The Soldier who Said No

by Chris Marnewick

  Captain Pierre de Villiers, apparently the target of the attack, has left the country and did not give evidence at the trial. He could not be reached for comment.

  If De Villiers had been the target, how could it be a hijacking? Surely it was an attempted assassination, Henderson thought.

  When he logged off his computer, he had a file two centimetres thick and a totally different view of Pierre de Villiers.

  Henderson would start with another visit to Macleans Road. But first he had to write a memorandum to the National Commissioner. The matter was far too sensitive to take through the usual channels, one rank at a time. When he had finished, Henderson sealed the report in a buff envelope and sent it to Wellington by special courier. The envelope was marked: Top Secret. For the eyes of the Commissioner only.

  THE SHOT

  Auckland

  January 2008 19

  De Villiers drove to the surgeon’s rooms in Gillies Avenue. Emma had decided that he was now fit enough to be left to his own devices for the day. The roads were quiet – the schools were out and the holiday-makers still away – and De Villiers had time to think of the decisions he would have to make before the day was over. The arrow had troubled him during the night, overshadowing his anxiety about his cancer. The arrow was the problem. He had seen it before, or at least one exactly like it, and he knew that Henderson had noticed his discomfort when confronted with it.

  The unmarked police Holden glided across the Sylvia Park Viaduct. Below the viaduct, intrepid shoppers were taking advantage of the reductions offered by the plethora of stores which had been arranged in a military formation where the army barracks had once stood. Several times along the short stretch of motorway before the Greenlane glide-off De Villiers found that his speed had dropped well below the speed limit, reluctance under his right foot. The traffic flowed with ease, the three lanes moving as one, no one in a hurry and no one weaving from lane to lane.

  De Villiers parked the Holden in the leafy parking area and reported for his post-operation check-up. He was early and was directed to the waiting room. De Villiers nodded to the other patients waiting there. They were mostly older men in their sixties and seventies. When he had come for the first consultation, the surgeon had performed a very painful procedure to extract six samples for a biopsy. When the pathology had shown the presence of cancer and the surgeon had to motivate his advice for a radical prostatectomy, he had said that the cancer was of the fast-growing kind which was usually found in younger men, leaving no option but to operate.

  It was scarcely a month since he had given De Villiers the bad news. It’s rather high on the Gleason Scale, which measures the growth rate of the tumour. If we don’t remove it, you’ll be dead in ten years.

  The surgeon now looked old and tired as he probed and questioned. He directed De Villiers to the examination bed and used a portable ultrasound device to scan the lower abdomen. The grainy images made no sense to De Villiers. The surgeon asked questions and De Villiers listed his concerns.

  ‘Now,’ the surgeon said when De Villiers had pulled up his trousers, ‘let’s look at the prognosis.’

  De Villiers sat down at the desk.

  ‘The pathology confirms that there were malignancies in a number of pods and that we really had no choice other than to operate.’

  Not knowing what to say or what was expected of him, De Villiers nodded. The room was small with a bay window looking out over the parking area. The garden was full of old trees and shrubs and flowerbeds of an earlier era, none of the boxy minimalist stuff of modern gardens. The furniture in the stuffy room looked older than the surgeon, and he appeared to be well past the usual retirement age.

  ‘I want to see you again in a month’s time,’ the surgeon said, ‘and then we can talk about sex and what we can do to deal with the leaking.’

  De Villiers watched the surgeon’s hands. They were uneasy, fidgeting with the pens and prescription pads on the desk.

  ‘Is the cancer gone, now?’ he asked.

  The surgeon didn’t meet his eye. ‘I’ll need to see you with your wife the next time. I’ll get my secretary to make an appointment for about four weeks from now. We may do another biopsy then.’

  He stood up and De Villiers followed him to Reception and watched while the secretary entered his name in the diary for an appointment.

  ‘We’ll have a blood test the week before,’ the surgeon said and handed De Villiers a slip with the details. ‘Go to the Path Lab near you. They’ll do the rest.’

