The Serpentine Road (32 page)

He pushes past him, drawn to the distant echo of boots on metal walkways, scans each face that appears in doorways, pushes himself on. He reaches a corner of the rig, stares down the next plain, sees nothing, hears nothing. He pulls himself back, falls through the doorway inside, climbs the staircase ahead of him, using the handrails to haul himself upwards. On the landing, he looks down one edge, then the other; he sees movement, hears the rhythm of drumming boots, begins to half jog, half stumble in pursuit.

By the time he has reached the next corner, his feet heavier and heavier on the cross-hatched metal gangway, he knows he is spent. He bends over the railings, retches into the darkness. He turns around, rests against the metal posts, hands on knees, thinks: there is no way off this rig but the way I came in – or down there. He pulls himself up, sees another entrance inside the rig, struggles to open it, his hands weak and greasy. He manages it, stumbles inside, over the stairway, down a level. There, he locates a bulkhead hatch, gets it open, rushes to the outside walkway. From here, he sees down towards the warehouses, the arc lights illuminating the diagonal drops which fall relentlessly, the road leading to the guarded entrance to the rig. He begins to jog in that direction.

He gets halfway there, then sees the back of a metal door swing towards him. He throws himself forward so that he is hard up against the rig’s bulkhead. The door opens almost completely back on itself, but not quite. De Vries sees Nkosi, gun raised, scanning to his left, beginning to turn to his right. In the time it takes him to peer around the door, De Vries has started to move. At the moment Nkosi registers him, De Vries is half flying, half falling towards him. He tries to fire his weapon, flails with his left hand to protect himself. De Vries hits him first with his chin, then his open arms, grabbing at Nkosi, pulling him down with him, all the weight he feels in his body somehow on top of Nkosi. They hit the gangway, Nkosi first, De Vries half landing on him, then rolling off the man’s body towards the railings. He spins around, crashes into the railings, feels lines of pain across his legs and side, finds his head unsupported, in free space. His body seems wedged between the icy wire railings, half into the void. Beneath him, there is only the all-encompassing black velvet water of the dock.

He pulls himself away from the edge, fingers cold and oily, their grip failing. He pushes back against the railings, hauls himself up, turns to see Nkosi struggling to get a foothold on the greasy walkway. This time, De Vries charges, head down, stumbling, collapsing into him. He feels Nkosi’s hands on him, a momentary resistance, but then they are both falling; he forwards, Nkosi backwards. They crash into the metal bulkhead. Nkosi crumples, De Vries bounces backwards away from him, stops himself, sees Nkosi scrabbling to drag himself up. De Vries thuds towards him, sees him keeling, understands suddenly that the man is beaten. He stands right up to Nkosi, raises his knee viciously into the man’s groin, and stands straight as he watches Nkosi double up, fall to his knees, howl.

‘The envelope?’

‘With us.’

De Vries wants it for himself, knows that if General Thulani has it, there will be questions he cannot answer.

‘The recording of the call to the newspaper?’

‘Being analyzed. I have heard it. I believe it is Lieutenant Mngomezulu. We will seek proof.’

‘You have him?’

Thulani smiles.

‘He is under arrest.’

‘He will be interrogated,’ David Wertner says. ‘We will find out who he works for.’

De Vries turns towards him, thinks at least his focus is elsewhere.

‘Your own movements in the last forty-eight hours, Colonel, require an explanation. The source of your information is unclear. Who provided you with this material?’

De Vries sighs, turns from Wertner back to Thulani.

‘Concentrate your efforts on Mngomezulu and his colleagues, Colonel,’ Thulani tells Wertner. ‘Colonel de Vries is to be congratulated for not capitulating in the face of intense pressure.’

De Vries looks down, disbelieving that he is receiving support from Thulani.

‘Your methods, Colonel, are highly questionable, but the result achieved in this instance, I believe, justifies them.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘It’s interesting how it has turned out again, that your investigations lead to one of our own?’

De Vries turns to Wertner.

‘Strange how that it is, isn’t it, sir.’

‘General Thulani received a priority call,’ Norman Classon tells De Vries and Don February in Vaughn’s office. ‘I can only think that the docks were already under surveillance . . .’

