The White Lioness (43 page)

"I've already sent two reporters packing, and your man Bjork. You come when you're ready," his father said.

Wallander replaced the receiver. Their relationship might indeed be improving after all. Let's hope it lasts, he thought. Maybe something good will come of this nightmare after all.

He reached the bridge across to Oland at 4 a.m. He had stopped twice on the way, once to fill up with petrol, and once to take a nap. Now that he had arrived, he no longer felt tired. He contemplated the mighty bridge looming up before him, and the water glittering in the early morning light. In the car park where he stopped there was a telephone box with a tattered directory. Hemmansvagen was evidently on the other side of the bridge. He took his pistol out of the glove compartment and checked to make sure it was loaded. There came to him the time, many years ago, when he had visited Oland with his sister Kristina and their parents. There was no bridge then. He had a faint memory of the little ferry that took them over the sound. They spent a week camping that summer. He remembered that week as a happy experience rather than a series of separate incidents. A vague feeling of something lost forever possessed him for a moment. Then he redirected his thoughts to Konovalenko. He tried to convince himself that he was probably wrong. The pencil marks in the atlas and the address in the directory need not have been made by Konovalenko. He would soon be on his way back to Skane.

He stopped when he came to the Oland side of the bridge. There was a large road map of the island there, and he got out to study it. Hemmansvagen was a turning just before the zoo entrance. There was still not much traffic. After a few minutes he found the right road. He left the car in a car park. Hemmansvagen was a mixture of old and new houses, all of them with large gardens. He started walking. The first house had a number three on the fence. A dog eyed him suspiciously. He kept going, and calculated which one must be number 14. He noted that it was one of the older houses, with bay windows and elaborate ornamentation. He walked back the same way as he had come. He wanted to try approaching the house from the rear. He could not afford to take any risks. Konovalenko and his unknown companion might be there after all.

There was a sports field at the back of the houses. He clambered over the fence, ripping his trousers high up on one leg. He reoriented himself and approached number 14 from behind a wooden pavilion, that was painted yellow, with two storeys and a tower in one corner. There was a boarded-up hot-dog stand next to the fence. Crouching down, he left the shelter of the pavilion and ran over to the hut. Once there, he took his pistol out of his pocket. He stood there for five minutes, watching the house. Everything was quiet. There was a toolshed in one corner of the garden. That was where he would hide. He looked again at the house. Then he got down onto his knees and crawled to the fence behind where the shed was. It was broken-down and difficult to climb. He almost fell backwards, but regained his balance and jumped down into the narrow space behind the shed. He was breathing heavily. That's due to all the evil, he thought. Carefully he stuck his head out and contemplated the house from his new position. All was still quiet. The garden was overgrown. Next to him was a wheelbarrow full of last year's leaves. Perhaps the house was deserted. After a while he was more or less convinced it was. He left the protection of the shed and ran to the back wall of the house. Then he followed it to the right to get round to the front. He gave a start when he stepped on a hedgehog. It hissed and raised its spikes. Wallander had put his pistol back in his pocket. Now, without being quite sure why, he took it out again. The sound of a foghorn drifted in from the sound. He crept around the corner of the house and found himself at the far gable end. What am I doing here? If there is anybody in the house, it's bound to be some old couple waking up after a good night's sleep. What on earth will they say if they find a runaway detective inspector sneaking around in their garden? He kept going to the next corner. Then he peered around it.

Konovalenko was standing barefoot on the gravel path by a flagpole, urinating. He was dressed in trousers and an open shirt. Wallander did not move. Even so, something alarmed Konovalenko, possibly an instinct for danger that never waned. He turned around. Wallander had his pistol drawn. For a split second they both assessed the situation. Wallander realised Konovalenko had made the mistake of leaving the house without his gun. Konovalenko could see Wallander would either kill him or intercept him before he could reach the front door. Konovalenko found himself in a situation that gave him no choice. He flung himself to one side with such force that just for a moment, Wallander lost sight of him. Then he ran as fast as he could, dodging from side to side, and jumped over the low front wall. He was in the road before Wallander began chasing him. It had all happened in a flash, and Wallander did not see the African standing in a window, watching what was going on.

