Dead at Daybreak

∨ Dead at Daybreak ∧

47

There was a tall, narrow window next to the front door and when he raised himself off the floor to pull away the blind with the barrel of the AK, they shot Billy September. He felt the bullet breaking through his collarbone, and the violence of it slammed him back against the entrance-hall wall, more glass in his face, his arm paralyzed. Again he reached forward, looked down, blood pouring out of his chest, out of his stomach. He groaned. His body, they were messing with his body, pockmarks in the wall, deafening noise, his blood on the floor. He was going to die, suddenly he knew it, this was where he was going to die, pressing his hand against the wound in his neck. So much blood, hell, he looked at the sun that shone through the holes in the door, and then a man burst in, stood in front of him, a big white man with a stubble beard and a grin, just for a moment, then moved away, to the living room. Billy September heard the thunder of the Remington, one shot. He turned, slowly, his arm dead, his body a long way away, pain in his stomach, turned slowly, saw Stubble Beard on the living-room floor, on his back, his face blasted away. Billy September smiled: you don’t fuck with a Boervrou. Silence now, deathly silence, there were two more outside, and he had to stop the blood.

The Oryx flew low, two hundred meters above the ground, over the coastline at Bloubergstrand, the big engines droning powerfully, fully open, the whole framework vibrating.

“Five minutes to insertion,” the pilot said over the intercom, and looked at the ground-speed meter, 309 kilometers per hour. “Not bad for an old lady,” he said, then remembered the intercom was still on. He smiled, embarrassed.

♦

“I don’t know,” said Van Heerden. Tiny Mpayipheli was driving like a maniac, almost losing control at the Constantia Neck circle, fighting the steering wheel, the gears, and the clutch.

“I don’t know. Jesus, I was stupid – they played me from the start.” He picked up the phone, but the screen was dead. He pressed the ON button again and the screen lit up: it was still working. ENTER PIN CODE. He swore, threw it down again.

“Here.” Tiny fished a mobile phone out of his pocket, turned left for the botanical gardens, swerved for a jogging middle-aged woman with cellulite legs, swore in Xhosa.

Van Heerden took the cell phone, punched in his mother’s number, got a busy signal, tried again, the same frustrating sound. He pressed the phone-in number where Hope Beneke waited – engaged – his mother’s number again – engaged – and then he broke through the fear and rage and frustration to a calm sea, took a deep breath: there was nothing he could do. He leaned back in the seat, closed his eyes. Thought.

♦

Joan van Heerden saw two men with guns coming round the corner of her house on their way to the back door, no shots now after the terrifying noise. Her heart beating in her throat, she slid back behind the corner of the stables to get out of their field of vision, her eyes looking for a weapon. She saw a spade leaning against the wall, took it in both hands, peered cautiously round the corner. They were at the back door. She put the spade down, pulled off her boots, took the spade again, looked again. They had disappeared into the kitchen. She ran from shrub to shrub, her footfall light on the sandy soil.

♦

Wilna van As heard the silence and lifted her head from where she was lying on the floor next to the bed, her hands, her whole body shaking. What was going on? Was it over now? She got up slowly, as if her legs had no strength, heard a groan. It was Billy September. They needed her help inside. She opened the bedroom door, saw the passage ahead of her was empty. “Billy,” she called softly. No reply. She moved down the passage slowly. “Billy,” slightly louder, the end of the passage, a hand over her mouth, someone grabbing her roughly from behind: “Billy is dead, bitch.” She smelled the man’s sweat, and terror paralyzed her.

♦

Hope Beneke grabbed the telephone before it could complete a single ring. “Hallo.”

“Hallo, Hope.” Intimate, at ease.

“Hallo.”

“You don’t know me, but I know you.”

“Who’s that?”

“You’re not getting very far with Rutherford’s London, Hope, only sixteen pages in the past three days.”

“Who are you?”

“And what was last night like with Zatopek van Heerden, Hope?”

“I’m not having this conversation.”

“Yes, you are, Hope, because I have a very important message for you.”

“What message?”

“I’m getting to it.” So calm. “First want to share something else with you, Hope. About Kara-An Rousseau. Who kept your place warm in his house on Monday night.”

No words in her head.

“Thought that would leave you speechless, but I reckoned it was time for you to know. The real reason why I phoned, Hope, is about Joan. By this time she should be in great pain.”

♦

Carolina de Jager lay behind the couch, the Remington on the floor in front of her. She heard the voice, looked up, saw two of them with Wilna van As.

“You’re not Joan van Heerden,” the dark one said, and looked at her, his firearm aimed at her.

“Where is she?” the other one in the camouflage pants asked, and shoved Wilna van As away from him, so that she fell on her knees on the living-room carpet.

