The Soldier who Said No

by Chris Marnewick

  De Villiers slept on the couch in the lounge. He had to leave Pretoria at 05:30 to be at the Porsche Centre in Randburg by eight. The Porsche had been booked for a big service and it took time, but the time passed quickly. De Villiers was engrossed in his plans for Loftus, and even his cancer and the uncertain future he faced as a result could not penetrate his conscious thoughts.

  On the way to the stadium, De Villiers phoned Marissa and arranged to fetch her at noon the next day. He left the car in the parking lot of a shopping centre and walked to the stadium. The street was crowded with spectators rushing to the gates. He ran his fingers over the sharpened spokes in the spine of his notebook. All six were accounted for. Security stopped him at the gate and insisted on phoning through to the suite before they let him in. They even detailed a guard to escort him to the entrance to the corporate lounges. ‘You will find Mr Sibisi’s box on the left, Sir, the seventh door, near the halfway line. You can’t miss it.’ De Villiers made a mental note to leave via one of the other gates.

  Once inside the stadium, he moved the spokes to his top pocket.

  One of the killers opened the door to the corporate suite. It was a face De Villiers could never forget, the face of the man who had held the AK47 against his head and had shot Annelise.

  The killer escorted De Villiers to a man standing with his back to the game. It was Sibusiso Sibisi. He was holding a champagne glass and was talking to another man in a suit. ‘Welcome, Mr Botha,’ he said when De Villiers introduced himself. Sibisi pointed at the camera. ‘There will be an opportunity to take more formal photographs later, but in the meantime feel free to do what you journalists do, sniff around and take pictures. And the drinks are on me!’ He pointed towards the bar with his glass and laughed at his own joke.

  There were about two dozen people in the seats immediately in front of the hospitality area of the suite. De Villiers found a seat in the back row, a good position from which to study the crowd and plan his next move. He took photographs of the pitch. There were faint marks where the lines for the previous week’s rugby match had been. He pretended to study the spectators in the packed stands and made notes. Under the pretext of taking photographs, he evaluated the potential escape routes, taking in the finest details of the exits from the stands and creating a mental map for his exfiltration. When he was certain that he knew the layout of the stadium, he turned the camera on the killers and zoomed in on them. He took his time to study them one by one, the zoom, extended to maximum focal length, etching their faces on his memory forever. They smiled when he asked them if he could take their photo. De Villiers squeezed the camera’s shutter carefully, as he had been taught to do with the trigger of his sniper’s rifle, and was pleased to note that his finger was still steady, the shutter closing exactly between heartbeats.

  Click. Click. Click. One after the other.

  He settled down in his seat when the game started and took his time before he lured the first of the killers into the men’s cloakroom.

  He tapped on the killer’s shoulder. ‘Would you mind showing me where the toilets are?’ he asked.

  ‘No problem,’ the man said. ‘I have to go myself.’

  It was still well before half-time and the cloakroom was deserted. De Villiers slipped one of the spokes into his hand.

  Two minutes later he returned to the suite.

  It took all of six minutes to complete his operation. When the halftime whistle blew, it was all over.

  The spectators in the suite had been focused on the play and no one had paid attention to him when he left and closed the door behind him.

  On the way to the car, he took the cellphone apart. He crushed the sim card under his heel and threw the other pieces into the shrubs of the suburban homes lining the street, making sure that each part went into a different garden. He was forced to look at the killers’ faces one last time before he deleted their images from the camera’s memory card.

  He drove to the cemetery, convinced it would be for the final time. An exhumation was taking place nearby, and he stood in the diminishing warmth of the setting sun, staring at the headstones with unseeing eyes. He threw the unused spokes on the grave and left without looking back.

  It was near midnight when the phone rang in his mother’s lounge. De Villiers picked it up.

  ‘Pierre, thank God I found you.’ It was Johann Weber.

  De Villiers sat upright on the couch. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve booked you on another airline.’