Tsiki knew something alarming had happened. He did not know what, but he realised the instructions Konovalenko had given him the day before must now be followed. "If anything happens," Konovalenko told him, handing over an envelope, "follow the instructions inside here. That way you'll make it back home. Get in touch with the man you already met, the one who gave you your money and your last set of instructions."

He waited by the window only for a short while. Then he sat at a table and opened the envelope. An hour later he was on his way.

Konovalenko had about a 50-metre head start. Wallander wondered how he could run so incredibly fast. They were going in the direction of where Wallander had parked his car. Was Konovalenko's car in the same car park? Wallander cursed and ran faster, but the distance between them got no shorter. He was right. Konovalenko headed for a Mercedes, ripped open the door, which was unlocked, and started the engine. It all happened so fast Wallander realised the key must have been in the ignition. Konovalenko was prepared, even if he had made the mistake of leaving the house without a gun. Just then Wallander saw a flash. He threw himself to one side. The bullet whined past and struck the asphalt. Wallander huddled behind a bicycle stand and hoped he was invisible. Then he heard the car make a racing start.

He rushed towards his own car, fumbling with the keys and thinking he had surely lost Konovalenko already. He was sure he would want to get off Oland as quickly as possible. If he stayed on the island he would be cornered sooner rather than later. Wallander slammed down the accelerator. He caught sight of the Mercedes at the roundabout just before the bridge. Wallander overtook a slow-moving truck at high speed and nearly lost control of the car as he clipped the flower bed in the centre of the roundabout. Then he raced onto the bridge. The Mercedes was in front of him. He must think of something. If it came to a car chase, he wouldn't stand a chance.

It all came to a head at the highest part of the bridge.

Konovalenko was going at very high speed, but Wallander had managed to keep on his tail. When he was sure of not hitting a car coming in the opposite direction, he stuck his pistol out of the window and fired. His aim was just to hit the car. The first shot missed. But the second was on target, and by an incredible stroke of luck he managed to burst one of the rear tyres. The Mercedes flew into a skid. Wallander slammed on his brakes and watched as Konovalenko careered into the concrete barrier on the outside edge of the bridge. There was a violent crash. Wallander could not see what had happened to Konovalenko behind the wheel. But without a second thought he shifted into first gear and drove straight into the back of the wrecked car. He felt a searing pain as the seat belt bit into his chest. Wallander wrestled with the gears to find reverse. With tyres screeching, he backed off and prepared for another ram. Then he repeated the manoeuvre one more time. The Mercedes was slammed a few more metres forward. Wallander backed off again, flung open the door, and took cover. Cars were already lining up behind him. When Wallander waved his pistol and yelled at the drivers to keep out of the way, several tumbled out of their cars and ran for it. Wallander could see a similar line of cars on the other side of the bridge. Still no sign of Konovalenko. Even so, he fired a shot at the crumpled car.

After the second bullet, the petrol tank exploded. Wallander never knew for sure afterwards if it was his bullet that caused the fire, or whether the leaking petrol had ignited for some other reason. The car was engulfed by roaring flames and thick smoke. Wallander approached the car.

Konovalenko was on fire. He was trapped on his back with half his upper body sticking out through the windscreen. Afterwards, Wallander would remember his staring eyes, indicating he could not believe what was happening to him. Then his hair started burning, and a few seconds later it was obvious to Wallander he was dead. Sirens were approaching in the distance. He walked slowly back to his own car and leaned against the door.

He gazed out over Kalmar Sound. The water glistened. There was a smell of the sea. His mind was a blank; he could not think at all. Something had come to an end, and he felt stupefied. Then he heard a voice from a megaphone ordering someone to lay down their arms. It was a while before he realised the voice was talking to him. He turned round and saw fire engines and patrol cars on the Kalmar side. Konavalenko's car was still ablaze. Wallander looked at his pistol. Then he threw it over the side of the bridge. Armed police were walking towards him.

