Heart of the Hunter

by Deon Meyer

  “The decision is yours.”

  “You mean I can decide if she can go or not?”

  “Yes, Vincent, just you. But you must bear the responsibility. And the consequences.”

  He looked at her, searching for clues in her eyes, suddenly wary.

  “I will have to think about it,” he said.

  “That is the right thing to do.”

  * * *

  He slowed down when he saw Petrusville. He had hoped the road would bypass the town, but it ran directly through. Koos Kok was right, it would have been better at night, but there was no helping it now, he must gut it out. He checked the fuel meter— still over half. Keeping the needle on sixty, he rode into town, one- and two-story buildings, bleached signboards, Old World architecture. From the corner of his eye he could see black faces from the lower town turning, staring. He was colorless, without identity under the helmet, thankfully. He stopped at the four-way stop. A car pulled up alongside him, a woman, fat and forty. She stared at the bike, at him. He kept his eyes forward, pulled away, excruciatingly aware of the attention. There was a sprinkling of activity in the hot, sleepy afternoon. Pedestrians. Cars, bakkies, bicycles. He rode with his ears pricked for alarm signals, his back tense as if waiting for a bullet. Kept to sixty, revs low, trying not to make a racket, to be invisible, something impossible on this vehicle. He passed houses and children by the road, a few fingers pointed— did they recognize him, or was it the motorbike? Town boundary, a sign saying he could ride 120 again. He accelerated slowly, uncertain, keeping watch in the rearview mirror.

  Nothing.

  Was it possible?

  A car beside the road. White people under a thorn tree, a thermos of coffee on the concrete table. They waved. He lifted his left hand.

  Signboard saying Vanderkloof Dam to the right.

  He continued straight on.

  Somewhere up ahead was the turnoff to Luckhoff— and the bridge over the Orange.

  Trouble must be waiting there.

  * * *

  Fourteen kilometers south of Koffiefontein the official of the Free State Traffic Authority sat at his speed trap.

  * * *

  “Department of Psychology,” said the woman’s voice over the phone.

  “Hi. May I speak to Mr. Van Heerden?”

  “You mean Dr. Van Heerden?”

  “Oh. Zatopek van Heerden?”

  “I’m afraid Dr. Van Heerden isn'’t in. May I take a message?”

  “This is Allison Healy of the Cape Times. Do you know how I can get hold of him?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to provide his home number.”

  “Does he have a cell number?”

  The woman laughed. “Dr. Van Heerden is not keen on cell phones, I’m afraid.”

  “May I leave my number? Will he call me back?”

  “He will be in again tomorrow.”

  * * *

  Thobela Mpayipheli knew the bridge must be within a kilometer or two, according to the map.

  A Volkswagen Kombi approached from the front. He watched the driver, looking for signs of blockades, the law, or soldiers.

  Nothing.

  He saw the green seam of the river, knew the crossing was just ahead, but there was no sign of activity.

  Was he far enough east? Was that why they were not here?

  The road straightened and the bridge came into view, two white railings, double lane, open, clear.

  He accelerated, leaving the Northern Cape, looked down at the brown waters flowing strongly, the midday sun reflecting brightly off the ripples. The sluices of the dam must be open, he surmised. Probably because of the rain. Over the bridge, over the Orange.

  Free State.

  Relief flooded through him. They had slipped up.

  What about His head jerked up to the sky, searching for the specks of helicopter, ears straining for their rumble above the noise of the motorbike.

  Nothing.

  Had the ride in the back of the El Camino slipped him through the net?

  It didn’'t matter. The initiative was with him now; he had the lead and the advantage.

  He must use it.

  He used the torque with purpose, felt the power flow to the rear wheel, how the steering rod got lighter.

  He wanted to laugh.

  Fucking beautiful German machine.

  * * *

  Fourteen kilometers south of Koffiefontein the official of the Free State Traffic Authority sat reading.

  The white patrol car was behind the thorn trees that grew by the dry wash, his canvas chair positioned so that he could see the reading on the Gatsometer and the road stretching out to the south. The book was balanced on his lap.

  So far it was an average day. Two minibus taxis for speeding, three lorries from Gauteng for lesser offenses. They thought if they came through here, avoiding the main routes, they could overload or get away with poor tires, but they were wrong. He was not over enthusiastic. He enjoyed his work, especially the part that allowed him to sit in the shade of an acacia on a perfect summer’s day, listen to the birds chattering, and read Ed McBain. But when it came to enforcing traffic ordinances, he was probably a tad stricter with vehicles from other provinces.

  He had pulled over a few farmers in their bakkies. One didn’'t have his driver’s license with him, but you couldn'’t just write a ticket for these gentlemen, they had influence. You gave them a warning.

