They drove back to Kungsholmen while the technicians continued their work. They had barely entered Loven’s office when the telephone rang. The technicians out at Hallunda had discovered a tin box containing the same kind of tear gas canisters that had been thrown into that disco the previous week.
“It’s all falling into place,” said Loven. “Unless it’s just getting more confusing. I don’t understand what they had against that particular disco. In any case, the whole country is looking out for them. And we’ll make sure there’s wide coverage on the television and in the newspapers.”
“That means I can go back to Ystad tomorrow,” said Wallander. “When you pick up Konovalenko, maybe we can borrow him down in Skane for a while.”
“It’s always annoying when a raid goes wrong,” said Loven. “I wonder where they’re holed up.”
The question remained unanswered. Wallander went back to his hotel and decided to pay a visit to the Aurora that evening. Now he had some more questions for the bald guy behind the bar.
He had a feeling that things were coming to a head.
Chapter Seventeen
The man outside President de Klerk’s office had been waiting a long time.
It was already midnight, and he’d been there since eight o’clock. He was completely alone in the dimly lit antechamber. A security guard occasionally looked in and apologized for his being kept waiting. The latter was an elderly man in a dark suit. He was the one who had put out all the lights just after eleven, apart from the single lamp that was still burning.
Georg Scheepers had the feeling the guy could easily have been employed at a funeral parlor. His discretion and unobtrusiveness, his servility bordering on submission, reminded him of the guy who had taken charge of his own mother’s funeral a few years back.
It’s a symbolic comparison that could be pretty close to the truth, thought Scheepers. Maybe President de Klerk is in charge of the last, dying remnants of the white South African empire? Maybe this is more of a waiting room for a man planning a funeral, than the office of somebody leading a country into the future?
He had plenty of opportunity to think during the four hours he had been kept waiting. Now and then the security guard opened the door quietly and apologized-the president was held up by some urgent business. At ten o’clock he brought him a cup of lukewarm tea.
Georg Scheepers wondered why he had been summoned to see President de Klerk that evening, Wednesday, May 7. The previous day, at lunchtime, he had taken a call from the secretary to his superior, Henrik Wervey. Georg Scheepers was an assistant of the widely feared chief prosecutor in Johannesburg, and he was not used to meeting him except in court or at the regular Friday meetings. As he hurried through the corridors, he wondered what Wervey wanted. Unlike this evening, he had been shown straight into the prosecutor’s office. Wervey indicated a chair, and continued signing various documents a secretary was waiting for. Then they were left alone.
Wervey was a man feared not only by criminals. He was nearly sixty, almost two meters tall, and sturdily built. It was a well-known fact that he occasionally demonstrated his great strength by performing various feats. Some years ago, when his offices were being refurbished, he had singlehandedly carried out a cupboard that later needed four men to lift it onto a truck. But it was not his bodily strength that made him so fearsome. During his many years as prosecutor he had always pressed for the death penalty whenever there was the slightest possibility of winning it. On those occasions, and there were many of them, when the court accepted his plea and sentenced a criminal to be hanged, Wervey was generally a witness when the sentence was carried out. That had given him the reputation of being a brutal man. Then again, no one could accuse him of racial discrimination in applying his principles. A white criminal had just as much to fear as a black one.
Georg Scheepers sat there worrying if he had done something to invoke censure. Wervey was well known for his ruthless criticism of his assistants, if he considered it justified.
But the conversation turned out to be completely unlike what he expected. Wervey had left his desk and sat down in an easy chair beside him.
“Late last night a man was murdered in his hospital bed at a private clinic in Hillbrow,” he began. “His name was Pieter van Heerden, and he worked for BOSS. The homicide squad think everything points to robbery with violence. His wallet is missing. Nobody saw anybody enter the room, nobody saw the murderer leave. It looks like whoever did it was alone, and there is evidence to suggest he pretended to be a messenger from a laboratory used by Brenthurst. As none of the night nurses heard anything, the murderer must have used a gun with a silencer. It looks very much as though the police theory about robbery being the motive is correct. On the other hand, we must also bear in mind that van Heerden worked for the intelligence service.”
Wervey raised his eyebrows, and Georg Scheepers knew he was waiting for a reaction.
“That sounds reasonable,” said Scheepers. “There should be an investigation to see if it was in fact an opportunist robbery.”
“There’s another aspect which complicates matters,” Wervey went on. “What I’m about to say is extremely confidential. You must be absolutely clear about that.”
“I understand,” said Scheepers.
“Van Heerden was responsible for keeping President de Klerk informed about secret intelligence activities outside the usual channels,” said Wervey. “In other words, he was in an extremely sensitive post.”
Wervey fell silent. Scheepers waited tensely for him to continue.
“President de Klerk called me a few hours ago,” he said. “He wanted me to select one of my prosecutors to keep him specially informed about the police investigation. He seems convinced the motive for the murder had something to do with van Heerden’s intelligence work. Although he has no proof, he rejects outright any suggestion that this was a routine robbery.”
Wervey looked at Scheepers.
“We cannot know exactly what van Heerden was keeping the president informed about,” he said pensively.
Georg Scheepers nodded. He understood.
“I have picked you as the man to keep President de Klerk informed,” he said. “From now on you will drop all other matters and concentrate exclusively on the investigation into the circumstances surrounding van Heerden’s death. Is that understood?”
Georg Scheepers nodded. He was still trying to grasp the full implications of what Wervey had just said.
“You will be summoned regularly to the president,” he said. “You will keep no minutes of those meetings, only a few brief notes that you will later burn. You will speak only with the president and me. If anybody in your section wonders what you’re doing, the official explanation is that I’ve asked you to look into the recruitment requirements regarding prosecutors over the next ten-year period. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Georg Scheepers.
Wervey stood up, took a plastic wallet from his desk, and handed it to Scheepers.
“Here is what little investigative material the police have so far,” he said. “Van Heerden has been dead for only twelve hours. The hunt for the assassin is being led by an inspector called Borstlap. I suggest you go to Brenthurst Clinic and speak with him.”
That concluded the business.
“Do a good job,” said Wervey. “I’ve chosen you because you have proved to be a good prosecutor. I don’t like to be disappointed.”
Georg Scheepers went back to his office and tried to come to terms with what was actually required of him. Then he thought he should buy himself a new suit. None of the clothes he possessed would be suitable for meeting the president.
Now he was in the dimly lit antechamber, wearing a dark blue suit that had been very expensive. His wife wondered why he had bought it. He said he was to take part in an inquiry chaired by the Minister of Justice. She accepted this explanation without any further questions.
It was twenty minutes to one before the discreet security guard opened the door and told him the president was now ready to receive him. Georg Scheepers jumped up from his chair, aware of how nervous he felt. He followed the guard who marched up to a high double door, knocked, and opened it for him.
