Dead at Daybreak

∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧

31

They sat in Hope Beneke’s office and he felt the adrenaline, the blood of the chase coursing through him, and for a moment he remembered…

“Jeez, Van Heerden, I still can’t believe you’ve turned out to be such a complete asshole. How could you stab an ex-colleague in the back and manage to disgrace the Force at the same time? All you had to do was to give me a call. Just a single call.”

He held up his hands. He was calm, his head jumping from the telephone call to Military Intelligence, to O’Grady and De Wit and Joubert, his body primed for action, but he had to focus here first. “Okay, Nougat, I know where you’re coming from and you have my sympathy…”

O’Grady’s face twisted in disgust and he began to say something, but Van Heerden went on.

“But just think of the facts for a moment. I had one more clue than you: the false ID. That’s all. The rest is pure conjecture and it’s pretty flimsy. The thing about the dollars was a huge leap of faith and it’s only because I looked at the way the guy set himself up in business with cash, in the early eighties. I have no corroborating evidence. So tell me, do you think your superior officers” – he pointed at De Wit and Joubert – “would have allowed you to go to the newspapers on the strength of that?”

“It’s the fucking principle, Van Heerden.”

“And the damage you did to the reputation of the SAPS, Van Heerden.”

“I’m sorry about that, Col – er…Superintendent, but it was the price I had to pay for the publicity.”

“Sold us down the river for a lousy newspaper story.”

“Bullshit, Nougat. You guys get worse publicity every day of the week because the media see you as a political tool to get at the ANC. Are you going to blame me for that as well?”

“You deliberately withheld information that we could use in the investigation of a murder, Van Heerden.”

“I’m more than prepared to share, Superintendent. But the time isn’t ripe, for obvious reasons.”

“You’re full of shit, Van Heerden.”

“Seventy-six,” said Mat Joubert.

They all stared at him.

“You stopped the Military Intelligence jokers dead in their tracks with ‘seventy-six,’ Van Heerden. What did it mean?”

He should have known Joubert wouldn’t miss a trick.

“First,” he said slowly and in a measured tone, “we’re going to reach an agreement about the sharing of information.”

O’Grady gave a scornful laugh. “Jesus, just listen to him.”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to negotiate,” said Bart de Wit, his voice slightly higher, slightly more nasal.

“Let’s listen to what he suggests,” said Mat Joubert.

“But we can’t trust the motherfucker.”

“Inspector, we’ve spoken about your language before,” said De Wit.

O’Grady blew out his breath loudly. It obviously wasn’t a new topic.

“Superintendent, this is the way I see the situation,” said Van Heerden. “You have the law on your side and you can force me to reveal everything.”

“Indeed,” said Bart de Wit.

“Damn right,” said Nougat O’Grady.

“But you’re also forced to work within the confines of the regulations if you take over the investigation. If Military Intelligence pulls strings, you’ll have to cooperate. And as long as I share information, you can’t stop me carrying on the investigation.”

De Wit said nothing. Finger and mole met again.

“I suggest a partnership. A working relationship.”

“And you call the shots?” Nougat, snorting.

“Nobody calls the shots. We just do what we have to do – and share the information.”

“I don’t trust you.”

Van Heerden made a gesture that implied it didn’t bother him.

A silence fell.

♦

“Where were you?” Hope asked when he eventually opened the door. “I don’t know how to handle the calls. A man phoned to say someone was coming to attack us, and the media, the Argus and eTV, want information and – ”

“Take it easy,” he said. “I had to negotiate with Murder and Robbery.”

“A man phoned. He said Smit was De Jager.”

“Rupert de Jager,” said Van Heerden.

“You knew?”

“The call that came in when Military Intelligence was here – ”

“Military Intelligence?”

“The two clowns, black and white.”

“They were from Military Intelligence?”

“Yes. The call was from a Mrs. Carolina de Jager of Springfontein in the Free State. Rupert was her son.”

“Good gracious.”

“It seems as if it all goes back to 1976. And the Defence Force.”