  ‘Why?’

  De Villiers could hear Liesl Weber’s voice in the background before Weber spoke again. ‘Van den Bergh is after you. You need to get out as soon as possible.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Liesl Weber came on the line. ‘He came here with that nasty little man you told me about, the albino. They said I would get into trouble if I didn’t tell them where you were.’

  De Villiers shuddered. ‘So I could expect trouble at the airport?’

  ‘Liesl has booked you on Singapore Airlines for twenty past two,’ Johann Weber said. ‘She doesn’t bully easily, Pierre, but she was scared and you have to take this seriously.’

  ‘Where do I collect the ticket?’

  ‘It’s an electronic ticket. You can go straight to the airline’s check-in counter.’

  De Villiers wrote the booking number down on the last page of his passport.

  When Weber rang off, De Villiers picked up the phone and dialled Marissa.

  ‘Hello.’ She sounded half asleep.

  ‘It’s me, Pierre,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I can hear,’ she said. He could hear her breathing. ‘What’s wrong? It’s after midnight.’

  ‘I had to get hold of you urgently,’ he began. ‘We have a change of plan. We have to leave earlier.’

  ‘That’s okay. What time?’

  ‘Can I pick you up at eleven?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Can I go back to sleep now?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Okay.’

  When De Villiers said goodbye to his mother the next morning, she again called him by his brother’s name. She kissed him without showing any emotion. He looked into her face and realised that this would be the last time he would see her alive, and that in her mind he was dead already. He had to fight the tears during the drive to fetch Marissa.

  ‘You’ve shaved your beard!’ she exclaimed. ‘You look years younger and less scary.’

  ‘I don’t need a beard any more,’ he mumbled. Then he wondered why he had told her that. She knew too much already.

  They made small talk during the drive to the airport. De Villiers looked in the rear-view mirror frequently.

  He stopped in the designated area at the drop-off zone outside the International Departures lounge and lugged his canvas bag from the car. For a moment he and Marissa stood on the pavement not knowing what to do.

  ‘I’ve left a bottle of champagne and a letter in the car. It’s for my brother-in-law,’ De Villiers said.

  ‘Okay,’ Marissa said. ‘I promise I won’t drink it.’

  She stepped forward to give him a hug. She kissed him on the lips. De Villiers drew back.

  ‘I would have slept with you,’ she said, ‘if you had asked me to.’

  De Villiers was at a loss for words at first. ‘That’s all we would have done,’ he managed at last. ‘Slept.’

  ‘Mmm,’ she teased. ‘I’m not so sure about that. There’s something special about you,’ she added when he didn’t respond.

  Guilt tore at his conscience. He had involved her in his operation and had put her at risk. She could easily be labelled an accomplice. He shook his head. ‘There’s nothing special about me,’ he said. ‘Nothing good anyway. Now get in the car,’ he said. ‘Please.’

  He pulled at the door. In order to open it, he had to step closer to her. She put her hand on his cheek. ‘There is.’

  He watched
as she adjusted the seat and fastened her seat belt.

  ‘Drive carefully,’ De Villiers said. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine,’ Marissa smiled, and revved the engine. Then she pressed the button to drop the top and slowly drove off. He watched until the car disappeared around the corner of the parking garage.

  Inside the terminal De Villiers stood back and watched the queue at the Singapore Airlines check-in counters as it slowly snaked its way forward. He kept a close eye on the time and kept looking around to see if he was being followed, but no one paid any attention to him. Three-quarters of an hour before departure, he placed his New Zealand passport on the counter. ‘I’m sorry, but I made a very late booking on the internet.’ He read the booking number.

  ‘Let’s see what the system shows,’ she said and took the passport. The clerk squinted at the screen as her fingers raced across the keyboard.

  ‘Ah, yes, here it is.’ She looked up at De Villiers. ‘Mr de Villiers, you are in business class, first to Singapore and then from Singapore to Auckland. Shall I send your luggage all the way through and book your seat for the Auckland flight as well?’