“I don’t know,” said Carolina de Jager, and she slowly raised the Remington behind the couch.

“You’re lying,” said the dark one, coming closer.

Clattering noise outside, getting louder and louder. Aircraft? The two men looked at each other.

“Here I am,” said Joan van Heerden, hitting Camouflage Pants with the spade, the noise outside even louder, the dark one spinning round, taking aim at Joan, Carolina swinging up the Remington, firing without aiming, a thunderclap. He fell, and the noise was suddenly identifiable, helicopter, deafening over the roof of the house.

♦

The helicopter wasn’t there when Van Heerden and Mpayipheli turned in at the gate in the Mercedes, soldiers in front of the house, army brown body bag in the garden. He saw the damage, the broken windows, the front door hanging on one hinge, the pockmarks against the wall, ran in. “Ma!” Two more body bags on the floor, cold filled him. “Ma!” The damage was bad, a great pool of blood in the entrance hall, blood spattered against the walls.

She came out of the kitchen, her eyes swollen and red, and he embraced her and she said, “They shot Billy September, Zet,” and cried.

He held her tightly, overwhelmed with relief. “I’m sorry, Ma.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

He wasn’t so sure, but he left it at that.

“Come, they need us,” said his mother.

The other two women were in the kitchen, Wilna van As at the kitchen table, Carolina de Jager at the counter, busy with mugs and sugar and tea and milk, their faces pale and set.

“Who…” he asked, and pointed to the living room.

“Them,” his mother said. “Billy has gone to hospital in the helicopter but…” She shook her head.

“Is he still alive, Ma?”

“He was alive when they put him in the helicopter.”

He counted the body bags. “There were four?”

“Your mother hit one with a spade. He’s also in the helicopter.” Carolina de Jager didn’t look up from her busy hands, her voice a monotone.

“Carolina shot two,” said Joan van Heerden.

“Lord,” he said.

“The Lord was on our side today,” said Carolina de Jager.

“Amen,” said Tiny Mpayipheli behind him, and then Carolina cried, for the first time.

♦

In the calm before the storm, before Hope came in her partner’s car, before Bester and his troops arrived, before the police, with Mat Joubert in command, turned up, before the media and their squadrons streamed in at the gate, before the glaziers could start their repairs, before Orlando Arendse and his retinue, before Kara-An, he walked to one of the two body bags outside and pulled down the zip.

“What are you doing?” asked the soldier with the pack radio, sergeant’s stripes on his sleeve.

“Identification,” he said.

“The colonel said hands off.”

“Fuck the colonel.” The face in the body bag was that of a stranger, no similarity to Rupert de Jager’s photographs of twenty years ago. He slid his hand quickly over the jacket, looking for a wallet.

“That’s enough,” said the radio man.

He got up, walked to the other body bag, unzipped it, the soldier watching him. He tried to turn his back on the man, the pale face in the bag unknown, quick hands in the jacket, nothing. He got up, walked to the one in the living room, not wanting the sergeant to follow him, bent over the body, opened fast, found a bulge in the clothing, pushed in his hand, wallet, took it out. He heard footsteps, looked at the face but didn’t recognize it, zipped the bag, stood with his back to the door. When he looked round, the sergeant was there, suspicious.

“I don’t know them.”

“Samson, Moroka, come and fetch this one, put him with the others.”

Van Heerden went to the kitchen, transferred the wallet to his own pocket.

He borrowed Mpayipheli’s cell phone and phoned Murder and Robbery, looking for O’Grady, because he wanted them here. Then he phoned the newspapers one by one and the radio stations and the television. He didn’t trust Bester Brits, wanted nonmilitary involvement, everything open and aboveboard, transparent.

Hope arrived first, fear in her eyes, wanting to know what had happened, the mark on her cheek bright. She pulled him aside, told him about the second call, but didn’t tell him everything.

“He watched us, Van Heerden, every move we made. They were in my house, they know what book I’m reading and how fast I read.”

He merely nodded.

“He had a message for us. Your mother…the attack…he said they’d warned you, Schlebusch had warned you.”

“Schlebusch is dead.”

“Dead?”

“They shot him. This morning. Bester said it’s because I put the photo in the paper, because Schlebusch became a high risk. I think it’s only part of the story.”

“He said he found the will in the safe.”

“Who?”

“The man who phoned this morning. He said he would’ve given it to us but then we went to the newspapers. So he burned it yesterday. He said there was nothing left and we can drop the whole thing now.”

“He’s lying.”

“Do you think it still exists?”

“It’s leverage, Hope. He would be stupid to destroy it.”

“Why would he say so?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at her. At the way she controlled her emotion. She’s strong, he thought. Stronger than he was. “Shall we drop it, Hope?”

