Later he would run through his exit of the room in his head, and every time he would turn the key.
But it would be too late.
Captain Tiger Mazibuko put away the gun cloths and oil in the olive green canvas bag and stood up. He walked purposefully over to where Little Joe was sitting with Zongu and Da Costa. He still felt guilty about shouting at Moroka.
?Do you feel like a bit of fun?? he asked.
They looked up at him, nodding and expectant.
?How many of us can take on forty Hell?s Angels?? he asked.
Da Costa got it immediately and laughed, ?Hu-hu.?
?Just one or two,? said Little Joe, looking for his approval.
?Take the whole of Alpha, Captain,? said Zongu. ?We deserve it.?
?Right,? said Mazibuko. ?don'?t make a big issue of it. Get the men together quietly.?
That was when they heard running steps and turned around. It was the bespectacled soldier, the colonel?s messenger.
?Captain, the colonel?,? he said, out of breath.
?What now? Guys on Hondas??
?No, no, Captain, it?s Mpayipheli,? and Mazibuko felt that internal shock.
?What?? Too nervous to hope.
?The colonel will tell you??
He grabbed the soldier by the shirt. ?Tell me now.?
The eyes were frightened behind the glasses, the voice shook. ?They know where he is.?
28.
He recognized the symptoms, the heart rate increasing I steadily, the soft glow of heat, the fine perspiration on palms and forehead, and the vague light-headedness of a brain that could not keep up with the oversupply of oxygen. He reacted out of habit, drew a deep breath, and kept it all under control. He pulled in at the first petrol station in the main street of Petrusburg and watched two F 650 GS riders pull away. He stopped at the pumps, the engine still running when the petrol jockey said, ?Can you believe it, black like me.?
He did not react.
?Do you know what bee-em-double-you stands for?? asked the jockey, a young black guy of eighteen or nineteen.
?What??
He tried to laugh, switched off the bike.
?Fill up??
?Please.? He unlocked the fuel cap.
?What are you going to do when you find the Xhosa biker?? the jockey asked in Tswana as he pushed his electronic key against the petrol pump. The figures turned back to zeroes.
?Excuse me??
?You guys are just going to be in the way. That man needs a clear road.?
?The Xhosa biker,? he repeated, and understanding came to him slowly. He watched the tumbling numbers on the pump.
Eventually the attendant asked: ?So where are you from??
The pump showed nineteen liters and the petrol was still running.
?From the Cape.?
?The Cape??
?I am the Xhosa biker,? he said on inspiration.
?In your dreams, brother.? Twenty-one liters and the tank was full. ?The real one is at Kimberley and they are never going to catch him. And you know what? I say good luck to him, because it?s high time somebody stopped the gravy train.?
?Oh??
?It doesn'?t take a rocket scientist to work out what he?s got. It?s the numbers of the government?s Swiss bank accounts. Maybe he will draw the money and give it to the people. That would be real redistribution of wealth. You owe me R74.65.?
Thobela Mpayipheli handed over the money. ?Where?s the roadblock??
?There are two, but the BMWs can go through. They shouldn'?t, because you guys are just going to get in the way.?
He put away the wallet and locked the case. ?Where?? His voice was serious.