  De Villiers nodded and placed his bag on the scale. A minute later he headed for the security check-in and passed through customs without any questions. Inside the duty-free area he carefully replaced his New Zealand passport in his pocket. He found a seat in the waiting area outside the boarding gate and sat down. He closed his eyes and felt the tension slowly draining from his shoulders. He had been expecting to see General van den Bergh or his major, or the police, but there was no sign of any of them.

  The tension returned when Robert Mugabe’s face appeared on the television screen. He had lost the election, but refused to stand down as President. ‘We are not going to give up our country for a cross on a ballot,’ he said to the camera. ‘How can a ballpoint fight with a gun?’

  De Villiers was reminded of Liesl Weber’s remark that democracy didn’t have the same meaning in Africa as it did elsewhere.

  He looked around for the nearest refuse bin. He retrieved his South African passport and his old identity document from an inside pocket, carefully tore up the pages one by one and discarded them in the bin.

  THE RETURN

  New Zealand

  June 2008 37

  The Boeing came in over the city and made a long curving turn over East Auckland, but De Villiers was seated at a window on the wrong side of the aircraft and couldn’t see his house. There was intermittent cloud and a fierce wind was blowing from the south-west, well above sixty kilometres an hour, the pilot had warned. De Villiers peered into the mist and wondered whether General van den Bergh had attempted to carry out his threat to have him arrested at OR Tambo.

  A number of aircraft had landed in short succession but De Villiers was processed quickly through the queue for New Zealand and Australian passport holders. The airport was clean, quiet, efficient, and welcoming, but he knew that there were difficult times ahead.

  ‘Welcome home,’ the Customs Officer said when she stamped his passport.

  ‘Thanks,’ De Villiers said.

  He took the red line to the Bio-Security table and asked for the most senior MAF officer on duty. The Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry was responsible for preventing or controlling the importation of all foreign items which might constitute bio-security risks. He was soon attended to by an officer wearing the insignia of senior rank on his epaulettes.

  ‘I’m Detective Constable De Villiers of the International Crimes Unit. I have two items which may be evidence in a criminal investigation, the details of which are confidential. I need to declare them and arrange for their safekeeping by MAF until they are required by the Commissioner of Police.’

  The MAF officer looked at De Villiers’s luggage. ‘Do you have them in your bags?’

  De Villiers pulled a fifteen inch tube from his carry-on bag. ‘No, here, in this tube.’

  ‘What are they?’ the officer asked.

  ‘Two arrows made of reed and sticks and with arrowheads made of galvanised fencing wire.’

  The officer opened the tube and emptied its contents on the table. The several pieces constituting the two arrows spilled out. There were six pieces: two shafts, two intermediate pieces, and two arrowheads.

  ‘Yes, I think we can arrange for these to be safely stored.’ The officer looked up. ‘How long do you think it will be before you need to clear them through?’

  ‘I think the Commissioner will send for them within a week, ten days at the most,’ De Villiers answered.

  The officer gave De Villiers a receipt, using his passport details as a reference.

  ‘Would it be possible to seal them in a vacuum bag?’ De Villiers asked.

  ‘That is standard procedure for all items which may constitute a bio-hazard, Sir,’ the MAF officer explained.

  At the customs scanners, De Villiers had to join the queue behind a team of junior rugby players returning from a tour to Australia. When his luggage came off the conveyor, he found that the rugby team had assembled at the exit, ready to do a haka. He had to wait while they lay down the challenge. After a decade in New Zealand, De Villiers knew the words in Maori and in translation and mouthed them in English as the players shouted:

  A, Ka mate,

  It’s Death,

  Ka mate

  Death

  Ka ora, Ka ora

  It’s Life, Life

  Ka mate, Ka mate

  It’s Death, Death

  Ka ora, Ka ora

  It’s Life, Life

  Tenei te tangata

  This is a man, a fierce

  Pu huru huru

  Powerful man

  Mana i tiki mai

  Who captured the sun

  Whaka whiti te ra

  And made it shine

  A, Upane, Kaupane

  It rises and sets

  Upane, Kaupane

  Rises and sets

  Whiti te ra, Hii!