  Two tourists, Danes, had stopped to ask directions.

  An average day.

  He checked his watch again. At quarter to five he would start rolling up the wires of the Gatsometer. Not a minute later.

  He looked up the road. No traffic. His eyes dropped back to the book. Some of his colleagues from other towns listened to the radio. When there were two officers stationed together, they talked rubbish from morning to night, but he preferred this.

  Alone, just him and McBain’s characters, Carella and Hawes and the big black cop, Brown and Oliver Weeks and their things.

  An average day.

  25.

  Everything happened at once. The director walked into the Ops Room and everyone was astounded, Janina Mentz’s cell phone rang, and Quinn, headphones on his ears, suddenly started making wild gestures to get her attention.

  She took the call because she could see from the little screen who it was.

  “It’s Tiger,” said Mazibuko. “I am awake.”

  “Captain, I will phone you right back,” she said, and cut the connection. “What have you got, Rudewaan?” she asked Quinn.

  “Johnny Kleintjes’s house number. We relayed it here.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s ringing. Continuously. Every few minutes they phone again.”

  “Where is Monica Kleintjes? Bring her down.”

  “In my office. Is she going to answer?”

  A nervous question because of the director’s presence, the figure at the margins, the big boss they almost never saw. They couldn'’t afford a messup now.

  Mentz’s voice was reassuring. “Perhaps it’s nothing. Maybe it’s the media. Even if it is the people in Lusaka— by now they must know something is going on, with all the media coverage.”

  Quinn nodded to one of his people to go fetch Monica Kleintjes.

  She turned to the director and stood up. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Afternoon, everyone,” the small Zulu said, smiling like a politician on election day. “don'’t stand up, Janina. I know you are busy.” He went and stood by her. “I have a message from the minister. So I thought I would come down. To show my solidarity.”

  “Thank you, sir. We appreciate it.”

  “The minister has asked the Department of Defence to track down people who worked with Mpayipheli in the old days and, shall we say, do not have fond memories of him.”

  “She is a woman of initiative, sir.”

  “That she is, Janina.”

  “And did she find someone?”

  “She did. A brigadier in Pretoria. Lucas Morape. They trained together in Russia, and he describes our fugi
tive as, I quote, ‘an aggressive troublemaker, perhaps a psychopath, who was a continuous embarrassment to his comrades and the Movement.’ ”

  “That is good news, indeed, sir. From a public relations angle, of course.”

  “It is. In the course of the afternoon the brigadier will release a short report to the media.” He prepared to leave. “That is all I have at the moment, Janina. I won’t disturb you further.”

  “I truly appreciate it, sir. But may I ask one more favor? Could you pass on this news to Radebe personally?”

  “Is he somewhat skeptical, Janina?”

  “One could say that, sir.”

  The director turned and walked over to where Radebe was sitting at the communication banks. Mentz concentrated on her cell phone, getting Mazibuko on the air.

  “You must know we are working with a bunch of morons here,” said Tiger Mazibuko.

  “How so?”

  “Jissis,” he said. “So many egos. So much politicking. Free State Command wants to run the show and so does Northern Cape. They don'’t even have enough radios for all the roadblocks, and Groblershoop is not covered, because the trucks have broken down.”

  “Slow down, Tiger. Where are you?”

  “Anti-Aircraft School. Kimberley”

  “Is that where the Rooivalks are?”

  “Yes. They are waiting in a row here. My people, too.”

  “Tiger, according to my information, Free State Command is covering the N8 from Bloemfontein to Perdeberg, and Northern Cape is responsible for the rest, up to Groblershoop. With the police as backup.”

  “In theory.”

  “What do you mean, ‘in theory’?”

  “In the Free State things look okay: they have fourteen roadblocks and things look right on the map. But between us and Groblershoop there are about twenty roads that cross the N8. The little colonel here says they have only sixteen roadblocks, and four of them have not reported back yet because they haven’t received radios yet, or they don'’t work.”

  “Do you include the police in that?”

  “The police are using their own network. The coordination stinks.”

  “You would expect that, Tiger. This thing came down on them out of the blue.”

  “They are going to let the fucker slip through, ma’am.”

  “Captain ”

  “Sorry.”

  She saw Monica Kleintjes coming in with an urgent limp, Quinn’s assistant behind her.

  “Let me see what I can do, Tiger. I’ll phone you back.”

  She stood up and went to Quinn. “Are they still calling?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “How are you feeling, Monica?”

  “Scared.”

  “There is nothing to be afraid of. Our people are already in Lusaka, and we will handle this thing.”

  The colored woman looked at her with hope.

  “If it is the media, say you don'’t know what they are talking about. If it is the people from Lusaka, tell them the truth. With one exception: tell them you are at home. don'’t tell them we brought you here. Understand?”