  They shook hands and De Villiers left.

  Auckland

  January 2008 20

  De Villiers parked the Holden in the parking area set aside for detectives’ cars and waited for the lift. The adjoining lift opened and Kupenga stepped out.

  ‘The boss wants to see you,’ he said.

  De Villiers gave no sign that he had heard the instruction and turned his back on Kupenga when the lift doors opened. He punched the button for the admin floor and pressed the button to close the doors. The lift stopped and he went to the admin clerk manning the counter.

  ‘Morning,’ the clerk said.

  ‘Good morning,’ De Villiers answered as he placed the car keys on the counter. ‘I’ve been suspended and I need to hand you a form and my car keys. Could I please have an acknowledgement and could you please arrange for the garage to inspect the car and to confirm that there’s no damage to it?’

  The clerk looked at the form. De Villiers had signed it. ‘Detective,’ the clerk was polite, ‘I also need the car’s logbook.’

  ‘It’s in the car,’ De Villiers said, ‘in the glove box.’

  The clerk placed a date stamp on the form and initialled it before making a copy for De Villiers on the Xerox machine behind the counter.

  ‘I have another form for you to sign, Detective,’ the clerk said when he returned.

  He passed a letter on the Commissioner’s stationery across the counter to De Villiers. De Villiers stooped to read it. It was the original letter from the Commissioner confirming that he had been suspended without pay and it required his signature as an acknowledgement of receipt. The letter was dated 20 December. De Villiers signed without a word and placed his copy in his top pocket.

  He found the squad room packed with detectives. Extra desks had been carried in and there was a computer terminal on every desk. De Villiers knew some of the new detectives. They must have been drawn from other stations. It was obvious that some major operation was in progress. The room fell silent as he walked between the desks to Henderson’s office. The door was open. The glass had been replaced. Henderson was on the telephone and motioned for De Villiers to enter and to sit down. The telephone conversation ended with a ‘Yes, Commissioner.’

  ‘You wanted to see me, Sir,’ De Villiers said.

  ‘Yes,’ Henderson said. ‘Close the door, please.’

  De Villiers stood up and closed the door behind his chair.

  Henderson battled his instincts. The man in front of him appeared a most unlikely suspect, but the evidence implicating him was beginning to stack up. He decided to broach the subject in a roundabout way. ‘You were right about the Ridge Road stabbing,’ he said. ‘There were no South Africans involved. They’ve arrested two local boys, one born in England and the other a Maori boy from the area.’

  It had been on television and in the newspapers and De Villiers had seen the photographs. The victim was shown in a photograph produced by his family, a smiling young man wearing his gang affiliation – a blue bandanna – on his wrist. The gang had attended the funeral in large numbers and displayed their colours openly.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘How did you know?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘The South African boys here don’t carry knives, Sir. Their parents brought them here to get away from people who carry knives and guns.’

  After a pause De Villiers added, ‘It would also be unusual for a white South African boy to hang out with a Maori.’


  De Villiers saw Henderson’s jaw tightening.

  ‘That arrow is from Africa,’ Henderson said, looking for an opening.

  I know, De Villiers thought, and nodded.

  ‘The specialist from the university was wrong,’ Henderson said.

  De Villiers nodded again, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘The Commissioner is concerned about the investigation,’ Henderson said when there was no further reaction from De Villiers.

  Then, realising he might have confused De Villiers, added, ‘Into the attempted assassination of the Prime Minister.’

  It was the first word De Villiers had heard about an attempt on the Prime Minister’s life.

  De Villiers’s concerns about the arrow deepened. ‘Was that arrow used in an attempt to kill the Prime Minister?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  De Villiers couldn’t believe his ears. ‘When did it happen?’

  Henderson was quick with the answer. ‘At nine-fifteen on the 17th of December.’

  ‘Here in Auckland?’

  ‘In Mt Eden, at the Prime Minister’s house.’

  ‘How is that possible,’ De Villiers asked, ‘with the Diplomatic Protection Unit occupying the house next door?’

