The White Lioness

Chapter Seventeen

The man outside President de Klerk’s office had been waiting a long time.

It was already midnight, and he’d been there since eight o’clock. He was completely alone in the dimly lit antechamber. A security guard occasionally looked in and apologized for his being kept waiting. The latter was an elderly man in a dark suit. He was the one who had put out all the lights just after eleven, apart from the single lamp that was still burning.

Georg Scheepers had the feeling the guy could easily have been employed at a funeral parlor. His discretion and unobtrusiveness, his servility bordering on submission, reminded him of the guy who had taken charge of his own mother’s funeral a few years back.

It’s a symbolic comparison that could be pretty close to the truth, thought Scheepers. Maybe President de Klerk is in charge of the last, dying remnants of the white South African empire? Maybe this is more of a waiting room for a man planning a funeral, than the office of somebody leading a country into the future?

He had plenty of opportunity to think during the four hours he had been kept waiting. Now and then the security guard opened the door quietly and apologized-the president was held up by some urgent business. At ten o’clock he brought him a cup of lukewarm tea.

Georg Scheepers wondered why he had been summoned to see President de Klerk that evening, Wednesday, May 7. The previous day, at lunchtime, he had taken a call from the secretary to his superior, Henrik Wervey. Georg Scheepers was an assistant of the widely feared chief prosecutor in Johannesburg, and he was not used to meeting him except in court or at the regular Friday meetings. As he hurried through the corridors, he wondered what Wervey wanted. Unlike this evening, he had been shown straight into the prosecutor’s office. Wervey indicated a chair, and continued signing various documents a secretary was waiting for. Then they were left alone.

Wervey was a man feared not only by criminals. He was nearly sixty, almost two meters tall, and sturdily built. It was a well-known fact that he occasionally demonstrated his great strength by performing various feats. Some years ago, when his offices were being refurbished, he had singlehandedly carried out a cupboard that later needed four men to lift it onto a truck. But it was not his bodily strength that made him so fearsome. During his many years as prosecutor he had always pressed for the death penalty whenever there was the slightest possibility of winning it. On those occasions, and there were many of them, when the court accepted his plea and sentenced a criminal to be hanged, Wervey was generally a witness when the sentence was carried out. That had given him the reputation of being a brutal man. Then again, no one could accuse him of racial discrimination in applying his principles. A white criminal had just as much to fear as a black one.

Georg Scheepers sat there worrying if he had done something to invoke censure. Wervey was well known for his ruthless criticism of his assistants, if he considered it justified.

But the conversation turned out to be completely unlike what he expected. Wervey had left his desk and sat down in an easy chair beside him.

“Late last night a man was murdered in his hospital bed at a private clinic in Hillbrow,” he began. “His name was Pieter van Heerden, and he worked for BOSS. The homicide squad think everything points to robbery with violence. His wallet is missing. Nobody saw anybody enter the room, nobody saw the murderer leave. It looks like whoever did it was alone, and there is evidence to suggest he pretended to be a messenger from a laboratory used by Brenthurst. As none of the night nurses heard anything, the murderer must have used a gun with a silencer. It looks very much as though the police theory about robbery being the motive is correct. On the other hand, we must also bear in mind that van Heerden worked for the intelligence service.”

Wervey raised his eyebrows, and Georg Scheepers knew he was waiting for a reaction.

“That sounds reasonable,” said Scheepers. “There should be an investigation to see if it was in fact an opportunist robbery.”

“There’s another aspect which complicates matters,” Wervey went on. “What I’m about to say is extremely confidential. You must be absolutely clear about that.”

“I understand,” said Scheepers.

“Van Heerden was responsible for keeping President de Klerk informed about secret intelligence activities outside the usual channels,” said Wervey. “In other words, he was in an extremely sensitive post.”

Wervey fell silent. Scheepers waited tensely for him to continue.

“President de Klerk called me a few hours ago,” he said. “He wanted me to select one of my prosecutors to keep him specially informed about the police investigation. He seems convinced the motive for the murder had something to do with van Heerden’s intelligence work. Although he has no proof, he rejects outright any suggestion that this was a routine robbery.”

Wervey looked at Scheepers.

“We cannot know exactly what van Heerden was keeping the president informed about,” he said pensively.

