by Mark Minnie
It’s a cold, dark and miserable night. Patrolling a green zone entails the visiting of strategic points such as power stations, electricity boxes, railway depots, and so on. These points are all heavily manned by armed cops serving as guards. We make a notebook entry after visiting each and every site.
After two hours of driving, Etienne says he’s tired, so I take over the wheel. We don’t radio this switch in drivers through to control. Once Etienne is over his tiredness, I’ll hand the wheel back to him. It’s been a quiet night so far.
We’re three hours into our shift when radio control instructs us to proceed to a residential area not far from base camp. Someone has called in what appears to be an illegal gathering of people.
By now this area is well known to us. It’s generally free of violence simply because it’s so close to our base. We’re there within minutes and head to the given address, a block of flats. We see nothing unusual; there’s not a soul in sight. In fact, the night is eerily still. It’s calm and very cold. We peer into the darkness. Still nothing to see.
I bring the vehicle to a standstill. The noise of the diesel engine turning over is the only sound to be heard. And then the unmistakable crack of rifle fire breaks the deathly silence.
I’m still alive, I know that. If you hear the shot, it’s a given that you’re still alive. My partner’s also still alive. I know that by way of his incessant howling and cursing. My instinct is to put as much distance as possible between the shooter and us – as fast as I can. I’m off like a shot, driving the Land Rover as if it was a Formula One racing car.
I notice a small hole on the left side of the windscreen as I drive like hell to get out of the area. I stop only once we’re inside the safe surroundings of our base camp. Only then do I notice Etienne clasping his right ear.
I turn on the vehicle’s cabin light and pull his hand away. His ear is covered in blood. A lot of blood has also run down the side of his neck, staining his green camo police shirt.
Medics are on the scene within minutes. Once the wound is clean, the injury doesn’t seem to be that bad. Blood always seems to exaggerate things. The lobe of the ear has been shot off – or sheared off by glass fragments flying in his direction. Etienne will be fine, but the medics still insist on carting him off to hospital. It’s a precautionary measure, I suppose.
The incident marks the end of our shift and I make my way to the control room to submit a report.
The following evening I’m back on the parade ground reporting for duty. I notice that Etienne is absent. For this shift they put me back in charge of a Casspir, and I’m okay with that. I don’t fancy going out in a Land Rover twice in succession. The shift produces no noteworthy incidents. We book off knowing that we have a 24-hour break before resuming day shift again. I wake up late in the afternoon.
After booking off my shift the next day, I find a note on my bed. Bernie needs me to call her. This makes me worry. She knows the conditions under which I work and would only contact me if it were absolutely necessary.
I make my way to the canteen and call her from a public phone booth. I’m apprehensive as the phone in George’s office at the bar seems to ring for ages. Eventually Bernie answers.
She starts crying at the sound of my voice. Eventually she composes herself and relates to me an incident that turns my body cold. I realise that I need to act, and now. I’ve been blind to everything that has been happening around me lately. Bernie’s story has opened my eyes.
I don’t tell Bernie about the shooting incident that occurred two nights earlier. This would do her more harm than good in her current frail psychological state. Instead I assure her that she’ll be seeing me in a very short space of time. And then I hang up.
I start weighing up what happened to me two nights ago along with what happened to Bernie at around the same time, and I come to the conclusion that these incidents are not a random coincidence. Someone’s having a go at us in a serious way.
And whoever it is has made a big mistake.
24
The call
Bernie’s in danger and I know I need to get back home. I can’t protect her from my current location. I devise a plan. It’ll take one call, that’s all.
The following morning I report in sick, although there’s nothing wrong with me. Among the day’s sick, lame and lazy, I march to the medic building. The doctor asks about my problem. I pull a trick I learned long ago and tell him it’s back pain. It’s difficult to tell if someone is faking back pain – even for a medical specialist. The doctor examines me. I grunt in so-called distress at the right moments.
‘Muscular spasms in the back, Warrant Officer. Happens all the time. Too many hours spent in those damn Casspirs. I see it every day. Take a couple of these after meals and you’ll be fine in no time,’ he says to me, handing over a box of pills.
I read the inscription on the box – Ibuprofen. I’ve taken this stuff many times before when I’ve really had to.
‘Next!’ he calls.
I’m out of his office and now have time on my hands to put my plan into action. I have to ensure my exit from this place.
Etienne, the lad who had part of his ear shot off, has still not reported back for duty. I’ve heard that he’s holed up in a psychiatric hospital somewhere in Pretoria along with a couple of other cops. There’s bugger-all wrong with any of them. They’re playing the new card – post-traumatic stress syndrome. Doctors at the hospital are only too keen to admit a patient, especially if he’s a cop. Cops have brilliant medical aid, which ensures big bucks for the hospital. Some cops have been garnering six months’ sick leave on full pay by claiming PTSS.
I call the brigadier back in Port Elizabeth and explain my circumstances to him.
The brig understands my situation fully. I’m not having a go at him; I’m having a dig at the system. He’d rather have me fully fit performing duty, albeit in my hometown, than pulling six months’ sick leave on full pay. I also sense that he’s concerned about Bernie. He assures me that he’s got everything under control. I hang up feeling confident that my plan will succeed.