  ‘Those goons couldn’t protect their grandmother from a mosquito,’ Henderson said.

  Henderson moved some papers on his desk. ‘The Commissioner is concerned about the investigation,’ he said a second time, without looking up. ‘The arrow is foreign and you’ve confirmed his suspicion that the arrow is from Africa. That gives the case an international connection. That’s our desk.’

  De Villiers nodded again, not trusting his voice. He could see where this was leading, why he had been called in to see Henderson. The arrow was the problem. He knew that arrow.

  He stood up. He tapped the letter in his top pocket and said, ‘I’ve been suspended, remember. I don’t work here any more.’

  Henderson stood up too. ‘The Deputy Commissioner has countermanded that,’ he said.

  De Villiers shook his head. ‘I’ve handed in my car keys and was made to sign an acknowledgement of receipt of the notification of suspension signed by the Commissioner himself.’

  ‘That has to be a mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake,’ De Villiers insisted. ‘The letter says in the clearest terms that I’ve been suspended without pay or benefits.’

  Henderson sat down and indicated that De Villiers should sit down too. ‘You can help us find out where that arrow comes from, who had it, and who took a shot at the PM.’

  De Villiers nodded as Henderson stated the obvious. ‘If we know where it comes from and who had it, we have a good shot at finding the man who tried to assassinate the PM. This is serious. It’s not like painting a gang logo on her fence or putting a brick through the window of her constituency office.’

  De Villiers had to nod again. It was all true.

  ‘And I need to hear from you what you know about this. It’s obvious that you know something about that arrow. I can see that,’ Henderson said. ‘You know something about that arrow.’

  But De Villiers didn’t have an answer ready. He needed time to think.

  ‘I don’t work here any more,’ he said and walked out of Henderson’s office. ‘And even if I did, I would be on sick leave,’ he muttered as he walked past his old desk. A young policewoman sat in his chair. There was a photo of a baby on the desk.

  Behind him, Henderson made a note in his diary.

  Refused to cooperate in the investigation.

  He paused for a moment before he added, The third time.

  He listed the occasions.

  In hospital. At the Hotel du Vin. Today.

  He underlined the next phrase.

  Three times!

  De Villiers made his way down towards the Ferry Building, lost in thought, as he recalled memories on the subject of assassination.

  Assassination. De Villiers knew its origins. He had been trained as a sniper. Although the badge issued to him designated him as a sharpshooter, he knew that he was a sniper, one step away from an assassin. Behind enemy lines, he had been taught, an assassination might well be necessary in war, and often is.

  Assassination is a legitimate tool in war, his instructors had taught him. The citation lay in a drawer at home, framed with non-reflective glass. It used to be on display when he was still proud of what he had done.

  Captain de Villiers receives the Honoris Crux for an act of the utmost valour in combat. Not only did he execute a dangerous operation with exemplary skill, but he also brought his spotter home after enduring enemy fire and pursuit over a prolonged period when the evacuation route had become compromised.

  He and Verster had been tasked to shoot a Russian soldier, a colonel, at a place called Techamutete, as a prelude to an operation called Askari. They were looking at a FAPLA parade ground from a little hill just over a kilometre away and saw their target in a splendid red tunic on the parade ground addressing the troops.

  It was a downhill shot, so it was one click down on the telescope for that. The wind was blowing from left to right, so they had to go two clicks left to accommodate that. Verster had checked every blade of grass and every puff of dust for wind strength and direction before De Villiers had lined up the shot. The distance was a thousand and seventy metres.

  The Russian was talking when the shot went off. There was no echo and De Villiers had watched through the scope as the bullet knocked the Russian over backwards. When the Russian’s cap fell off, a flock of blond hair cascaded around her shoulders.

  De Villiers winced as the image clouded his vision. He waited for the light to change at Quay Street.

  She had been a soldier, like him.

  Another red light brought De Villiers back to the present. The storm water drain under his feet carried its own environmental caution: Dump No Waste Flows to the Sea. Tall Noel cranes dominated the skyline to his right like military officers commanding the ships below and the containers stacked on the quay.