“The man who phoned also spoke about ’seventy-six. He said the murderer was a Schlebusch who was with them.”

“Schlebusch,” he said, rolling the name on his tongue.

“Bushy,” she said. “That’s what he called him. Do you know about him?”

“No. It’s new. What else did the man say?”

She looked at the paper in front of her. “I didn’t handle it well, Van Heerden. I had to lie because he assumed we already knew a lot of stuff. He said Schlebusch is dangerous. He’s going to shoot us. He has an M16.”

He absorbed the information. “Does he know where Schlebusch is?”

“No, but he said Schlebusch would find us. He’s scared.”

“Did he tell you what happened in ’seventy-six?”

“No.”

“What else did he say?”

“Schlebusch…he said Schlebusch likes killing.”

He looked at her. Realized she wasn’t up to this kind of thing. She was afraid.

“What else?”

“That was all. And then the Argus phoned and eTV.”

“We’ll have to hold a news conference.”

The telephone rang again.

“Now you must answer.”

“You must go to Bloemfontein.”

“Bloemfontein?”

“Hope, you’re repeating everything I say.”

She looked frowningly at him for a moment and then she laughed self-consciously. Tension breaker.

“You’re right.”

“You must fetch Mrs. Carolina de Jager.”

He picked up the receiver.

“Van Heerden.”

“I know who the murderer is,” a woman’s voice said.

“We would welcome the information.”

“Satanists,” the woman said. “They’re everywhere.”

“Thank you,” he said, and replaced the receiver. “Another crazy,” he said to Hope.

“We’ve uncovered something nasty,” she said, her face worried.

“We’re going to solve it.”

“And the police are going to help us?”

“We’re going to share information.”

“Did you tell them everything?”

“Almost. Simply said that we suspect it has to do with the Defence Force and something that happened years ago.”

“Shouldn’t we hand the case to them?”

“Are you scared, Hope?”

“Of course I’m scared. This case is getting bigger and bigger. And now we’re getting threats from a man who is going to kill us. Because he enjoys it.”

“You’ll learn. There are always a thousand stories about something like this. And most of them are pure sh – nonsense.”

“I still think we should hand it to the police.”

“No,” he said.

She looked pleadingly at him.

“Hope, nothing will happen. You’ll see.”

♦

He arranged for an answering machine to take messages, upset with himself that he hadn’t thought of it before. He tore a piece of paper off the writing pad, made notes of the new information, tried to arrange it in sequence, listened to callers who were acting out their minor delusions, waited for the answering machine to appear.

“I can get a flight to Bloemfontein early tomorrow morning and be back by late afternoon,” Hope came in to report. He gave her Carolina de Jager’s phone number, asked her to arrange it all.

The answering machine was delivered, and the technician helped him to install it. The number of calls decreased, but he knew they would increase when bored children came home from school.

Marie’s head appeared again after a soft, scared knock. “There’s an American who wants to talk to you.”

“Send him in.”

An American? He shook his head, drew another square on his notepad. The whole world was in on the deal. Hell, the newspaper article had worked…

Marie opened the door. “Mr. Powell,” she said, and wanted to close the door behind her.

“Call Hope,” he said quickly, and extended his hand. “Van Heerden.”

“Luke Powell,” said the American in a heavy accent. He was black and middle-aged, slightly overweight, with a soft, round face and eyes that wanted to laugh.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Powell?”

“No, sir, it’s what I can do for you.”

“Please take a seat,” he said, indicating one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. “And I must apologize for the fact that I have to answer the telephone.”

“No sweat. Have to do your job.” The wide mouth smiling broadly to reveal flawless white teeth.

Hope opened the door and he introduced her to Powell. She sat down, her arms folded, body language indicating that she didn’t want to be there.

“I’m with the U.S. Consulate,” said Powell. “Economic adviser. After we heard about this on the radio, I thought I’d, you know, pop in to offer our cooperation. You know, with dollars being involved and all.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Van Heerden.

The broad smile again. “It’s our absolute pleasure.”