“I want to get him, Van Heerden, with everything I’ve got, but I’m scared. Billy…your mother…”

“We don’t need a will. Those dollars belong to Wilna van As.”

“There was another caller as well, one of the ’seventy-six ones. He was scared that we would use his photo as well. He wants to meet us. He said he’d phone back. I told Marie – ”

“Bester and company tap our phone, Hope.”

“How?”

He laughed without humor. “Any way they like.”

“Did they hear everything? This morning?”

“They were in Hout Bay a few minutes after me.”

“What do we do now?”

“If he phones again, tell him…Jesus, it’s difficult…They’re probably tuned in to your cell phone as well.” He thought. “Tiny’s phone. If he phones again, tell him the line isn’t secure. Tell him to phone Tiny’s cell phone. I’ll get the number in a minute.”

“And if he’s already phoned? Spoken to Marie?”

“What will Marie tell him?”

“There was a crisis, I’m not available, and he must phone at two o’clock this afternoon.”

“He’ll phone again. He’s frightened.”

She nodded. She said she was going back – perhaps the other call would come in – and he went to fetch her cell phone and Tiny’s number and walked with her to her partner’s white BMW, and then they saw Bester Brits and his convoy of troops arriving and he felt the rage growing in him again but suppressed it.

Brits jumped off the truck, barked orders left and right, walked to the sergeant, ignored Van Heerden.

Then they heard the sirens, saw the blue lights.

The SAPS, he thought. The cavalry. Too late. But it pleased him. He would thwart Brits. In every possible way. Just wait until the media arrived.

♦

At first there were five juniors from Murder and Robbery and then, fifteen minutes later, O’Grady, Superintendent Leon Petersen, and Mat Joubert arrived in a white Opel Astra. “You’re going to spoil my wedding, Van Heerden.”

“You’ll thank me one day.”

Joubert looked at the damage, whistled through his teeth. “What happened?”

“Four of them attacked the house this morning.”

“Them?” asked Petersen.

“I only see three body bags,” said O’Grady.

“Who was in the house?” Joubert asked.

“My mother, two female guests, and a…a…security guy. He’s critical, in the Milnerton MediClinic. One of the attackers was still alive. The SANDF took him away as well.”

“And the women?”

“They’re safe. And very shocked.”

“One security man handled four armed attackers?”

“He shot one. A farmer’s wife from the Free State got two with a shotgun, and my mother hit the other one with a spade.”

They looked at him, waiting for him to say he was pulling their leg.

“I’m serious.”

“Jesus,” said O’Grady.

“That’s the general feeling,” said Van Heerden.

“And what are Brits and the SANDF doing here?”

“It’s a long story. Let’s talk in there.” He gestured to his house, away from it all and undamaged. They walked toward it.

“You were looking for me yesterday?” Van Heerden asked. “A message?”

Joubert had to think for a moment. “Oh, yes, I think I know how they found out about the will. I asked around. Someone phoned Murder and Robbery, said he was from the Brixton branch in Gauteng, made all the right noises, could they possibly help, and asked a lot of questions. Snyman, who took the call, is young. He swallowed the story and gave the information.”

“But it wasn’t Brixton.”

“No.”

They were at Van Heerden’s house, but Mat Joubert halted. “Wait.” He walked over to Bester Brits, alone with his men, a clique in camouflage.

“Brits, I don’t need you here. It’s a crime scene and your men are ruining all the forensics.”

Van Heerden hung back, filled with satisfaction.

“The hell they are, Joubert. It’s my jurisdiction.”

Joubert laughed. “You don’t have any.” He turned to Petersen. “Leon, get the uniforms from the Table View branch. And you might as well get Philadelphia and Melkbos and Milnerton’s people as well. Tell them we need crowd-and-riot control. Live ammunition.”

Petersen turned, walked to the Opel Astra. Van Heerden watched Brits. Extremely uncomfortable. He couldn’t afford to lose face in front of his troops. “Unless you want to talk, Brits. Share information,” he called.

Brits tore himself away from the clique, walked up to them, stood too close to Joubert.

“You can’t do it, rozzer.”

“ ‘Rozzer’?”

“Jeez, that’s old-fashioned,” said Nougat O’Grady. “Even pig would be more up-to-date.”

“What about flatfoot?” Van Heerden offered.

“Go shit yourself.”

Mat Joubert laughed in his face.

“Uniforms on their way, Mat,” Petersen shouted from the Astra, very loudly. “In their serried ranks.”

Joubert and Brits stood virtually head-to-head like two elephant bulls, Joubert slightly shorter, the shoulders somewhat broader.

“Come and talk to us, Brits,” said Van Heerden. He wanted to add, Please, but stopped himself. He wanted information. Badly.

O’Grady: “Our cocks are longer than yours, Brits. Face it.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“How many photos must I still publish, Brits?”