Wallander waved his ID. "Chief Inspector Wallander," he yelled.

He was soon surrounded by suspicious local officers.

"I'm a policeman and my name's Wallander," he said. "You might have read about me in the papers. There's been an APB on me since last week."

"I recognise you," said one of the officers in a broad local accent.

"The man on fire in the car is Konovalenko," Wallander said. "He's the one who murdered our colleague in Stockholm. And a few others besides."

Wallander looked around. Something that might have been joy, or maybe relief, was beginning to well up inside him. "Shall we go?" he said. "I could do with a cup of coffee. It's all over here."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Kleyn was arrested in his office at NIS headquarters at about midday, Friday, May 22. Soon after 8 a.m. Chief Prosecutor Verwey had listened to Scheepers's account of the circumstances and President de Klerk's decision late the previous night. Then, without comment, he signed a warrant for Kleyn's arrest and another to search his house. Scheepers requested that Inspector Borstlap, who had made a good impression in connection with the murder of van Heerden, should handle the arrest. When Borstlap had deposited Kleyn in an interrogation room, he went to a nearby room where Scheepers was waiting. He was able to report that the arrest had taken place without any problems, but he had observed something that seemed to him important, and possibly worrisome. His information about why somebody in the intelligence service should be brought in for interrogation was scanty. Scheepers had stressed the secrecy surrounding everything to do with state security. Nevertheless, Borstlap had been told in confidence that President de Klerk was aware of what was happening. Borstlap had therefore felt instinctively that he ought to report what he had seen.

Kleyn had not been surprised by his arrest. Borstlap had seen through his indignation as a poorly performed charade. Somebody must have warned Kleyn what was going to happen. Since it was clear to Borstlap that the decision to arrest Kleyn had been made a very short time before, he realised that Kleyn either had friends in circles close to the President or there must be a mole operating in the public prosecutor's office. Scheepers listened to what Borstlap had to say. It was less than twelve hours since de Klerk had made his decision. Apart from the President only Verwey and Borstlap knew what was going to happen. Scheepers knew that he must at once warn de Klerk that his office was bugged. He asked Borstlap to wait outside while he made the call. The President's secretary said he was in a meeting and could not be disturbed until later in the afternoon.

Scheepers decided to keep Kleyn waiting. He had no illusions about his being worried that he was not told why he had been arrested. But it was more that Scheepers felt a degree of uncertainty about the imminent confrontation.

Borstlap drove them to Kleyn's house outside Pretoria. Scheepers was slumped in the back seat. He was thinking about the white lioness. A symbol of Africa, he thought. The animal at rest, the calm before it gets to its feet and musters all its strength. The beast of prey one cannot afford to wound, but which has to be killed if it starts to attack.

Scheepers wondered whether the grand design worked out by de Klerk and Mandela, involving the ultimate retreat of the whites, would succeed. Or would it lead to the doomsday they had tried to contain like an evil genie in a bottle?

They stopped outside the gates of Kleyn's house. Borstlap had told him on his arrest that the house would be searched, and requested the keys. Kleyn played up his outraged dignity and refused. Borstlap said he would break down the front door. In the end he got the keys. There was a guard outside the house, and a gardener. Scheepers introduced himself. He looked around the walled garden. Straight lines. And it was so well tended that it had lost all signs of life. That's what Kleyn must be like himself, he thought. His life is an extension of straight ideological lines. There is no room for divergence, not in his thoughts, his emotions, or his garden. The exception is his secret: Miranda and Matilda.

They went into the house. A black servant stared at them in astonishment. Scheepers asked him to wait outside while they searched the building. They asked him to tell the gardener and the guard not to go away until they had received his permission to do so.

