coming to confiscate everything. And they’ll be here shortly.” He got up. “They mustn’t find me here.”
“Why, Mat? Why did you come to warn me?”
“Because we owe you, Van Heerden. All of us.”
It was only after he had said good-bye to Mat Joubert in reception and was sitting at the desk again that he realized he had to get hold of Hope. Carolina de Jager and her parcel must not be delivered here. He dialed her cell phone. “The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please leave a message after the tone.”
Jesus.
“Hope, don’t bring Mrs. de Jager to your office. Go…I’ll phone my mother. Take her there. I’ll explain later.”
He looked at his watch. Were they on the return flight already? Probably. Would she listen to messages before she came to the office?
He put out his hand for the telephone again. Had to warn his mother. He dialed her number.
“Hallo,” he heard his mother say.
The door opened.
“Morning, motherfucker,” said White. He held a document in his hand. “We have a love letter for you.”
¦
Marian Olivier, the other partner of Beneke, Olivier, and Partners, was an unattractive young woman with a highly arched nose, a small, narrow mouth, and a rich, melodious voice like a radio personality’s. “The document is in order,” she said.
“Nice to work with professional people,” said Black.
“Who understand all the big words,” said White.
“Please translate it for sonny-boy here, in easy-to-grasp concepts. He’s not allowed to play with all the dangerous toys any longer.”
“He must go home.”
“Find other toys.”
“Or we’ll lock him up.”
“That’s correct,” said Marian Olivier.
“Correct,” said White. “Such a nice, official word.”
“It’s also correct that we may search the offices,” said Black.
“Which we would like to do now.”
“We brought some help.”
“Fourteen men.”
“With itchy hands.”
“Who are waiting outside.”
“Out of decency.”
“Politeness.”
“And then we want to visit sonny-boy at home.”
“To make sure that he’s not hiding toys that are dangerous for a child of his age.”
“And unfortunately we’ll also have to search Miss Beneke’s little place.”
“We apologize in advance for the discomfort.”
“Sometimes our work is hell.”
“That is correct.”
“Everything is in order,” said Marian Olivier.
“In order,” said Black. “That’s another nice one.”
“Correct,” said White, and they giggled like teenagers. “I’ll stay here. Major Mzimkhulu will accompany sonny-boy a little later.”
“Unpack his toy cupboard. As soon as he’s shared everything here with us.”
“Like a good boy.”
¦
They ran in the rain to Hope’s BMW in the parking area at the Cape Town International Airport. And when they had put the luggage in the trunk and closed the doors, Carolina de Jager said, “Oh, how lovely to see rain again.”
Hope started the car, pulled away. “We wouldn’t mind a bit of sunshine. It’s been raining for more than a week.”
“The farmers should be grateful.”
“Too true,” said Hope, and pulled her handbag toward her to find money for the parking gate. Saw her cell phone. Better switch it on.
¦
At 16:52 on Tuesday, July 11, Major Steve Mzimkhulu of Military Intelligence’s Special Ops Unit died on the N7, one kilometer north of the Bosmansdam exit.
They drove from the city in silence as if Mzimkhulu’s comedy rhythm was disturbed when White wasn’t present, but the officer’s last words were in a more serious vein. “I must admit, sonny-boy, you haven’t done badly,” he said when they took the N7 exit.
Van Heerden didn’t say anything. Later, when he thought back, he realized they had been followed. He had been unaware. He had been thinking about Joubert’s words:
“Can you hear me?”
He nodded.
“You have a mother, policeman. Do you hear me? You have a mother. I’ll burn her with a fucking blowtorch, do you hear me?”
“Bushy,” he said, his voice faraway.
“You don’t know me, you pig, cunt, leave me alone or I’ll burn her. We should’ve burned the fucking will a long time ago. Leave me alone or I’ll kill you.” And then the muzzle was no longer against his face, footsteps, he tried to look, saw long hair, long, blond hair, heard the truck leaving, other cars stopping, rain against the Corolla, against his face,
¦
He was in the Milnerton MediClinic in a six-bed ward and the woman at administration wanted to know who was going to pay because he didn’t have a medical fund, and he wanted to go home and the doctor didn’t want him to leave because he had to stay for “observation” and until the injection against shock had worked, “perhaps tomorrow morning,” and then White was there and said he was Colonel Brits of the South African National Defence Force and insisted that Van Heerden be moved to a private room and that the state would pay if necessary and put two guards in front of the door and the woman from administration said she wanted a letter of some kind, because the state only paid after a fight, but they moved him to a private ward and the doctor said Brits had to leave him alone, he wasn’t ready to talk, he was going to sleep after the injection, and Brits said it was a matter of urgency and then they were alone, he and Bester “White” Brits, and the man stood next to his bed and said Steven was dead from a head injury and he said he knew, the ambulance men had told him at the scene, and Brits wanted to know how it had happened.
His own voice was faraway, his tongue slow and clumsy, his head thick. “I don’t know. There was…a truck, we were hit, I – ”
“A truck? What fucking truck, Van Heerden?” And in the wool of his head it registered that he was no longer
