Captain Tiger Mazibuko cursed, splashing through ankle-deep puddles, wiping water from his face. The rain fell in dark sheets; thunder growled continuously.
He had been checking the maps in the traffic officer?s car. There were at least two side roads they would have to block. Halfway between the roadblock and Beaufort West one turned east to Nelspoort, the other was closer, forking west to Wage-naarskraal. Unfamiliar routes, but alternatives available to a fugitive. And they had too few men and too few vehicles. He would have to deploy four RU members; the police van would have to drop them off, minimizing the effect of his roadblock here. They would have to guard the roads in pairs. They would be on foot, while he had a motorbike. Visibility was terrible in this weather. It was a fucking fiasco. But that was typical. Backward. Everything was backward. You could say what you liked about the Americans, but if the FBI Hostage Rescue Team had been here, it would have been four-wheel drives and armored vehicles and helicopters. He knew because he had been there, in Quantico, Virginia, for four months; he had seen it with his own eyes. But no, in Africa things worked differently; here, we fucked up. Here, we putter around with a bloody bakkie and a Corolla and a frightened traffic cop and two Boers who worry about their caps getting rained on and just one fucking middle- aged Xhosa on a motorbike? jissis, couldn'?t the fucker get a more respectable form of transport? Even the bad guys were backward in Africa.
He shook his fist at the heavens, which for a moment were still. He screamed his frustration, an uncanny sound, but the rain drowned it out.
He pushed his head into the tent. Four soldiers looked dumbstruck at him.
?I have to send you out,? he said, calm and under control.
The early hours began to take their toll in the Ops Room; urgency had leaked away.
She struggled to decide whether to send people to Derek Late-gan and Quartus Naude tonight.
They weren?t compelled to cooperate. They were retired agents, had taken the package, probably not benign to the present government. A visit at this time of night would just complicate matters. She weighed that against the need for information. What could they contribute? Could they confirm that Mpayipheli had worked for the KGB? What difference would that make to the investigation?
No. He was out there, somewhere; he couldn'?t be far from Maz-ibuko now. Contact. That is what they needed to shake off the lethargy, to regain momentum, to be in control again.
Contact. Action. Control.
Where was Thobela Mpayipheli?
She stood up. There was another job to do.
?May I have your attention, everyone,? she said.
Unhurried, they turned to her.
?This time of night is always the worst,? she said. ?I know you?'ve had a long day and a long night, but if our calculations are right, we can finish this before eight o?clock.?
There was little response. Blank faces gazed back at her.
?I think we must see how many people we can relieve for an hour or two. But before we decide who is going to take a nap, there are some who wonder why we regard this fugitive as a criminal. I can understand why.?
Bloodshot eyes looked back at her. She knew she was making no impression.
?But we must also wonder where all that money came from. We must remember he worked for organized crime. Remember that he hired out his talents for the purpose of violence and intimidation. That he stole two firearms, after rejecting the chance to work with the state. See the nature of the man.?
Here and there a head nodded.
?We must be professional. There are too many gaps in our knowledge, too many questions unanswered. We have a very good idea now of what is on that hard drive. And that news is not good. We are talking about information on a mole at the highest level, code name Inkululeko. We are talking about very, very sensitive information that can cause untold damage in the wrong hands. Our job is to protect the state. Sympathy has no place in this. If we put everything into the balance, there is only one choice: be professional. Keep focused. Look at the facts, not the people behind them.?
She looked over the room.
?Have you any questions??
No reaction.
But no matter. She had planted the seed. She had to force herself not to look up at the ceiling where she knew the microphones were hidden.
15.
His thoughts roamed freely, for this road did not require much concentration. He thought of this and that, knowing he must get some sleep but not wanting to waste the darkness. Somewhere beyond Three Sisters once the sun was up he would find a screened and shaded place in the veld for a few hours? rest. He was familiar with the landscape of sleep deprivation, knew the greatest danger was poor judgment, bad decisions. His thoughts jumped around: Who were the spooks that were after him? How desperate were they? What was the whole purpose, the stuff on the drive that cast a hex over him?
In one month?s time Pakamile would be finished with grade one. They could leave the township. How long had they been talking of this?
She didn?'t want to. She always wanted to stick to the known, afraid of change. As she had been with him,