The house was sparsely but expensively furnished. Kleyn favoured marble, steel, and substantial wood in his furniture. Lithographs hung on the walls. The motifs were taken from South African history. There were also fencing swords, old pistols and game bags. A stuffed kudu head with powerful, curved horns was mounted over the mantelpiece. While Borstlap went through the house, Scheepers shut himself into Kleyn's study. The desk was empty. There was one filing cabinet. Scheepers looked for a safe but found nothing. He went downstairs to the living room where Borstlap was searching through a bookcase.

"There must be a safe," Scheepers said.

Borstlap picked up Kleyn's keys and showed them to him. "No key, though," he said.

"You can be sure he's chosen a place for the safe he thinks is the last place we'd think of looking," Scheepers said. "So that's where we'll start. Where's the last place we'd think of looking?"

"Right in front of our very eyes," Borstlap said. "The best hiding place is often the most obvious one."

"Concentrate on finding the safe," Scheepers said. "There's nothing on the bookshelves." He went back to the study. He sat at the desk and opened the drawers in turn. Two hours later he had found nothing at all relevant to the investigation. Kleyn's papers mostly concerned his private life and contained nothing remarkable, or they were to do with his coin collection. To his surprise Scheepers learned that Kleyn was chairman of the South African Numismatic Society, and did noble work on behalf of the country's coin collectors. Another peculiarity, he thought. But hardly significant.

Borstlap had made two thorough searches, top to bottom, and found no safe.

"There is one, nevertheless," Scheepers said.

Borstlap called in the servant and asked him where the safe was. The man stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"A secret cupboard," Borstlap said. "Hidden, always locked?"

"There isn't one," the man said.

Borstlap sent him out again in annoyance. Then they started again. Scheepers tried to see if there were any irregularities in the house's architecture. It was not unusual for South Africans to have secret chambers built into their houses. He found nothing. While Borstlap was up in the cramped loft searching around with a flashlight, Scheepers went into the garden. He observed the house from the back. The solution struck him more or less immediately. The house had no chimney. He went back inside and squatted in front of the open hearth. He shone his torch up into the chimney. The safe was cut into the wall. When he tried the handle he discovered to his astonishment that it was unlocked. Just then Borstlap came downstairs.

"A well chosen hiding place," Scheepers said. Borstlap was annoyed that he had failed to find it himself.

Scheepers sat at the marble table sorting through the papers. Borstlap had gone outside for a cigarette. There were insurance policies, envelopes containing old coins, the house deeds, about 20 stock certificates, and some government bonds. He pushed them all to one side and concentrated on a small black notebook. He leafed through the pages. They were full of cryptic notes, a mixture of names, places and combinations of numbers. He decided to take the book with him.

He replaced the papers in the safe and went out to Borstlap. A thought struck him. He beckoned to the three men who squatted watching them.

"Were there any visitors late last night?" he said.

"Only Mofolo, the night watchman, can tell you that," the gardener said.

"And he's not here, of course."

"He comes in the evenings." Scheepers nodded. He would come back.

They drove back to Johannesburg. On the way they stopped for a late lunch. They parted at 4.15 p.m. outside the police station. Scheepers could put it off no longer. He would have to start the interrogation now. But first he would try again to reach the President.

When the security guard called close to midnight, Kleyn had been surprised. He knew, of course, that a young prosecutor by the name of Scheepers had been given the assignment of trying to unravel the suspicions of a conspiracy. But he was confident all the time of being a sufficient number of steps ahead of the man trying to track him. Now he realised Scheepers was closer to him than he had imagined. He got up, dressed, and prepared to be up all night. He guessed he had until at least 10 a.m. the following morning. Scheepers would need an hour or two the next day to arrange all the papers needed for his arrest. By then he would have to have made sure that he had issued all the necessary instructions to ensure the operation would not run into trouble. He went down to the kitchen and made tea. Then he sat down to write a summary. There was a lot to keep in mind, but he would manage.

Getting arrested was an unexpected complication, but he had considered the possibility. The situation was annoying, but not impossible to resolve. As he could not be sure how long Scheepers was thinking of holding him, he must plan on the basis that he would be detained until the assassination of Mandela had been carried out.

