Heart of the Hunter

Miriam Nzululwazi stood up suddenly and opened the door and went out, closing it quietly behind her. The passage was empty. Gray cold tiled floor stretched left and right. She had come from the left; there were offices and people that way. She turned right, the flat heels of her shoes audible, tip-tap, tip-tap. She walked with purpose until she saw another door at the end of the passage.

She could just make out the letters, in faded peeling red paint: FIRE ESCAPE.

* * *

?How well was he trained as a soldier?? asked Allison.

?Soldier? He was never a soldier.?

?But he was in Umkhonto.?

He looked at her in surprise. ?You don'?t know??

?don'?t know what??

?He was an assassin. For the KGB.?

She knew her face betrayed her shock and dismay.

?And now you are going to judge him. You think that changes everything??

?It?s just??

?Less honorable??

She searched for the right words. ?No, no, I?,? but he did not give her time.

?You formed a picture in your head of a foot soldier of the Struggle, a relatI'vely simple man, maybe something of a rebel who broke out now and again, but nothing more than that. Just an ordinary soldier.?

?Well, yes. No. I didn?'t think him ordinary? .?

?I don'?t know the whole story. The Russians discovered him. Shooting competition in Kazakhstan, some base in the mountains where the ANC men were trained. Probably he shot the hell out of the commies and they saw possibilities. He had two years of training in East Germany at some special spy school.?

?How many people did he ??

?I don'?t remember precisely. Ten, fifteen ??

?My God.? She blew out a breath. ?Are we still off the record here??

?Yes, Allison Healy we are.?

?My God.? She would not be able to write this.

* * *

He had given the lens a quick wipe with the soft cloth and lined up his eye behind it again. Not too close, just the right focus length, checked his adjustments again, and waited for the door. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead? he would have to get a sweatband, it was going to sting his eyes. The door, dark wood, was shut again, his palms were wet and the temperature inside the warm clothes still rising. He became aware of a distaste for what he was doing. This was not the way to wage war, it was not right; this was not the way of his people.

* * *

There was a bar on the door, white letters on a green background that read PUSH/DRUK, and Miriam obeyed. There was a snap as the lock disconnected and the door creaked and groaned as the unused hinges protested, and she saw she was outside, she saw the night and she heard the city sounds and stepped forward and closed the door behind her. She looked down, and far below there was an alley but right here in front of her was a metal rail and the rusty wounds of a sawed-off metal stairway. She realized she was in a dead end. The door had clicked shut behind her and there was no handle on the outside.

* * *

The light flashed on the access control panel and the official picked up the internal phone and called the Ops Room. It was Quinn who answered.

?Fire door on the seventh floor. The alarm has been activated,? said the official.

Quinn raised his voice. ?Who is on the seventh floor? The fire door has been activated.?

Six meters from him Vincent Radebe sat listening to the crackle of the Rooivalk radios more than a thousand kilometers north, and he only half registered what Quinn had said, but the hair rose on his neck.

?What?? he said.

?Someone has opened the fire door on seven.? Quinn and Radebe looked at each other and understood, and Radebe felt an icy hand knot his innards.

* * *

?You are a journalist. You should know that concepts of good and bad are relatI've,? said Zatopek van Heerden. He was up and moving to the edge of the veranda, looking out at the night sky. ?No, not relatI've. Clumsy. Insufficient. You want to take sides. You want to be for him or against him. You need someone to be right, on the side of justice.?

?You sound like Orlando Arendse,? she said.

?Orlando is not a fool.?

?How many people did he murder??

?Listen to yourself. Murder. He murdered no one. He fought a war. And I don'?t know how many of the enemy died at his hand, but it must have been many, because he was good. He never actually said, but I saw him in action and his ability was impressive.?

And then he became a gofer at a motorbike dealership??

Van Heerden moved again, this time closer to her, and for Allison it was equally stimulating and threatening. He passed close by her and leaned back on the white plastic garden table and sat on it. She smelled him; she swore she could smell him.

?I wondered when you would get to the crux of the matter.?