She hurried back to the Ops Room, impatience gnawing at her.
?Look again, Rahjev. If he was MK, there must be something,? she said as she entered.
?Yes, ma?am.? But the Indian?s body language said he knew what the result would be.
?You don'?t believe we will find anything??
?Ma?am, the methodology we use to search the known data is very refined. There was nothing. I can run it again, but the result will be the same.?
?He could have lied to Arendse about his background,? said Quinn. ?Work was very scarce in the early nineties; people were prepared to say anything.?
?Things don'?t change much,? said Radebe drily.
?And now we have a fugitive sharpshooter with two pistols,? said Janina.
Rajkumar?s brain was working overtime: ?The ANC had a paper filing system, too: for Umkhonto we Sizwe. isn'?t it on Robben Island??
?Pretoria,? said Radebe. ?The MK files are at Voortrekker-hoogte.?
?What can you tell us about it??
?It was never much of a system. With the big influx of recruits after ?seventy-six, there was too much paper and too few administrators. But it could be worth looking.?
?What about the old National Intelligence Service?s microfiche library. The Boers computerized the index, but it?s a secure unconnected system. It?s still active, in Pretoria. We can put in a request,? said Rajkumar.
It was Radebe who made a disparaging noise, and Janina knew why. Her colleagues at the new National Intelligence Service did not command much respect from her and her people. But she liked the idea.
?If the request comes from high enough up, they will jump to it,? she said. ?I?m going to talk to the director.?
?Ma?am,? said Quinn, holding up his hand to stop her.
?What is it??
?Listen to this.? He selected keys, and the electronic hissing of the speakerphone filled the room.
?Tell us again, Nathan.?
?We managed to track down the owner of Mother City Motor-rad. His name is Bodenstein and he lives in Welgelegen. He says Mpayipheli isn'?t a mechanic, just a gofer. Quiet man, hard worker, punctual and trustworthy. He knows nothing about a military background.?
?Tell us about the alarm again, Nathan.?
?While we were busy with the interview, the phone rang. Bo-denstein?s security company reported that the bike shop?s alarm was turned off more than an hour ago and hasn?t been reactivated. He said he must go immediately, and we are following him there.?
?And what did he say about the key, Nathan??
?Oh, yes. He says Mpayipheli has a key to the place and he knows the alarm code, because Mpayipheli is the one who opens up in the morning.?
Mpayipheli almost fell before he was properly on his way. The power of the huge bike caught him totally unaware as he turned onto Oswald Pirow and opened the throttle. The reaction of this bike was so different from his little Honda Benly that he nearly lost it. And the size? the GS felt massive, heavy and high and unmanageable. He was shocked, adrenaline making his hands tremble, his breath misting the visor of his helmet. He wrestled the bike back in line and this time twisted the throttle with great care and progressed to the traffic lights at the N1. He pulled the front brakes and nearly tipped again, the ABS brakes kicking in hard and urgent. He stopped, breathing heavily, knees trembling, not willing to die on this German machine. The lights turned green, slowly he pulled away, turning slowly to the right with an over-wide arc and exaggerated care, keeping the revs low, through the gears? bloody hell, the thing had power, he was at ioo kilometers per hour before he was properly in third gear, that would be just about the Benly?s top speed.
The traffic on the freeway was light, but he was painfully aware of the cars around him. He was riding slower than the flow of traffic, cringing in the left lane, trying to get a feel for the GS; once you were going, the balance was easier, but the handlebars felt too wide, the tank in front of him impossibly big.
He checked again where the blinkers were, how the dims and brights worked, his eyes flicking between the switches and the road ahead, his following distance was long, his speed just under a hundred. He had made a mistake, he had thought this was the way to get a long way from Cape Town very fast; if he could still make Bloemfontein tonight, he would be away because he could catch a plane there, they wouldn'?t be watching the Bloemfontein airport. But this thing was practically unrideable; he had made a mistake, it would have been quicker to take a minibus taxi, and it was dark, too, the lights of Century City reflected off the helmet. Maybe he should ride to Worcester, or only as far as Paarl, and ditch the bloody bike, what could he have been thinking?
At the N 7 off-ramp he had to change lanes to let a lorry go past and he accelerated slowly, using the blinkers, changed lanes, swung back into the left one, relaxed a little. Through the long uphill turn at Parow, up the Tygerberg, he knew his body was leaning to the wrong side in the turn, but the bike was so unwieldy, the bend uncomfortable. If only there was less traffic; where were all these people going at this time of night? Down the hill to Bellville?s off-ramps and then the streetlights on the freeway became fewer, the traffic dropped off, he saw the signs at the one-stop petrol station beckoning and glanced at the fuel gauge. The tank was full. Thank God. How far could he go on one tank?
His eye caught the speedometer, no, and he throttled back, felt out of control again? this machine had a life of its own, a wild mustang. All his senses intensely engaged, he knew he must plan ahead. What to do? The tollgate was up ahead, thirty kilometers. What should he do? Avoid the tollgate, go to Paarl, abandon the bike, catch a taxi?
There must be taxis running to Worcester, but it was already very late. And if he stuck with the GS? Take on the Du Toits Kloof Pass with this monster?
