by Deon Meyer
82
, three of them had approached him in a coffee shop in Stockholm, one after another until he had fled, sure of a plot, some NATO counterintelligence operation. Eventually, a year later, Neta had explained it to him: it was just a thing they had, she couldn't say why. Agneta Nilsson, long fine blond hair and two wild weeks of passion in Brussels until the KGB had sent a courier to say that was enough, you are trespassing, looking for trouble. He, Thobela Mpayipheli from the Kei, had eaten white bread, the whitest to be had, sated himself to the bursting point but not his heart, his heart remained empty until he had seen Miriam. Not even in
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had his heart been so empty, waiting for the call from a man who was now minister, waiting for his reward, waiting to be included in the victory, to share the fruits, waiting. Days of wandering the streets, a stranger in his own land, among his own people. He had thought of his father in those weeks, played with the idea of taking the train to visit his parents, to stand in the doorway and say, Here I am, this is what happened to me, but there was too much baggage, the gulf was too wide to cross, and in the evenings he went back to the room and waited for the call that never came rejected, that is how he felt, a feeling that slowly progressed to one of betrayal. They had made him what he was, and now they didn't want to know. Eventually he went to Cape Town so he could hear the tongue of his ancestors again, until he decided to offer his services where they would be appreciated, where he would be included, where he could be part of something.
It had not worked out as he thought it would. The Flats had been good to him, but he remained the outsider, still alone, alone among others.
But not so lonely as now, not like now. Fevered chills, strange dreams, a conversation with his father that never ended, explanation, justification, on and on, words flowing out of him, and his father receding, shaking his head and praying, and then he forced himself to wake up, sweating, and the pain in his hip was a dull throbbing and he got up and drank from the tap in the bathroom of the cold sweet water.
* * *
Somewhere in the predawn Allison Healy awoke from sleep momentarily, just enough to register one thought: the decision to withhold the information that he had given her was the best decision of her life.
Had she known, in those moments when she had to decide? Had she known despite her fears and insecurities?
It no longer mattered. She rolled over, pressing her voluptuousness against his back and thighs, and sighed with joy before she softly sank away in sleep again.
38.
When Lien and Lizette crept into the double bed beside her, Janina Mentz woke up and rubbed her eyes. What time is it? she asked.
Lien said, Its early, Ma, sleep a little longer.
She checked the clock radio. Its half past six.
Very early, said Lizette.
Time to get ready, she said without enthusiasm. She could sleep for another hour or two.
Were not going to school today, said her youngest.
Oh, really?
Its National Keep Your Mother at Home at Any Cost Day.
Hah!
Failure to obey is punishable with a fine of five hundred rands worth of new clothes for every descendant.
That will be the day.
It is the day. National Keep Your Mum
Put on the TV
Watching TV so early in the morning is harmful to the middle-aged brain. You know that, Ma.
Middle-aged, my foot. I want to see the news.
Maaa leave the work until we go to school.
Its not work, its a healthy interest in my environment and my world. An attempt to demonstrate to my darling daughters that there are more things in life than Britney Spears and horny teenage boys.
Like what? said Lien.
Name one thing, said Lizette.
Put on the TV
Okay, okay.
Middle-aged. Thats a new one.
People should be comfortable with their age.
I hope I see the same level of wisdom on your report cards.
There you go the middle-aged brains last resort. The school report.
Lien pressed the button on the small color television. A sports program on M-Net appeared slowly on the screen.
The middle-aged brain wants to know who has been watching TV in my room.
I had no choice. Lien was busy entertaining horny teenage boys in the sitting room.
Put it on TV2 and stop talking rubbish.
isn't there an educational program
Shhh
details about the South African weapons scandal. The newspaper quotes a source saying the data Mpayipheli is carrying contains the Swiss bank account details of government officials involved in the weapons deals, as well as the amounts allegedly paid in bribes and kickbacks. A spokesperson for the Office of the Minister of Defence strongly denied the allegations, saying it was, quote, another malicious attempt by the opposition press to damage the credibility of the government with deliberate lies and fabrications, unquote.
The spokesperson also denied any military involvement in the disappearance of Mrs. Miriam Nzululwazi, the common-law wife of the fugitive Mpayipheli, and her six-year-old son. According to the
Cape Times,
a man identifying himself as an employee of the Department of Defence took young Pakamile Nzululwazi into his custody last night, after his mother was arrested at her place of work, a commercial bank, earlier in the day.
Meanwhile, rival motorcycle groups seemingly supporting Mr. Mpayipheli clashed in Kimberley last night. Police were called in to break up several fights in the city. Nine motorcyclists were treated for injuries at a hospital.