Georg Scheepers nodded. He understood.

“I have picked you as the man to keep President de Klerk informed,” he said. “From now on you will drop all other matters and concentrate exclusively on the investigation into the circumstances surrounding van Heerden’s death. Is that understood?”

Georg Scheepers nodded. He was still trying to grasp the full implications of what Wervey had just said.

“You will be summoned regularly to the president,” he said. “You will keep no minutes of those meetings, only a few brief notes that you will later burn. You will speak only with the president and me. If anybody in your section wonders what you’re doing, the official explanation is that I’ve asked you to look into the recruitment requirements regarding prosecutors over the next ten-year period. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” said Georg Scheepers.

Wervey stood up, took a plastic wallet from his desk, and handed it to Scheepers.

“Here is what little investigative material the police have so far,” he said. “Van Heerden has been dead for only twelve hours. The hunt for the assassin is being led by an inspector called Borstlap. I suggest you go to Brenthurst Clinic and speak with him.”

That concluded the business.

“Do a good job,” said Wervey. “I’ve chosen you because you have proved to be a good prosecutor. I don’t like to be disappointed.”

Georg Scheepers went back to his office and tried to come to terms with what was actually required of him. Then he thought he should buy himself a new suit. None of the clothes he possessed would be suitable for meeting the president.

Now he was in the dimly lit antechamber, wearing a dark blue suit that had been very expensive. His wife wondered why he had bought it. He said he was to take part in an inquiry chaired by the Minister of Justice. She accepted this explanation without any further questions.

It was twenty minutes to one before the discreet security guard opened the door and told him the president was now ready to receive him. Georg Scheepers jumped up from his chair, aware of how nervous he felt. He followed the guard who marched up to a high double door, knocked, and opened it for him.

Sitting at a desk, illuminated by a single lamp, was the balding man he was destined to meet. Scheepers remained standing hesitantly in the doorway until the man at the desk beckoned him to approach and gestured towards a visitor’s chair.

President de Klerk looked weary. Georg Scheepers noticed he had large bags under his eyes.

The president came straight to the point. His voice had a note of impatience about it, as if he was always having to talk with people who did not understand anything.

“I am convinced the death of Pieter van Heerden had nothing to do with robbery,” said de Klerk. “It’s your job to insure the police investigators are properly aware of the fact that it’s his intelligence work that lies behind the murder. I want all his computer files investigated, all his index files and documents, everything he’s worked on over the last year. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” said Georg Scheepers.

De Klerk leaned forward so that the desk lamp lit up his face and gave it an almost ghost-like appearance.

“Van Heerden told me he suspected there was a conspiracy afoot that was a serious threat to South Africa as a whole,” he said. “A plot that could result in complete chaos. His death must be seen in this context. Nothing else.”

Georg Scheepers nodded.

“You don’t need to know any more than that,” said de Klerk, leaning back in his chair again. “Chief Prosecutor Wervey selected you to keep me informed because he considers you to be completely reliable and loyal to the government authorities. But I want to stress the confidential nature of this assignment. Revealing what I have just told you would be high treason. As you are a prosecutor, I don’t need to tell you what the punishment is for that particular crime.”

“Of course not,” said Georg Scheepers, shifting uncomfortably on his chair.

“You will report directly to me whenever you have anything to say,” de Klerk went on. “Talk to one of my secretaries, and they will make an appointment. Thank you for coming.”

The audience was over. De Klerk turned back to his papers.

Georg Scheepers stood up, bowed, and walked over the thick carpet back to the double doors.

The security guard accompanied him down the stairs. An armed guard escorted him as far as the parking lot, where he had left his car. His hands were sweaty as he slid behind the wheel.

A conspiracy, he thought. A plot? Which could threaten the whole country and lead to chaos? Aren’t we there already? Can things get any more chaotic than they already are?

He left the question unanswered and started the engine. Then he opened the glove pocket, where he kept a pistol. He loaded a magazine, released the safety catch, and placed it on the seat beside him.

Georg Scheepers did not like driving at night. It was too unsafe, too dangerous. Armed robbery and assault took place all the time, and the level of brutality was getting worse.

Then he drove home through the South African night. Pretoria was asleep.

He had a lot to think about.