He could not see the man in the car. It was too dark. Even so, he knew it was Jan Kleyn. He crouched down in his seat as the other car passed. When he sat up again, the drapes were back in place.
He frowned. Two black women? Jan Kleyn had come out of their house. The chameleon, mother and child? He could not see the connection. But he had no reason to doubt van Heerden. If he had written that it was important, then so it was.
Van Heerden had stumbled upon a secret, he thought. I must go down the same track.
The next day he called President de Klerk’s office and asked for an urgent appointment. He was told the president could see him at ten that night. He spent the day writing a report on the conclusions he had drawn. He was superficially nervous as he sat waiting in the president’s antechamber, having been welcomed by the same somber security guard as before. This evening, however, he was not forced to wait. At exactly ten o’ clock the security guard announced the President was ready to see him. When Scheepers entered the room, he had the same impression as last time. President de Klerk seemed to be very tired. His eyes were dim and his face pale. The heavy bags under his eyes seemed to weigh him down to the ground.
As briefly as possible he reported what he had discovered the previous day. For the moment, however, he said nothing about the house in Bezuidenhout Park.
President de Klerk listened, his eyes half-closed. When Scheepers was finished, de Klerk sat there without moving. For a brief moment he thought the president had fallen asleep while he was talking. Then de Klerk opened his eyes and looked straight at him.
“I often wonder how it is that I’m still alive,” he said slowly. “Thousands of boere regard me as a traitor. Even so, Nelson Mandela is the one picked out in the report as the intended victim of an assassination attempt.”
President de Klerk fell silent. Scheepers could see he was thinking hard.
“There is something in the report that disturbs me,” he said. “Let us assume there are red herrings laid out in appropriate places. Let us imagine two different sets of circumstances. One is that it’s me, the president, who is the intended victim. I’d like you to read the report with that in mind, Scheepers. I’d also like you to consider the possibility that these people intend to attack both my friend Mandela and myself. That doesn’t mean I’m excluding the possibility that it really is Mandela these lunatics are after. I just want you to think critically about what you are doing. Pieter van Heerden was murdered. That means there are eyes and ears everywhere. Experience has taught me that red herrings are an important part of intelligence work. Do you follow me?”
“Yes,” said Scheepers.
“I’ll be expecting your conclusions within the next two days. I’m afraid I can’t give you any more time than that.”
“I still believe Pieter van Heerden’s conclusions indicate it’s Nelson Mandela they intend to kill,” said Scheepers.
“Believe?” said de Klerk. “I believe in God. But I don’t know if he exists. Nor do I know if there is more than one.”
Scheepers was dumbfounded by the response. But he understood what de Klerk meant.
The president raised his hands, then let them drop on his desk.
“A committee,” he said thoughtfully. “That wants to frustrate all we’ve achieved. Dismantling in a just way policies that have gone wrong. They are trying to open the floodgates over our country. They will not be allowed to do that.”
“Of course not,” said Scheepers.
De Klerk was lost in thought once more. Scheepers waited without saying anything.
“Every day I expect some crazy fanatic to get to me,” he said circumspectly. “I think about what happened to my predecessor Verwoerd. Stabbed to death in parliament. I am aware the same could happen to me. It does not scare me. What does frighten me, though, is that there isn’t really anybody who can take over after me.”
De Klerk looked at him, smiling slightly.
“You are still young,” he said. “But right now the future of this country is in the hands of two old men, Nelson Mandela and me. That’s why it would be desirable for both of us to live a little bit longer.”
“Shouldn’t Nelson Mandela get a greatly increased bodyguard?” asked Scheepers.
“Nelson Mandela is a very special man,” replied de Klerk. “He’s not particularly fond of bodyguards. Outstanding men rarely are. Just look at de Gaulle. That’s why everything will have to be handled very discreetly. But of course I have arranged for his guard to be strengthened. He doesn’t need to hear about it, though.”
The audience was at an end.
“Two days,” said de Klerk. “No more.”
Scheepers got to his feet and bowed.
“One more thing,” said de Klerk. “You mustn’t forget what happened to van Heerden. Be careful.”
It was not until he had left the government building that what President de Klerk said really sunk in. Unseen eyes were watching over him as well. He broke into a cold sweat as he got into his car and drove home.
One again his mind wandered to the lioness that had seemed almost white in the cold, clear moonlight.
Chapter Twenty-four
Kurt Wallander had always imagined death as black.
Now, as he stood on the beach shrouded in fog, he realized that death did not respect colors. Here it was white. The fog enclosed him completely; he thought he could hear the gentle lapping of waves on the shore, but it was the fog that dominated and strengthened his feeling of not knowing which way to turn.
When he had been higher up on the training ground, surrounded by invisible sheep, and it was all over, he did not have a single clear thought in his head. He knew Victor Mabasha was dead, that he himself had killed a human being, and that Konovalenko had escaped yet again, swallowed up by all the whiteness surrounding them. Svedberg and Martinson had emerged from the fog like two pale ghosts of themselves. He could see in their faces his own horror at being surrounded by dead bodies. He had felt simultaneously a desire to run away and never come back, but also to continue the hunt for Konovalenko. Afterwards he recalled what happened in those few moments as something peripheral to him, seen from a distance. It was a different Wallander standing there, waving his guns around. Not him, but somebody who had temporarily possessed him. Only when he yelled at Martinson and Svedberg to keep their distance, then skidded and scrambled up the slope finding himself being alone in the fog, did he slowly begin to understand what had happened. Victor Mabasha was dead, shot through the head, just like Louise Akerblom. The fat man had started back and flung his hands in the air. He was also dead, and Wallander had shot him.
He yelled out, like a solitary human foghorn in the mist. There’s no turning back, he told himself desperately. I’ll disappear into this fog. When it lifts, I won’t exist any more.
He tried to gather the last vestiges of reason he thought he still had left. Go back, he told himself. Go back to the dead men. Your colleagues are there. You can continue the search for Konovalenko together.
Then he walked away. He could not go back. If he had one duty left, it was to find Konovalenko, kill him if that could not be avoided, but preferably catch him and hand him over to Bjork. Once that was done he could sleep. When he woke up again, the nightmare would be over. But that was not true. The nightmare would still be there. In shooting Rykoff, he had done something he would never be able to shake off. And so he might just as well go hunting for Konovalenko. He had a vague feeling he was already trying to find some way to atone for the killing of Rykoff.
Konovalenko was somewhere out there in the fog. Maybe close by. Helplessly, Wallander fired a shot straight into the whiteness, as if trying to split the fog. He brushed aside the sweaty hair that was sticking to his forehead. Then he saw he was bleeding. He must have cut himself when Rykoff shattered the window panes on Mariagatan. He looked down at his clothes, and saw they were soaked in blood. It was dripping down onto the sand. He stood still, waiting for his breathing to calm down. Then he continued. He could follow Konovalenko’s tracks in the sand. He tucked the pistol in his belt. He held the shotgun cocked and ready, at hip level. It seemed to him from Konovalenko’s footprints that he had been moving quickly, running perhaps. He speeded up, following the scent like a dog. The thick fog suddenly gave him the impression he was standing still while the sand was moving. Just then,