Moving on to other news
The other fear embraced her when she awoke and found Van Heerden gone. No note, nothing, and she knew the fear would be her constant companion until she heard from him again. Until she saw him again, the impulse to dial his number, to seek reassurance and confirmation, would strengthen through the day, but she must resist at all costs.
She stood up, looking for salvation in routine, swung the gown over her shoulders, put on the kettle, opened the front door, and retrieved the two newspapers. Went back to the kitchen, scanned the
Times,
everything was as she had written it, the main story, the boxes, the other two stories. She glanced quickly at pages two and three, did not see the small report hidden away, unimportant.
LUSAKA Zambian police are investigating the death of two American tourists after their bodies were found by pedestrians on the outskirts of the capital yesterday.
A law enforcement spokesman says that the tourists died of gunshot wounds, and the apparent motive was robbery. The names of the two men are expected to be released today after the American embassy and relatI'ves have been notified.
No arrests have been made.
She was in a hurry to get to the
Burger.
She opened the newspaper on the breakfast bar.
Weapons Scandal:
MOTORCYCLE MAN HOLDS THE KEY
CAPE TOWN Full particulars of the South African weapons scandal, including names, relevant sums, and Swiss bank account numbers of government officials are allegedly contained in the computer hard drive in the possession of the fugitive Mr. Thobela Mpayipheli the motorcyclist who still evades arrest by the authorities.
Sweet lord,
she thought,
where did this come from?
According to advocate Pieter Steenkamp, previously of the Directorate for the Investigation of Serious Economic Crimes (Disec), there was frequent mention of the hard drive during the hearing of evidence relating to alleged irregularities in the weapons transaction of R43.8 billion last year.
Come on, murmured Allison.
We conducted more than a hundred interviews and according to my notes
, at least seven times there was mention made of complete electronic data in the possession of an intelligence agency, said Advocate Steenkamp, who joined the Democratic Alliance in November last year.
My allegations will probably be dismissed as petty politicking. We will just see more coverup. It is in the interest of the country and all its people that Mr. Mpayipheli is not apprehended. His journey has more significance than that of Dick King who rode on horseback from Durban to Grahamstown in 1842 to warn the English of the Boer siege.
The fugitive motorcyclist was still on the loose at the time of going to press after leaving Cape Town on a stolen BMW R1150 GS (see article below) the day before yesterday. According to a SAPS source, Mpayipheli evaded government authorities at Three Sisters during one of the worst thunderstorms in recent memory (article on p. 5, weather forecast on S8).
An extensive operation at Petrusburg in the Free State also failed to apprehend the Umkhonto veteran last night. Unconfirmed reports claim that he crossed the border into Botswana late last night.
Allison Healy considered the report, staring at the magnets on her fridge.
Not impossible.
And if they were right, she had been scooped. Badly.
She looked down at the page again. There was another article, presented in box form beside the picture of a man standing next to a motorcycle.
By Jannie Kritzinger, Motoring editor
This is the motorcycle that created a sensation last year by beating the legendary sports models like the Kawasaki ZX-6R, Suzuki SV 650 S, Triumph Sprint ST, and even the Yamaha YZF-Ri in a notorious alpine high-speed road test run by the leading German magazine,
Motorrad.
But the BMW R1150 GS is anything but a racing motorcycle. In truth, it is the number one seller in a class or niche that it has created the so-called multipurpose motorcycle that is equally at home on a two-track ground road or the freeway.
While the GS stands for Gelä;nde/Strasse (literally veld and street), the multipurpose idea has expanded to include models from Triumph, Honda, and Suzuki, which all use drive-chain technology.
She scanned the rest, wanting to turn to the promised article on page two (MOTORCYCLIST IS PSYCHOPATH, SAYS BRIGADIER and MPAYIPHELI MUTILATED ME REH ABILITAT ED CRIMINAL TELLS ALL and THE BATTLE OF KIMBERLEY! BIKER GANGS HAND-TO-HAND), but her cell phone rang in the bedroom and she ran, praying,
Please, let it be him.
Allison, I have a guy on the phone who says he rescued the boy last night. Can I give him your number?
* * *
Thobelas plate was filled with sausage and eggs, fried tomato and bacon, beans in tomato sauce, and fried mushrooms. Hot black bitter coffee stood steaming on the starched white tablecloth, and he ate with a ravenous appetite.
He had overslept, waking only at twenty to seven, his wounds excruciating, wobbly on his feet, hands still trembling but controllable like an idling engine. He had bathed without haste, carefully inspected the bloody mass, covered it up again, taking only one pill this time, dressed and come down to eat.