Six days later I’m sleeping in my bed after a night shift. The base camp lieutenant wakes me. It’s only 10 am.
‘Pack your bags,’ the lieutenant tells me. ‘You’re going home. Today.’
I look at him sleepily, managing to fake a look of disbelief. But he’s not conned.
‘Got some big brass to pull strings for you, not so, Warrant Officer Max?’
I give him an unconcerned wry smile.
The train pulls out of Johannesburg station at exactly 5 pm. I’m on board. I’m going home.
* * *
When Bernie meets me at the station, I see fear and uncertainty in her eyes. As I hold her close, I assure her that I will make things right. She’s using George’s car and drops me off at my office. My head is clear – I didn’t touch a drop on the train. I make my way to the brigadier’s office and the old man seems delighted to see me.
However, I’m not in the mood for niceties. I get straight to the point, no messing about. Lives are at stake here. I paint the picture.
My deduction is that my posting to Soweto was organised by someone who wants me out of the way permanently – preferably dead. Sending me to an area where people were supposedly ‘gathering illegally’ was a ruse, a set-up. An opportunity for some designated sniper to have a shot at me. Had their plan worked – and I had been killed – blame would have been placed on ANC cadres.
The bullet that smashed through the windscreen entered on the passenger’s side of the vehicle. That bullet was meant for me. No one knew that I was driving. And then there’s the fact that the vehicle that Bernie was driving – my car, to be exact – mysteriously went up in a ball of flames when she tried to start it. Makes one wonder.
Both acts were carried out at about the same time. The only thing that saved Bernie was the sudden appearance of smoke pouring out of the vehicle’s dashboard. She managed to get out of the c
ar in the nick of time. There was no insurance on this cheapie – I bought it from a colleague for R900, paying him off in instalments. The bastards destroying my car as well also pisses me off no end. They really are determined to scare me off.
All of this smacks of the handiwork of the Civil Cooperation Bureau (CCB), a covert military unit engaged in secret operations against enemies of the government, especially ANC members, purely in an attempt to lengthen the tenure of the National Party. The CCB snuffs out anyone or anything that points untowardly or negatively in the government’s direction. It’s a bunch of murderers, contraband dealers and pimps, in my book.
I’ve had my say. The brigadier nods in agreement. Now it’s his turn, and I’m about to receive the shock of my life.
25
Out in the cold
The old man is gathering his thoughts. The silence is deafening. I’m desperate to know what’s going on in his mind. Finally, he speaks.
‘Max, my son, I need to choose my words carefully so that you fully comprehend the precarious situation we find ourselves in. I was responsible for your transfer to Soweto, although at the time I did not realise it.’
He informs me that after our last discussion regarding the Allen/Wiley/Wingnut investigation, he had sought advice and assistance from an officer at the head office in Pretoria. It was this man, the brig tells me, who had requested to see the case docket.
‘That’s when they conveniently removed the items from your office,’ he says. ‘Soon after that you were shipped out. After hearing nothing from this particular officer for a while, I took it upon myself to contact him again. He literally jumped down my throat for simply enquiring about the docket. He let me know in no uncertain terms that the case had been buried on instructions from the very top.’
‘Where’s the case docket now?’ I interject.
‘Still with them. We’re not getting it back, Max.’
‘Fuck them. This isn’t right!’ I exclaim.
‘Max, stop being so stubborn and short-sighted. Think with your head and not your heart. I have, and everything’s crystal clear to me. Your only remaining suspect in this case is Wingnut, not so? You’ll need to find a prosecutor who’d be willing to question him. Then there will need to be a magistrate or judge who’d be prepared to preside over the case. It’s not going to happen, son. You’re talking about careers here.’
‘So what you’re basically saying is that our court officials are all a bunch of pussycats,’ I retort. ‘None of them have got any balls?’
‘They’re aggressive tigers when need be and wise pussycats when the obvious stares them in the face. I only wish that you’d be a wise pussycat right now. Damn it, Max, look at what’s happened to you recently – and to Bernie as well. The bullet through the windscreen in Soweto. Your car burning out. These are not simple coincidences. They’re bloody warnings, son. Can’t you get it into your thick head that someone wants to shut you up?’
The brig’s getting angry now. Is it because I’m simply refusing to let go of the case or are there other reasons? I’m not sure. I need to tread carefully.
‘And why is it that you can’t let things be, Max?’ the brigadier continues. ‘Why this crazy incessant drive to go after one of the most powerful men in the country? It’s a bloody suicide mission, that’s all.’
He stares at me sternly. But my answer almost knocks him stone cold.
‘Because it also happened to me, Brigadier. I was raped at the age of twelve. I’ve lived with it all my life. Haven’t told a soul until now. Two bastards had their way with me. The case never went to court. I know what those youngsters are going through.’
I return his stare. Tears well up in my eyes. This is not happening, I tell myself. I refuse to cry. I push the memories of that horrible day to the back of my mind. I’m in control again. And that’s a good thing. I cannot appear to be a weakling in front of the brig.
This is how I’ve lived ever since that black day. Pushing everything out of my mind.