‘Or I was.’

‘Possibly. You know how keen everyone is to watch one another these days. Thulani is seen leaving in haste. After that, you probably know more than we do.’

‘It was the Hawks; that or some paramilitary unit we don’t know about. I don’t know how they found me.’

‘Networks, Vaughn. Perhaps General Thulani suspected you could be in trouble, kept an eye on you.’

‘An unusually benevolent eye.’

‘Nonetheless . . .’

‘He will claim all the credit for exposing this.’

‘Let him,’ Classon says. ‘Better you’re not involved, officially.’

‘Better for who?’

‘Better for everyone, I think. You wouldn’t want the reputation of going after your own, surely?’

‘Nkosi isn’t one of us.’

‘Not any more, anyway.’

De Vries nods. Whatever Thulani does, he still retains the information to act later if he deems it necessary.

‘You speak to Brigadier du Toit?’

‘I did,’ Classon says. ‘He is concerned about you, but I told him that you still seemed your usual self.’

‘I may need to see him.’

‘He’s in Citrusdal. You ever been to his place?’

He shakes his head, knows that Classon will have; De Vries is not considered one of the chattering classes.

‘He told me to give you the address, if you wanted; if you are taking some time off now.’

‘Soon, perhaps.’

Classon looks at De Vries’s bruised face, his purple cheek, the dark brown marks on his neck.

‘You’re owed plenty, apparently.’

‘I want to see what happens here first.’ He turns to Don. ‘Both your waitress and your strange young witness positively identify Nkosi?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, we have him buying the chicken. We have him at the scene at the right time. We need to know what he did to Lyle, but I want him for both murders.’

‘The question will be,’ Classon says. ‘Is he prepared to give up his bosses in exchange for leniency?’

‘I don’t care. I want him and that little shit-fuck Mngomezulu taken down. All the way.’

Thulani is breathing hard, his right hand fingering his collar.

‘We have confirmation that Sergeant Ben Thwala was not on the flight he checked in for. We have no information on his whereabouts. You authorized this action. Who was his contact?’

‘I don’t know.’ De Vries shakes his head gently for Ben Thwala, for how quickly his new-found allies abandon him.

‘Not one hour ago I was defending your actions, and now we have an officer missing. You spread disinformation around the station, you mislead me and you send this officer into a situation without understanding the danger.’

‘I understood, sir, and I informed Sergeant Thwala. He understood the risk.’

‘That is not acceptable.’

‘No, sir.’

‘We have to accept that Nkosi was not making an idle threat,’ Thulani says. ‘If he and whoever he works for are holding Thwala, then they have a bargaining chip against us. And we only have one thing in exchange: Nkosi. Do you see the position you have put us in?’

‘Perhaps you could put in a word with your friend, Mr Bhekifa.’

‘Don’t fuck with me, De Vries. The allegations contained in your mystery bundle are unbelievable and completely unproven.’

De Vries says nothing, stares ahead, seemingly over Thulani’s shoulder. He catches his superior’s eye movement, knows that already he is doubting what the years of loyalty have engrained in him. Nkosi, Mngomezulu, even Bhekifa: they are Thulani’s own, and they have betrayed him.

‘Listen to me, Colonel. Do nothing further. Nkosi and his associates are under guard, Julius Mngomezulu will be interrogated by Colonel Wertner, and I will make representations to Pretoria to see what is known about the whereabouts of Sergeant Thwala. When this matter is concluded, perhaps Colonel Wertner will, once again, feel he has due reason to examine your decisions.’

De Vries sighs. Everything is predictable in the world of the new SAPS. He will always be a target. He accepts this, is already planning his next move.

‘I’m sure he will.’

* * *

Don February wants to be at work, to be assisting in locating Ben Thwala. De Vries has ordered him to stay away, to wait to be contacted in case De Vries himself needs him or there are to be further unsanctioned operations.

