?I don'?t want trouble. Just give me my bag.?
?What are you doing?? asked Two.
?He?s got my pistol,? hissed One.
?You take the bag,? Mpayipheli told Two.
?What??
?Take the bag from him and put your pistol in it.? He shoved the pistol in his own hand hard against One?s chest, keeping him between himself and Two.
?Do what he says,? said One softly.
Two was uncertain, eyes darting from them to the passengers waiting in the departure lounge, trying to decide. He made up his mind.
?No,? he said, drawing his pistol and keeping it under his jacket.
?Do what he says,? One whispered urgently, with authority.
?Fuck, Willem.?
Mpayipheli kept his voice reasonable, calm. ?I just want my bag. I am not good with revolvers. There are lots of people here. Someone might get hurt.?
Stalemate. Mpayipheli and Willem intimately close, Two a meter away.
?Jissis, Alfred, do what the fucker says. Where can he go??
At last: ?You can explain to the boss.? He took the bag slowly from Willem?s grip, zipped it open and slipped his pistol inside, zipped it up and deposited it carefully on the floor as if the contents were breakable.
?Now both of you sit down.?
The agents moved slowly and sat.
Mpayipheli took the bag, pistol in his trouser pocket with his hand still on it, and walked, jogged, to the passenger exit, turning to check. One and Two, Willem and Alfred, one white, one brown, staring at him with unreadable faces.
?Sir, you can?t?,? said the woman at the exit, but he was past her, outside, onto the runway. A security man shouted something, waving, but he ran out of the ring of light from the building into the dark.
A bellow from the fat Indian??I?ve got him?? and Mentz strode over to his computer monitor.
?Thobela Mpayipheli, born ten October 1962 in Alice in the Eastern Cape, father is Lawrence Mpayipheli, mother is Catherine Zongu, his ID number is 621010 5122 004. Registered address is 45 Seventeenth Avenue, Mitchell?s Plain.? Rajkumar leaned back tri-umphantly and took another sandwich off the tray.
Mentz stood behind his chair, reading off the screen.
?We know he was born, Rahjev. We need more than that.?
?Well, I had to start somewhere.? Wounded at the dearth of praise.
?I hope his birthday isn'?t an omen,? she said.
Rajkumar glanced from the screen to her. ?I don'?t get it.?
?Heroes Day, Raj. In the old days the tenth of October was Heroes Day. When the Afrikaners celebrated their pioneers. That address is old. Find out who lived there. He?s forty years old. Too old to be Monica?s contemporary. Old enough to have been involved with Johnny Kleintjes??
?Ma?am,? called Quinn, but she would not be interrupted.
?I want to know what that connection with Kleintjes is, Rahjev.
I want to know if he served and how. I need to know why Monica Kleintjes went to
?Ma?am,? called Quinn with great urgency. She looked up.
?We have a fugitive.?
He aimed for the darkest area of the airport and kept running. His ears expected sirens and shouts and shots. He was angry with Monica and Johnny Kleintjes and himself. How did the authorities suddenly know about Johnny Kleintjes?s little deal?
They had known his name, the two gray suits. Had tapped a finger on the blue bag. They knew what was in there. Were watching him since he walked into the airport, knew about him; must have followed Monica to his house, so they knew about her, about Johnny Kleintjes, bloody Johnny Kleintjes. They knew everything. He ran, looking over his shoulder. No one was behind him. He had sworn to himself: no more violence. Two years he had been true. Had not shot, beaten, or even threatened anyone. He had promised Miriam those days were gone, and within thirty seconds after the gray suits had reached him it was as if all the promises were in the water, and he knew how these things worked? they just got worse. Once the cycle began, it couldn'?t be stopped. What he should do now was take the bag back to the woman and tell her Johnny Kleintjes could sort out his own mess. Stop the cycle before it went any further. Stop it now.
He pulled up at the wire boundary fence. Beyond it was Borchards Quarry Road. He was breathing hard, his body no longer used to the exertion. Sweat ran down his cheek. He checked behind again; the building was too far to distinguish people, but all was quiet, no big fuss.
Which meant that it wasn'?t a police or customs operation. The place would have been crawling.
That meant