The brigadier looks uncomfortable. Awkwardly, he invites me for lunch in the cafeteria. It’s a good tactic on his behalf. I need a change of scene to recover my composure.
* * *
After lunch we return to his office. The brigadier turns back to our previous discussion.
‘It’s on good authority I’ve been told that they want you out, Max. At least for a while. People are nervous. Hell’s bells, son, you know what I’m getting at. The president of the country is actively involved in keeping this story under wraps. You need to understand the seriousness of this situation.’
He tells me that a scandal of this nature would rip the National Party apart. The Progressive Federal Party is making great strides in unseating the Nats, and an impropriety of this magnitude could tip the scale in favour of the PFP in the next election. And apart from that, there is the disgraceful depravity of it all. That these powerful men who claim to be protecting the country are child rapists shatters the illusion of their superiority.
‘And another thing, Max,’ the brig adds. ‘Don’t breathe a word to anyone about what happened to you personally so many years ago. The bastards will use it against you. They will paint a picture of an unstable cop who’s manufacturing lies. They have the power to do it and they will ruin you.’
Reality sinks in. I’m on the losing side here. I feel sick to the core, absolutely gutted. There will be no justice whatsoever. I took on a case and now I’m being targeted. What the fuck?
‘So, where to now for me, Brigadier?’
‘Don’t worry, Max. We will never throw you to the dogs. It’s all been worked out. You officially resign. We make a thing of it. Let the word spread quickly that you’re out. The scoundrels will then rest easy. They’re already comfortable with the fact that the case docket is no longer in our possession. More than likely it’s already been destroyed by their lapdogs. Anyhow, you’ll be out, but not really out. Officially, you’ll no longer be a cop. But you’ll be working for me instead. A new brainwave has come out of Pretoria. Head office wants to implement it nationwide.’
‘What brainwave is that?’ I ask.
‘The establishment of a clandestine network of operatives supplying info to the cops from ground level. Ex-cops with decent records from all over the country are being pulled in to get this baby off the ground. Career cops do the follow-up investigations and prosecutions,’ the brigadier explains with a hopeful smile on his face.
‘So I’ll be a bloody pimp at the end of the day,’ I retort. ‘Out in the cold.’
He’s disappointed at my response but refuses to give up on his attempts to convince me to accept the deal.
‘You’ll be an informant, Max. Nobody will know what you’re up to. You’ll be given a handler to whom you pass on your information. Any info relating to drugs, prostitution and liquor offences – your field of expertise. The handler will also be responsible for handing you your salary at the end of each month. We can’t offer benefits. However, the amount of cash you’ll be receiving monthly will be sufficient to cover a new medical aid, pension, and so on. And you can always return to the fold once the dust has settled.’
‘So how much am I looking at each month in terms of pay?’ I ask.
‘R3 300,’ the brig replies.
Well, my take-home pay at the moment is R1 000 per month, including benefits. Not a bad proposition at all. And, like he says, I can always ‘return to the fold …’
‘What’s happened to the tape recorder, Brigadier?’
‘They obviously still have that as well,’ he says.
‘So my three witnesses, as well as innocent Suzie, are all in danger. Possibly the matron and doctor as well.’
‘The bastards won’t go down that road, Max. There’s too many players to take out now. You’re their major concern because you have a voice, a platform to retaliate from, simply because you’re a cop.’
Not for bloody long, I say to myself.
Before leaving his office, I assure the b
rigadier that I’ll play it his way. He’s happy.
Bernie is ecstatic at my news, although it’s difficult for me to comprehend her elation. I take some comfort in the fact that this is my birthday month, so I’ll get double salary in the form of a bonus. I decide that I’ll resign at the end of the month, to make sure that I get what’s due to me.
I’ve got two weeks left as a cop. I start drawing up a plan of action in my head. It’s going be a busy time for me on the outside. Do they really think that I’m going to let matters rest? All they’re doing is supplying me with more than enough time to get to the bottom of things. This could be a good deal for me. I’m actually looking forward to my time as a haasman (Afrikaans slang for ‘civilian’).
On my last day as a cop, I head to my office with a heavy heart. The quartermaster is ready and waiting. He takes possession of my firearm, serial number 338199, handcuffs and police appointment certificate, Force Number W84320E. I sign the necessary documents.
‘That’s it, Max. You’re free to go,’ he utters with an expressionless face.
I turn and walk away.
26
Life as a civilian
I’m finding it difficult to adapt to my new life. I come and go as I please, but there’s no routine. No conformity. No mates. Little wonder my head’s been permanently buried inside a whisky bottle for the past two weeks.
Bernie’s pissed off – massively.
I really can’t blame her. I haven’t been intimate with her since the day of my discharge from the force. I’ve also been avoiding messages from my handler. He must be in panic mode by now. I need to give him something in the line of information in order to justify my soon-to-be-collected monthly salary.
So the time has arrived to pull myself together. A cold shower and strong cup of coffee should clear my hangover. A quick glance in the mirror and I realise that I look like hell. My eyeballs resemble a road map and my cheeks are taking on a yellowish colour. The old liver is obviously in a state of revolt. Enough of this bullshit.
