the investigation.”
“I’ll tell them,” said Scheepers. “They’ll open the door for you when you come back.”
Borstlap left the house.
Miranda had spread a blanket over Jan Kleyn’s body. Scheepers suddenly felt tired of all the lies surrounding him, lies that were partly within himself as well.
“I know it was your daughter who shot him,” he said. “But that doesn’t matter. Not as far as I’m concerned, at least. If it matters to you, I’m afraid that’s something you’ll have to deal with yourselves. But the body will disappear later tonight. The police officer who came here with me will pick it up. He’s going to refer to it as suicide. Nobody will know what actually happened. I can guarantee that for you.”
Scheepers detected a gleam of surprised gratitude in Miranda’s eyes.
“In a sense, maybe it was suicide,” he said. “A man who lives like him maybe shouldn’t expect anything else.”
“I can’t even cry over him,” said Miranda. “There’s nothing there.”
“I hated him,” said Matilda suddenly.
Scheepers could see she was crying.
Killing a human being, he thought. However much you hate somebody, no matter how desperate you were, there will be a wound in your soul that will never heal. He was her father after all, the father she didn’t choose, but couldn’t get rid of.
He did not stay long, as he could see they needed each other more than anything else. But when Miranda asked him to return, he promised to do so.
“We’re going to move out,” she said.
“Where to?”
She threw her arms wide.
“That’s something I can’t decide alone. Maybe it’s best if Matilda decides?”
Scheepers drove home for dinner. He was thoughtful and distant. When Judith asked how much longer this special assignment was going to go on, he felt guilty.
“It’ll be over soon,” he said.
Borstlap called just before midnight.
“I thought I’d better tell you Jan Kleyn has committed suicide,” he said. “They’ll find him tomorrow morning in a parking lot somewhere between Johannesburg and Pretoria.”
Who is the strong man now, wondered Scheepers. Who will be directing the Committee now?
Inspector Borstlap lived in the suburb of Kensington, one of the oldest in Johannesburg. His wife was a nurse on permanent night duty at the big army camp in town. As their three children had left the nest, Borstlap spent most weekday evenings alone in the house. He was generally so tired when he came home from work, he did not have the strength to do anything but watch television. He sometimes went down to a little hobby room he had made for himself in the basement. He cut out silhouettes. It was an art he had learned from his father, although he had never managed to be as skillful as he was. But it was a restful occupation, carefully but boldly cutting out faces in black paper. That particular evening, when he had transported Jan Kleyn to the dimly lit parking lot he knew about because there had been a murder there not long ago, he found it difficult to relax when he got back home. He was going to cut out silhouettes of his children, but he was also thinking about the work he had been doing these last few days with Scheepers. His first reaction was that he enjoyed working with the young lawyer. Scheepers was intelligent and energetic, and he had imagination to boot. He listened to what others had to say, and he did not hesitate to admit he was wrong when appropriate. But Borstlap wondered what his assignment really was. He realized it was something serious, a conspiracy, a threatened assassination of Nelson Mandela that had to be prevented. But apart from that, his knowledge was pretty scanty. He suspected there was a gigantic conspiracy, but the only one he knew was involved was Jan Kleyn. He sometimes had the impression he was taking part in an investigation with a blindfold on. He said that to Scheepers, who told him he understood. But there was nothing he could do to help. His hands were tied by the level of secrecy he was working under.
When the strange telex message from Sweden landed on his desk that Monday morning, Scheepers had immediately gone into high gear. After a couple of hours they tracked down Victor Mabasha in the register and felt the tension increase when it was established that he had frequently been suspected of being a professional killer engaged in contract murders. He had never been convicted. Reading between the lines of the case histories, it was clear that he was very intelligent and always went about his business with skillfully set-up camouflage and security arrangements. His most recent known address was the township of Ntibane just outside Umtata, not far from Durban. That had immediately increased the credibility of Durban, July 3, as the crucial setting. Borstlap had contacted his colleagues in Umtata without delay, and they confirmed that they kept an eye on Victor Mabasha all the time. That same afternoon Scheepers and Borstlap drove there. They joined up with local detectives and raided Victor Mabasha’s shack at dawn. It was empty. Scheepers had trouble in concealing his disappointment, and Borstlap wondered what they could do next. They returned to Johannesburg and mobilized all available resources to track him down. Scheepers and Borstlap agreed that the official excuse, for the moment, should be that Victor Mabasha was wanted for violent attacks on white women in the province of Transkei.
Strong warnings were also issued that no word of Victor Mabasha should reach the mass media. They were working around the clock now. But they still failed to find any trace of the man they were looking for. And now Jan Kleyn was dead.
Borstlap yawned, put down his scissors and stretched.
The following day they would have to start all over again, he thought. But there was still time, whether the crucial date was June 12 or July 3.
Borstlap was not as convinced as Scheepers that the evidence pointing to Cape Town was a red herring. It seemed to him he ought to act as devil’s advocate with regard to Scheepers’ conclusions, and keep a close eye on the trail leading to Cape Town.
On Thursday, May 28, Borstlap met Scheepers at eight in the morning.
“Jan Kleyn was found at just after six this morning,” said Borstlap. “Some motorist stopped to take a leak. He informed the cops right away. I spoke to a patrol car that was first on the scene. They said it was obviously a suicide.”
Scheepers nodded. He could see he had made a good choice when he asked for Inspector Borstlap as his assistant.
“There are two weeks to go before June 12,” he said. “Just over a month to July 3. In other words, we still have time to track down Victor Mabasha. I’m not a cop, but I would think that gives us plenty of time.”
“It all depends,” said Borstlap. “Victor Mabasha is an experienced criminal. He can remain hidden for long periods. He could disappear in some township or other, and then we would never find him,”
“We have to,” objected Scheepers. “Don’t forget that the authority I’ve been given means I can demand practically unlimited resources.”
“That’s not the way to find him,” said Borstlap. “You could get the army to besiege Soweto and then send in the paratroops, but you’d still never find him. On the other hand, you’d have a revolt to deal with.”
“What do you think?” asked Scheepers.
“Announce discreetly a reward of fifty thousand rand,” said Borstlap. “A similarly discreet message to the underworld that we’d be prepared to pay for information enabling us to nail Victor Mabasha. That’ll give us a chance of tracking him down.”
Scheepers eyed him doubtfizlly.
“Is that how the police go about their business?”
“Not often. But it happens, sometimes.”
Scheepers shrugged.
“You’re the one who knows about these things,” he said. “I’ll take care of the money.”
“The word will be out tonight.”
Scheepers turned his attention to Durban. As soon as possible they should take a look at the stadium where Nelson Mandela was due to address a large crowd. They must find out now what security measures the local police intended to take. They needed a strategy for how to proceed if they did not manage to find Victor Mabasha. Borstlap was worried that Scheepers was not taking the other alternative as seriously as Durban. He said nothing, but made up his mind to get in touch with a colleague in Cape Town and ask him to do some leg-work on his