  The sun shines, Hii!

  Emma and Zoë were waiting in the concourse. Zoë rushed to the front and De Villiers let go of his luggage trolley to pick her up. She held him tightly. Emma stepped forward and kissed him. The three of them clung to one another for a moment without speaking.

  When De Villiers turned to retrieve his bags, he found Henderson and Kupenga standing next to the trolley.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ Henderson said.

  De Villiers looked from one to the other. He had half expected them to be at the airport, but not to be this aggressive. ‘Do you have a warrant?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then get out of my way.’

  ‘We don’t need a warrant when it is a matter of national security.’

  De Villiers again looked from the one to the other and decided to call their bluff. He pulled his passport from his pocket and slapped it into Henderson’s hand.

  ‘There’s my passport. You know where I live. I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘Why weren’t you on the Qantas flight you gave us?’ Henderson asked.

  ‘I went through Singapore instead to buy my wife and daughter some presents,’ De Villiers lied. He pointed at the duty free bags in the trolley.

  Henderson tapped twice with the passport on the handle of the trolley, his eyes on Emma and Zoë. ‘I don’t need your passport,’ he said and slipped it into one of the duty free bags. ‘I want to see you at my office first thing tomorrow morning.’

  De Villiers nodded and tugged at the trolley. Kupenga had his hands on it.

  ‘Let go,’ Henderson said.

  It was Kupenga who blinked first. De Villiers turned away and put his arm around Emma. Zoë hopped onto the front of the trolley. ‘What’s in the bags, Dad?’ she asked over her shoulder.

  ‘Things,’ De Villiers said.

  ‘What things?’

  Things were, for the moment, back to normal, but Emma’s eyes told De Villiers that she had received a visit from Henderson and K
upenga prior to his arrival.

  A chilly south-westerly wind blew in his face when De Villiers put his bags into the boot of Emma’s car. Zoë held onto his hand and refused to let go. De Villiers sank into the passenger seat and let Emma drive.

  The roads were slippery. Auckland was in the grip of a severe, wet winter.

  The visit to the Auckland Central Police Headquarters was brief. Kupenga was not at his desk and the unit commander’s door was open.

  Henderson was formal. ‘You are to appear at a disciplinary enquiry on Friday, that will be the fourth. The complaints against you are detailed in this letter.’ He shifted a white envelope across his desk.

  De Villiers stooped to pick it up. ‘Is there anything else?’

  Henderson hesitated. ‘I just don’t get you,’ he said. ‘You’ve always been a good policeman, perhaps one of the best in my unit, but it looks like you’ve gone completely off the rails.’

  When there was no reaction, he added, ‘Better get some legal advice.’

  De Villiers pocketed the letter and walked slowly through the squad room. The number of desks was back to normal and the additional detectives drafted in to help with the investigation into the attempt on the Prime Minister’s life had left. He concluded that they must either have solved the PM’s case or have given up hope of catching the perpetrator.

  In an undefined way, he hoped it was the latter. He tried to make eye contact with some of the old faces, colleagues with whom he had worked for years, but they were unresponsive.

  He was still suffering from jet lag and in a foul mood, but on the walk to the ferry station the familiar sights and smells of central Auckland had a calming effect on him. He fell asleep on the ferry even before the ferrymen had loosened the moorings. They had to wake him at Half Moon Bay to disembark. When De Villiers opened his eyes and heard the wind whistling through the masts of the yachts at their moorings, he was startled to find that he was not in Pretoria. He drove home slowly, reminding himself that right-turning traffic had right of way at intersections.