In the upper corner of the dining room the television was fixed to a metal arm. CNN reported on share prices and George Bushs latest faux pas with the Chinese and on the European Community that had turned down yet another corporate merger, and then the newsreader murmured something about South Africa and he looked up to see the photo of his motorbike on the screen and froze. But he could not hear, so he went forward till he was directly under the screen.
the fugitives common-law wife and her son have since gone missing. Mpayipheli is yet to be apprehended. Other African news: Zim babwean police arrested another foreign journalist under the countrys new media legislation, this time the
Guardian
correspondent Simon Eagleton
Gone missing?
What the fuck did they mean by gone missing?
Captain Tiger Mazibuko ate in the Golf. He had pulled off the road two hundred meters south of the Zambezi bridge and he had the tasteless hamburger on his lap and was drinking out of the Fanta orange can. He wished he could brush his teeth and close his eyes for an hour or two, but at least he was reasonably sure the dog had not passed there yet.
He had stopped at every filling station, Mahalapye, Palapye, Francistown, Mosetse, Nata, and Kasane, and no one had seen a motorbike. Every petrol attendant he had gently nudged awake or otherwise woken had shaken his head. Last week, yes, there had been a few. Two, three English but they were going down to Johannesburg. Tonight? No, nothing.
So he could wait, his furry mouth could wait for toothpaste, his red eyes for healing water, his sour body could wait for a hot, soapy shower.
When he had eaten, he unlocked the trunk, lifted the cover of the spare tire, loosened the butterfly nut, lifted the tire, and extracted the parts of his weapon.
It took two trips to transfer the parts of the R 4 to the front seat without obviously holding a firearm in his hands. There were people walking and cars passing continuously between the border post a kilometer or so north and the town of Kasane behind him. He assembled the assault rifle, keeping his movements below the steering wheel, away from curious eyes.
He would use it to stop the cunt. Because he had to come this way, he had to cross this bridge, even if he avoided the border post.
And once he had stopped him
39.
The battle raged in him as he stood in front of the hotel, booted and spurred, ready to ride. The urge to turn around, to go back, was terrifically powerful. If they harmed Miriam and Pakamile Gone missing.
He had tried to convince himself that she could have taken her child and fled; if the media knew about them, there would be continuous calls and visitors and he knew Miriam, he knew what her reaction would be. He had phoned from his hotel room, first her house, where it rang without ceasing. Eventually he gave up and thought desperately whom he could call, who would know at eight in the morning. Van Heerden he could not remember the number, had to call international Information, give the spelling and hold on for ages. When it came he had to write hurriedly on a piece of torn-off hotel stationery. He phoned but Van Heerden was not at home. In frustration, he threw the phone down, took his stuff, paid the account, and went and stood by the motorbike. Conflicting urges battled within him, he was on the point of going back, Lobatse, Mafikeng, Kimberley Cape Town. No, maybe Miriam had fled; it would take him two days, better finish one thing, what if
Eventually he left, and now he was on the road to Francistown, barely aware of the long straight road. Worry was one traveling companion, the other was the truth that he had uncovered through an African song under the Modder river bridge.
* * *
I want to bring the boy to you, said Vincent Radebe to her over the phone.
Where is he?
Hes waiting in the car.
Why me?
I read your story in the paper.
But why do you want to bring him to me?
Because it is not safe. They will find me.
Who?
Im in enough trouble already. I cannot tell you.
Do you know where his mother is?
Yes.
Where? He answered so quietly that she could not hear. What did you say?
His mother is dead.
Oh, God.
I havent told him yet. I cant.
Oh, my God.
He has no family. I would have taken him to family, but he says there is no one. And he is not safe with me; I know they will find me. Please help.
No, she wanted to say, no, she couldn't do this, what would she do, how would she manage?
Please, Miss Healy
Say no, say no.
The newspaper, she said. Please take him to the office, I will meet you there.
* * *
All the directors were there NIA, Secret Service, Presidential Intelligence heads of
Defence and Police, and the minister, the attractive Tswana minister, stood in the center and her voice was sharp and cutting and her anger filled the room with shrill decibels because the president had called her to account, not phoned but called her in. Stood her on the red carpet and dressed her down. The presidents anger was always controlled, they said, but it had not been that morning. The minister said the presidents anger was terrible, because everything hung in the balance, Africa stood with a hand out for its African renaissance plan and the USA and the EU and the Commonwealth and the World Bank had to decide. As if all the misunderstandings and undermining with the whole AIDS mess was not enough, now we are abducting women and children and chasing war veterans across the veld on a motorbike, of all things, and everyone who has a nonsensical theory about what is on the hard drive is creeping out of the woodwork and the press are having a field day, even the
