Had the ride in the back of the El Camino slipped him through the net?
It didn?'t matter. The initiative was with him now; he had the lead and the advantage.
He must use it.
He used the torque with purpose, felt the power flow to the rear wheel, how the steering rod got lighter.
He wanted to laugh.
Fucking beautiful German machine.
Fourteen kilometers south of Koffiefontein the official of the Free State Traffic Authority sat reading.
The white patrol car was behind the thorn trees that grew by the dry wash, his canvas chair positioned so that he could see the reading on the Gatsometer and the road stretching out to the south. The book was balanced on his lap.
So far it was an average day. Two minibus taxis for speeding, three lorries from Gauteng for lesser offenses. They thought if they came through here, avoiding the main routes, they could overload or get away with poor tires, but they were wrong. He was not over enthusiastic. He enjoyed his work, especially the part that allowed him to sit in the shade of an acacia on a perfect summer?s day, listen to the birds chattering, and read Ed McBain. But when it came to enforcing traffic ordinances, he was probably a tad stricter with vehicles from other provinces.
He had pulled over a few farmers in their bakkies. One didn?'t have his driver?s license with him, but you couldn'?t just write a ticket for these gentlemen, they had influence. You gave them a warning.
Two tourists, Danes, had stopped to ask directions.
An average day.
He checked his watch again. At quarter to five he would start rolling up the wires of the Gatsometer. Not a minute later.
He looked up the road. No traffic. His eyes dropped back to the book. Some of his colleagues from other towns listened to the radio. When there were two officers stationed together, they talked rubbish from morning to night, but he preferred this.
Alone, just him and McBain?s characters, Carella and Hawes and the big black cop, Brown and Oliver Weeks and their things.
An average day.
25.
Everything happened at once. The director walked into the Ops Room and everyone was astounded, Janina Mentz?s cell phone rang, and Quinn, headphones on his ears, suddenly started making wild gestures to get her attention.
She took the call because she could see from the little screen who it was.
?It?s Tiger,? said Mazibuko. ?I am awake.?
?Captain, I will phone you right back,? she said, and cut the connection. ?What have you got, Rudewaan?? she asked Quinn.
?Johnny Kleintjes?s house number. We relayed it here.?
?Yes??
?It?s ringing. Continuously. Every few minutes they phone again.?
?Where is Monica Kleintjes? Bring her down.?
?In my office. Is she going to answer??
A nervous question because of the director?s presence, the figure at the margins, the big boss they almost never saw. They couldn'?t afford a messup now.
Mentz?s voice was reassuring. ?Perhaps it?s nothing. Maybe it?s the media. Even if it is the people in Lusaka? by now they must know something is going on, with all the media coverage.?
Quinn nodded to one of his people to go fetch Monica Kleintjes.
She turned to the director and stood up. ?Good afternoon, sir.?
?Afternoon, everyone,? the small Zulu said, smiling like a politician on election day. ?don'?t stand up, Janina. I know you are busy.? He went and stood by her. ?I have a message from the minister. So I thought I would come down. To show my solidarity.?
?Thank you, sir. We appreciate it.?
?The minister has asked the Department of Defence to track down people who worked with Mpayipheli in the old days and, shall we say, do not have fond memories of him.?
?She is a woman of initiative, sir.?
?That she is, Janina.?
?And did she find someone??
?She did. A brigadier in Pretoria. Lucas Morape. They trained together in Russia, and he describes our fugitive as, I quote, ?an aggressive troublemaker, perhaps a psychopath, who was a continuous embarrassment to his comrades and the Movement.? ?
?That is good news, indeed, sir. From a public relations angle, of course.?