“I’ll gag the press.”

They laughed as one – Van Heerden, Joubert, O’Grady, and Petersen.

“Look there, Brits.” Van Heerden pointed over Brits’s shoulder.

The panel van of eTV turned in at the gate.

“Those men are hungry,” said Petersen.

“You’re surrounded,” said O’Grady.

“Custer’s last stand,” said Petersen.

“At Little Little Horn.”

Then the two detectives chuckled and Van Heerden recalled Brits’s and Steven Mzimkhulu’s mocking. What goes round comes round.

The inner turmoil in Brits ended. “Ten minutes,” he said. “That’s all you’re getting.”

“Thank God you’re not a lawyer. It would’ve cost us a fortune.”

♦

“We have eight members of First Reconnaissance Command who ran a supply route from South West to Angola, Brits.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall the names; his notebook was at Hope’s. “Schlebusch, Verster, De Beer, Manley, Venter, Janse van Rensburg, Vergottini, and Rupert de Jager.” He opened his eyes. Brits was pale, trying to hide the shock of the names, but his face betrayed him. “And then two officers appeared on De Jager’s parents’ farm and told them he had died in the service of his country, but more than twenty years later he lived again as Johannes Jacobus Smit with a false identity document and a safe full of American dollars dating from the previous decade. And he was shot with an M16 and I’m reasonably certain it was Schlebusch, the noncommissioned officer who led the group in ’seventy-six.”

He looked up. Brits evaded his eyes.

“You’re doing everything in your power to manipulate the investigation, to get it stopped. Which means that you know what happened in ’seventy-six and you want to suppress it at all costs. Which means it was bad, wet work or chemical warfare or some unholy operation.”

Brits snorted contemptuously.

“You can snort all you like, Brits, but your secret is going to come out. Now Schlebusch is also dead, after his picture appeared in the paper. But I have all the photographs, Brits, and I’m giving them to the newspapers and television and I’ll sit back and watch all hell break loose. And I’ll tell them about your efforts to undermine the investigation and see how you handle that.”

They sat in Van Heerden’s house in the dark living room, his couch and his dining-room chairs filled to capacity, Petersen, O’Grady, Mat Joubert, Brits, and Tiny Mpayipheli, whom he had merely introduced as a colleague.

Brits stood up slowly, his face contorted as if he were in severe pain. He walked down the passage and back again, the others watching him, down the passage and back again, then looked at Van Heerden.

“I can’t,” he said.

He walked back and forth again, the others quiet, aware of his inner struggle. “I can’t. I’ve lived with this thing for twenty-three years, but I can’t talk about it. It’s bigger than…” His hands embraced the group in the living room. “Than this.”

He walked, thought again, sat down, gestured with his hands, looked for words, breathed out with a sharp exhalation, then slumped back in the chair. “I can’t.”

A silence fell: there was nothing to say. Bester Brits leaned his head back, as if the weight of the past was too much for him. And then his voice, almost inaudible. “So many dead,” he said. And whispered: “Manley.”

Breathed out. In.

“Verster.”

Out. In.

“De Beer.”

Again the breath, as though he could hear a shot with every name.

“Van Rensburg.”

Van Heerden’s heart was beating, hammering in his chest, too scared to breathe, too scared that he wouldn’t be able to hear, but the officer’s voice had stopped. He waited for the last two names, but they didn’t come.

Then, whispering as well: “What about Venter and Vergottini?”

Brits closed his eyes as if he was tired to the bone. “I don’t know, Van Heerden, I don’t know.”

“How did they die?” Almost inaudible, but the moment had passed. Bester Brits sat up again.

“It doesn’t matter. It was – ” He bit off the word sharply.

“It matters, Brits.”

Brits started to rise. “It doesn’t matter to you, Van Heerden. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Take my word for it. They’re dead.”

“Who shot Schlebusch, Brits?”

“I don’t know.”

“Vergottini? Verster?”

“I fucking well don’t know. I don’t know, are you deaf?”

Mat Joubert said softly: “It must be hard, Brits, to live with this for twenty-three years.” He wanted him in memory mode again, Van Heerden thought.

“It is.”

“And to pray it’ll never come again.”

Brits dropped his head into his hands. “Yes.”

“Unload it, Brits, the whole burden. Lay it down.”

He sat like that for a long time, the big hands moving slowly over his eyes and his nose and his forehead, rubbing, rubbing as if comforting himself. Then he got up with difficulty and his body shivered. “Do you know how much I’d like to? All these years. Do you know how close I sometimes came? Do you know how close I came just now?” Brits walked to the front door, opened it, and looked out. He looked back once at the men, who remained seated, then shook his head as if saying no to himself and walked out. They listened to his footsteps on the path and then there was only silence.