He realizes that this is what De Vries has warned him about: if he works on cases such as these, there will be political pressures, his decisions will affect the rest of his career; there will be threats to him and, possibly, to his family. He has agonized over whether to leave, to return to normal duties and a predictable routine, to lessen the sense of apprehension with which he greets each new case. Yet, he knows already that De Vries is fearless – heedless too – but determined to bring justice. He did not join the SAPS to earn a living; he joined because he believes in justice. It has taken him almost two years to see that, whatever De Vries is, he will do what is necessary to bring justice to the victims of his cases. Anything else, maybe almost everything else, is not enough.

‘I had hoped, Colonel, that what I told you was clear. It seems not.’

‘You’re talking to me . . .’

‘That is because,’ Eric Basson tells him, ‘the damage has been done. You are here, you have asked to see me, your presence has been noted. You are lucky that I am so pragmatic.’

‘You helped me before. Now I need help for a colleague. A policeman.’

‘I know about Sergeant Thwala.’

‘What do you know?’

‘No more than you, I imagine. He is held by Nkosi’s supporters.’

‘Where?’

Basson shakes his head.

‘I don’t know. I don’t intend to find out. To do so would compromise my position.’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘Only what you already know. They will wish for the return of Nkosi and their men, you wish for the return of your colleague. Eventually, an agreement will be reached.’

‘Nkosi isn’t going anywhere.’

‘An admirable determination, but unrealistic. If Mr Bhekifa instructs that he is to be returned, I am sure that this will subsequently occur.’

‘You believe Bhekifa makes day-to-day decisions for these people?’

‘I am sure not. But this is hardly “day-to-day”. There is an impasse; they will eventually seek guidance from above. That above, ultimately, is Bhekifa.’

‘I need more from you.’

‘I possess only information. In this regard, I don’t have what you want.’

De Vries grimaces, rises.

‘However, I do have something else for you.’

He sits.

‘I misunderstood you,’ Basson says, ‘when you told me you had been under threat the previous day in Greyton.’

‘In what way?’

‘I had thought you were nearly the victim of an attack by the man who has killed four of your colleagues already.’

‘It was Nkosi’s men.’

‘Of course, but, at that moment, I was not aware of that.’

‘I knew you knew about the Victoria Drinking Hall bombing,’ De Vries says, ‘when you casually mentioned my time as a Captain in Observatory.’

‘It is rarely necessary to be overt.’

‘Depends if you are giving orders or not.’

Basson chuckles.

‘No one else has made the connection to these deaths. Unless we help them, I doubt they will. It is hard enough to pass information from one station to another; inter-provincial cooperation is still a rare commodity.’

‘You don’t think we should?’

‘Of course not. Secret history is best left hidden.’

‘You know who this is? Who is doing this?’

Basson frowns.

‘No.’

‘Then you have nothing to help me.’

Basson sits back in his chair, stares casually at his wedding ring, twists it. De Vries finds his fastidiousness annoying, feels that he is playing to his audience.

‘I have two gifts for you.’

‘Why?’

‘I like you.’ He studies De Vries carefully. ‘I anticipated that you might wish to interview Mr Kobus Nel.’

‘I can do that anytime.’

‘Can you? I doubt that you would find it so easy. Mr Nel travels extensively. It is often difficult to ascertain exactly where he is at any given time.’

‘So?’

‘He has agreed to meet you.’

‘You persuaded him?’

‘Kobus Nel’s heroic action during his time with the SAPS is noteworthy, especially during the mid to late 1980s. Do you know about that?’

‘His legend, yes. The details, no.’

‘You knew about
Vlakplaas
?’

‘Of course. He was there.’

‘For a time.’

‘No wonder they leave him alone.’

‘There is no need to sully ourselves with details. Suffice to say, Nel served his senior government masters loyally. He not only ensured the status quo, but he was publicly seen to be effective. That reputation served him well. There were never any revelations at the Truth and Reconciliation hearings. He – and the SAPS top brass – chose not to re-open those wounds. And, of course, I know about that January night in 1994. That knowledge provides me with a certain influence over Mr Nel.’

‘And now, me.’

‘Conceivably.’

‘You think Nel is responsible?’

Basson wets his thin lips.

‘It’s possible. He is bidding for respectability: an international business deal which will lift him from the underworld to some kind of legitimacy. His history would certainly be examined. He might fear that one of you would seek to hurt him. Your knowledge would buy leverage.’

‘Or your knowledge?’