  Who would want to assassinate the Prime Minister, and why use a Bushman arrow? He walked past the Westfield Downtown Shopping Centre, oblivious to the hustle and bustle around him.

  At the Ferry Terminal De Villiers had to join the queue for a ticket, and stoically endured the delay when a tourist asked questions the Sikh behind the counter couldn’t answer and reinforcements had to be called from a back office.

  He took a seat on the left-hand side of the ferry, his thoughts racing across the water with the seagulls, darting here and there to look for a morsel to feed on. Devonport came and went, and Rangitoto filled the view from the window.

  He thought of the motives driving assassins. Ingrained injustices. Longstanding grievances. Symbolic killings to make a point. Stealing the fame of a celebrity. Psychotic lone killers. There had been many cases. Lord Mountbatten had been killed by the IRA to make a point. John Lennon’s murderer was after fame. One finds psychotic killers everywhere. Tsafendas had been one. That leaves ingrained injustices and longstanding grievances, the sphere of politicians.

  De Villiers thought of the assassinations of political leaders. Indira Gandhi. The Kennedys. Benazir Bhutto. Olof Palme. The Swedish Foreign Minister Anna Lindh was stabbed to death by a lunatic in a department store. Even a madman can be an assassin.

  Perhaps you need to be mad to be an assassin.

  Tsafendas had used a knife, and now there was this arrow.

  The ferry docked at Half Moon Bay and De Villiers stepped onto the wharf, still deep in thought. The arrow is the problem, he said to himself.

  Emma was waiting in her car.

  ‘We’re going to dinner,’ she announced.

  ‘We had dinner last week,’ De Villiers replied as he leaned across the seat to kiss her. He was glad that his abdominal muscles were no longer objecting to sideways movement. ‘At the Hotel du Vin,’ he added when he saw an argument coming.

  ‘No, no, no! That doesn’t count,’ Emma arg
ued. ‘We were hiding from the police.’

  De Villiers surrendered and squeezed her knee. ‘I need to take a walk first.’ He was hoping that his subconscious would find the answers eluding him.

  They went to the Basalt in Picton Street in Howick, a noisy but happy place serving good food and a fair range of beer. The seats were hard and De Villiers regularly shifted his weight from one cheek to the other.

  His mind was elsewhere.

  The stonegrill brought back memories of meals at the Spur in South Africa, where he had favoured steak served on a similar tile, called Hot Rocks. The smell of the steak on the tile and the happy noisiness of the Basalt made De Villiers realise that he was homesick. After nearly ten years in New Zealand, Pierre de Villiers was struck with a sudden, irresistible feeling of homesickness.

  The arrow had started it.

  He knew where that arrow had come from. Or, at least, he knew where he had last seen it.

  Back at the house he waited until Zoë was asleep before he turned on the home computer. He went straight to Google and entered south africa new zealand association. The SANZA website was offered amongst the many. The SANZA homepage proudly proclaimed its mission to make better New Zealanders of South African immigrants. Namibians, Zimbabweans and Mozambicans were also welcome to join. The annual dues were $20 per family. Please pay early.

  The latest newsletter opened under the click of the mouse. Immigration is not for sissies. Pig-hunting with bows and arrows. Mugabe will never step down and is already rigging the next election results. Sponsors needed for a destitute Zim family. There were advertisements for a South African lawyer – Die prokureur wat jou taal verstaan/The attorney who understands your language – and estate agents and dentists with Afrikaans names.

  These were the very people De Villiers had shunned from the first day of his arrival in New Zealand.

  There was a full-page feature on pig-hunting using bows and arrows. A hunter posed over the carcass of a vicious-looking boar, the hunter’s features obscured by camouflage paint markings matching those of his hunting jacket. The pig hunter’s name was given in the caption below the photograph. It rang a distant bell, but De Villiers couldn’t be sure. You walk around in the bush dressed like that, De Villiers said to himself, you’re likely to be shot by another hunter.