That was his first task. To turn what would happen the following day to his own advantage. As long as he was detained, they would not be able to accuse him of being involved in the various activities. He thought through what was going to happen. It was 1 a.m. before he decided to call Malan.

"Get dressed and come over," he said.

Malan was only half-awake and confused. No name, nothing more. "Get dressed and come over."

Malan asked no questions. An hour later, at exactly 2 a.m., he was in Kleyn's living room. The curtains were closed. The night watchman who opened the gate for him was threatened with instant dismissal if he ever revealed the visitors who came to the house late in the evening or during the night. Kleyn paid him a high wage in order to guarantee his silence.

Malan was nervous. Kleyn hardly let him sit down before explaining what had happened, what would happen the next morning, and what must be fixed that night. What Malan heard increased his alarm. His own responsibility would grow beyond where he was really happy with it.

"We don't know how much Scheepers has managed to figure out," Kleyn said. "But we must take certain precautions. The most important one is to dissolve the Committee, and divert attention from Cape Town and June 12."

Malan stared at him in astonishment. Could he be serious? Would all the executive responsibility fall on his shoulders?

"I'll be out very soon," he said. "Don't worry. Then I'll take back the responsibility."

"I hope so," Malan said. "But dissolving the Committee . . ."

"We have no choice. Scheepers might have penetrated deeper and further than we can know."

"But how has he done that?"

Kleyn shrugged in annoyance. "What do we always do?" he asked. "We use all our skills, all our contacts. We bribe, threaten, and lie our way to the information we need. There are no limits to what we can do. And so there are no limits for those who keep watch over our activities. The Committee must not meet again. It will cease to exist. That means it has never existed. We will contact all the members tonight. But before that there are other things we have to do."

"If Scheepers knows we're planning something for June 12, we'll have to postpone it," Malan said. "The risk is too great."

"It's too late," Kleyn said. "Besides, Scheepers can't be certain. A well-laid trail in another direction will convince him that Cape Town and June 12 are an attempt to mislead him. We turn the tables on him."

"How?"

"During the interrogation I'll be subjected to tomorrow, I'll have the chance to trick him into starting to believe something else."

"But that's hardly enough."

"Of course not."

Kleyn took out a little black notebook. When he opened it, Malan could see all the pages were blank.

"I'll fill this with nonsense," Kleyn went on. "But here and there I'll note down a place and a date. All except one will be crossed out. The one that is left will not be Cape Town, June 12. I'll leave the book in my safe. I'll leave it unlocked, as if I'd been in a great hurry and tried to dispose of incriminating papers."

Malan nodded. He was beginning to think Kleyn was right. It would be possible to set false trails.

"Tsiki is on his way home," Kleyn said, handing over an envelope to Malan. "It will be your job to receive him, take him to Hammanskraal, and give him his final instructions the day before June 12. Everything is written down inside this envelope. Read through it now and see if anything is unclear. Then we'll start making our calls."

While Malan was reading the instructions, Kleyn started filling the notebook with meaningless combinations of words and numbers. He used several different pens to give the impression the notes had been made over a long period. He thought for a while before deciding on Durban, July 3. The ANC were holding an important meeting there on that day. That would be his red herring.

Malan put down the papers. "It doesn't say anything about what gun he should use," he said.

"Konovalenko has been training him to use a particularly long-range rifle," Kleyn said. "There is an exact copy in the underground store at Hammanskraal."

Malan nodded.

"No more questions?"

"No," Malan said.

Kleyn had three separate lines. They made calls all over the country. Men fumbled for receivers, only to become instantly wide awake when they recognised the callers.

The Committee was dissolved. It had never existed because it had disappeared without trace. All that remained was a rumour of its existence. It could be recreated at short notice. For the time being it was no longer needed, and could be a danger. But the state of readiness to bring about their solution for the future of South Africa was as high as ever. They were all ruthless men who never rested. Their ruthlessness was real, but their ideas were based on a mixture of illusions, lies and fanatical despair. For some of the members it was a matter of pure hatred.