  “I must say I gave the hard drive to Tiny?”

  “The whole truth. Tell them why you gave it to him, when you gave it to him, everything. If they ask you if it is the man who is so much in the news, say yes. Keep to the truth. If they ask you if we have contacted you, say yes, there was a man who came to question you. Admit you told him everything. If they ask how we knew, tell them you suspect your phone was tapped. Keep to the truth. Just don'’t tell them you are here.”

  “But my father ”

  “They are after the data, Monica. Never forget that. Your father is safe as long as that is the case. And moreover, we have teams in Lusaka. Everything is under control.”

  Monica’s eyes stayed wide, but she nodded.

  You are not your father’s child, thought Janina. There was nothing of Johnny Kleintjes’s quiet strength. Perhaps that will work in our favor.

  “Ma’am,” said Rahjev Rajkumar, “something is brewing.”

  She looked at the Indian tapping a fat finger on the computer screen of one of his assistants.

  “I’m coming,” she said. “Quinn, let Monica answer if they phone again.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  As she moved toward Rajkumar, she could see the director and Radebe deep in conversation in the corner at the radio panel. She could see Radebe talking fervently waving his hands, the director small and defenseless against the onslaught, but she could not hear a single word. Let him see what she had to deal with. Let him see how she was undermined. Then there would be no trouble when she transferred Vincent Radebe to lighter duties.

  The Indian shifted his considerable bulk to make room for her. On the screen was the BMW motorcycle website.

  “Look at this,” he said. “We have been monitoring them all afternoon.”

  She read. Messages, one after another.

  This is going to be better than the annual gathering We are four guys, leaving at 13:00. See you in Kimberley

  — John S., Johannesburg

  I’m leaving now, will take the N3 to Bethlehem, then Bloemfontein and on to Kimberley. I’m on a red K1200 RS. If there’s anybody who wants to come along for the ride, just fall in behind me. If you can keep up, of course.

  — Peter Strauss, Durban

  See you at Pietermaritzburg, Peter. We are on two R1150s, a F 650 and a new RT.

  — Dasher, PM

  We are three guys on 1150 GSs, just like the Big Bad Biker. We will meet you at the Big Hole, will keep the beers cold, it’s just over the hill for us.

  — Johan Wasserman, Klerksdorp

  “How many are there?” asked Janina.

  “Twenty-two messages,” said Rajkumar’s assistant. “More than seventy bikers who say they are on the way.”

  “That doesn'’t bother me.”

  Rajkumar and his assistant looked at her questioningly.

  “It’s just a lot of men looking for an excuse to drink,” she said. “Seventy? What are they going to do? Carry out a coup d’état at Northern Cape Command with their scooters?”

  * * *

  “Department of Psychology.”

  “This is Allison Healy of the

  Cape Times

  again. I wonder if—”

  “I told you, Dr. Van Heerden will be in tomorrow.”

  “You did. But I was wondering if you could call him at home and tell him it is in connection with Thobela Mpayipheli.”

  “Who?”

  “Thobela Mpayipheli. Dr. Van Heerden knows him well. The man is in trouble, and if you could call him and tell him, I can leave you my number.”

  “Dr. Van Heerden does not like to be disturbed at home.”

  “Please.”

  There was silence on the end, followed by a dramatic sigh. “What is your number?” She gave it. “And your name again?”

  * * *

  The Reaction Unit’s members sat around in groups defined by the shade of the acacias next to the hard-baked red and white parade ground of the Anti-Aircraft School, between the vehicles and boxes. The row of trees provided ever shifting shelter from the merciless sun and dominating heat of thirty-four degrees Celsius. Two tents had been erected— just the roof sections, like enormous umbrellas. Shirts were off, torsos glistening with sweat, weapons were being cleaned, a few of Team Alpha lay sleeping, others chatted, here and there a muffled laugh. A radio was playing.

  As Captain Tiger Mazibuko approached, he heard them fall silent as a news bulletin was announced. He checked his watch. Where had the day gone?

  Four O’clock on Diamond City Radio and here is the news, read by René Grobbelaar. Kimberly is the focal point of a countrywide search for MK veteran Thobela Mpayipheli, who evaded law enforcers yesterday evening in Cape Town on a stolen motorcycle. According to Inspector Tappe Terblanche, local liaison officer for the police, a joint operation between the army and SAPS has been launched to intercept the fugitive. He is probably somewhere in the Northern Cape. A similar operation is under way in the Free State.

  During a news conference earl
ier today the minister of intelligence revealed that Mpayipheli, who is armed and considered dangerous, is in possession of extremely sensitive classified information that he has illegally obtained. In reply to a question on the nature of the information, the minister replied that it was not in the interest of national security to reveal details.