Van Heerden smiled back. “So you have some interesting information for us about the origin of the dollars?”

“Oh, no, I was hoping you could tell me. The radio news was pretty brief, you know, just that quite a few dollars could be involved in this thing. But if you guys point us in the right direction, I could pass the information along to…I don’t know, whoever can help. That’s one thing we do have…resources.”

“Tell me, Mr. Powell, what does an American economic adviser do in South Africa?”

Smile, self-deprecating, hands that showed the work wasn’t important. “Oh, you know, talk to business people mostly, lots of folks want to trade with the US of A…Help them with the paperwork, identify opportunities. Our government is totally committed to the development of the new South Africa. And then, of course, our own companies back home, they want to enter your market…”

“I was referring to your real job,” said Van Heerden, his smile genuine, enjoying it.

“I’m not sure I follow you, sir.”

“My problem, Mr. Powell, is that I don’t know enough about the American intelligence community to be able to guess accurately to which arm you belong. But I would say possibly CIA. Or perhaps one of the military groups – you have so many…”

Hope’s mouth was slightly open in disbelief.

“Lordy,” said Powell, “is that what you think?” Amused, sincere. He’s good, Van Heerden thought, and wondered whether they had sent a black man so that he could be more or less invisible here. With that accent?

“Yes, sir, that would be my best shot.”

“Wait till I tell the wife about that one, Mr. van Hieden. Nope, I’m a pretty ordinary minor government official doing a pretty ordinary job. I guess you-all shouldn’t believe all that stuff on television. Lordy, is that really what you think?”

He saw Hope hanging on the man’s words, ready to believe.

“Seeing that you’re so honest with us, Mr. Powell, I’ll level with you, too. The funny thing about this case is that we had almost nothing to go on. And I mean really nothing. Just a tiny piece of paper that Forensics believed was used years ago to wrap dollars. And a huge walk-in safe and a false identity document and a man starting a business years ago with more cash than can be explained. And that was it.”

Powell nodded, listening intently.

“We were at a dead end. There was nowhere to go. So we asked the press for help and built a story that was nothing more than conjecture, fiction if you want, loosely based on one of quite a few possibilities.”

“Is that right?”

“And you know what happened? All hell broke loose. We had calls from all over the country, we’ve had the most interesting people walking in, and suddenly more pieces of the puzzle than we could’ve hoped for fell into our laps. If you’ll pardon the expression, it was like opening a can of worms.”

“Well, there you go,” said Powell, still the minor government official.

“And, I must add, forty-eight hours ago I thought this case couldn’t be solved. Hell, six hours ago I thought it was dead as a doornail. But now, Mr. Powell, the case has blown wide open. It seems to me that not only will we solve it, but a great many people will be embarrassed by it.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes, sir, it sure is,” said Van Heerden, a slight American accent creeping into his voice. He couldn’t help it; he remembered the time in Quantico, the overwhelming, contagious accents. “And now you have to ask yourself, do you and those who employ you want to be embarrassed as well?”

Powell took a deep breath, the smile intact, calm, unworried. “Well, sir, I’m grateful to you for sharing that with me, but I’m just…”

“A minor government official?”

“Absolutely.” The smile still broad and open.

“But should you care to share what you know, the damage could be minimized, of course. Contained, I believe, would be the right word.”

“Mr. van Hieden, sir, let me say that if I’m ever in the position to supply you with any information whatsoever, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to share it with you.” Powell put a hand in his jacket pocket, took out a card. “Unfortunately, I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about. But should you change your mind about my employment and need information, be sure to call me.” He put the card down in front of Van Heerden and stood up. “It’s been a pleasure, sir, madam.”

And when they had shaken hands and Powell had closed the door behind him, Hope Beneke slowly blew out her breath and said, “Fuck it!” and amazement spread across her face at the feat of saying the word.

“Is that right?” said Van Heerden in a broad American accent, and they laughed, deep and relieved, a moment of calm in a stormy sea.

The phone rang.