”

  Janina Mentz wondered where this was leading, whether there was a point to all this meandering. Impatience welled up in her.

  “I was ashamed that day. He told me what had happened since the fall of the Wall. His German masters had disappeared overnight. His pay had dried up. He didn’'t know where to turn. And it was open season on him, because the West had ahold of the Stasi dossiers and he knew they would come after him. It was a new world and everyone wanted to forget, except the ones who were hunting him. No one at our London office knew him; they were new personnel, knew nothing about him and didn’'t want to know. He lay low for a while, and when he eventually came home and came to me for work, I said I would help, but the elections came and the new government and I forgot about him. I simply forgot.”

  The minister of water affairs and forestry stood suddenly, giving Janina a fright. “I am wasting your time,” he said. “It is my fault, I must take the blame. It is my fault he found another livelihood. But I want to say this. Something happened to that man, because if he were still Umzingeli, there would be at least four dead bodies for you to explain. If you can work out why he spared them, you have a chance of bringing him in.”

  21.

  Thank you, sir,” she said to the small Zulu on the stairs outside. He stopped with a serious frown on his face. “Not at all, Janina. I was just being honest. I really do think it is an ingenious operation.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Why didn’'t you say anything?”

  “About your name being on the list?”

  He nodded.

  “I didn’'t think it relevant to the purpose of the meeting.”

  He nodded again and walked slowly down the steps. She stayed where she was.

  “Are you Inkululeko, sir?”

  He walked to the bottom and turned and looked up at her with a faint smile before setting off on the long walk back to the office.

  * * *

  He lay in the back of the El Camino on an old mattress alongside the R1150 GS lying incongruously on its side. The baggage cases were removed and it lay next to the carton of stolen mutton (“A little something toward redistribution of wealth, I’m a skorrie-morrie,” Koos Kok had said), between bits of rickety furniture— two chairs, a coffee table with three legs, and the headboard of a bed. Four shabby suitcases were filled with clothes and documents. All this under a paint-flecked dirty canvas tarpaulin. The bakkie’s shocks were gone and the dirt road was very bumpy, but the mattress made it bearable. He lay curled in a fetal position in the cramped space. The rain was almost over, just the occasional shower against the tarp and the water dripping through holes.

  He was thinking of the moment when the door had opened, thinking of his self-control, his victory of reason over instinct, suppressing the almost irresistible impulse, and he was filled with satisfaction. He felt like telling Miriam. Sometime he would phone her and tell her he was okay. She would be worried. But what tales he would have to tell Pakamile in the evenings. Koos Kok the Gri-qua. “don'’t you know about Adam Kok, Xhosa? He went to live with you guys.” And he heard the short version of that history.

  The brandy had made him drowsy, and as they turned toward Loxton on the tar road between Rosedene and Slangfontein, the soft rocking of the Chevy lulled him to sleep. His last thoughts were of a river god. Otto Müller had told of the theory of two British scientists that animals deliberately behave unpredictably in order to survI've, the way the hare flees from the dog.

  Does it run in a straight line? Of course not. If it runs in a straight line, it will be caught. So it zigzags. But not predictably. Now zigging, then zagging, the dog always guessing, never knowing. The British scientists called it protean behavior.

  After the Greek god Proteus, who could change his form at will from a stone to a tree, from a tree to an animal, in order to confound his enemies.

  The big, bad Xhosa biker had become the big, bad Xhosa passenger. Müller would have approved of the change of form to avoid the opponent.

  His last conscious thought as he slipped into a deep, restful, satisfying sleep was of his friend Zatopek van Heerden, who would not believe that he had become the Proteus of his inherent nature.

  * * *

  Allison Healy had knocked, walked around the house, knocked again, but there was no life there. She leaned against her car in the driveway and waited. Perhaps Monica Kleintjes had gone out for a while. The photographer had come and left again, saying he could not wait, he had to get to the airport— Bobby Skinstad was arriving after the losing rugby tour to Europe. He took some pictures of the house, just in case. It was not an unusually large house, pretty garden, big trees, tranquilly unaware of the drama that surrounded the occupants.

  She lit a cig
arette. She was comfortable with her habit, ten a day, sometimes less. Nowadays there were few places where one could smoke. It was her appetite suppressant, her consolation prize, an escape to small oases through the day.

  She had learned it from Nic.

  Nic had seduced her while he was still married.

  Nic said he had the hots for her from day one when she had walked into the SAPS office to introduce herself. He said he couldn'’t help it.

  The affair had lasted sixteen months. An uncomplicated, chainsmoking man, a good man, basically, if you left his unfaithfulness to his wife out of the equation. Emotionally needy, not very attractive, an unexceptional lover. But then she was no great judge of that. five men, since that first time at University.