He heard vehicles behind him, a deep droning, looked, but the road ran behind the rise. Probably a smallholding truck. Footsteps, exclamations, he looked round, something was wrong, many feet, they came running over the crest of the hill, soldiers, steel helmets and rucksacks and R5 rifles held in front of them. They saw him, fell flat. “Throw down your weapon.” Not anxious voices, certainly not, authoritarian. He slowly stood up, the Heckler & Koch in front of him, put it down on the ground. Where the fuck had they come from? Two jumped up, R5s aimed at him, bulletproof vests, reaction team, grabbed his machine pistol. “Lie down. Now!” He moved slowly, heart beating, lay facedown, heard the others coming nearer, many boots, felt hands on him, taking the cell phone. “He’s clean.” And he smelled the dew-sodden grass, the earth, heard more footsteps. “Only the cell phone.”
“Get up, Van Heerden.” Bester Brits.
Rage engulfed him when he recognized the voice, the insight too late. He jumped up in one movement. “You cunt,” he screamed, grabbing the Military Intelligence officer’s throat, soldiers dragging him away, forcing him onto his knees.
“You bugged my telephone, you cunt.”
Brits laughed. “You think you’re so clever, Van Heerden.”
“He’s mine, Brits.”
“The two of you stay here with him. If he doesn’t behave, kneecap him.” He lifted a two-way radio to his mouth. “Alpha, are you ready?”
“Alpha ready.”
“Bravo ready?”
“Bravo ready.”
“Let’s go in.”
“I hope you have armored-car backup and air support, Brits.”
“If he’s going to lie here talking shit, put a bullet through his knee,” Bester said, and then they were gone, down the steep gravel road, the sharp sound of assault rifles being cocked. Van Heerden looked up at the two soldiers staring down at him, sharp, watchful faces. He waited for the rifle shots from the house, angry. He should’ve thought, but what could he do? It wouldn’t have helped to change the number. Jesus, what a first-class cunt. Why was it so quiet at the house, Schlebusch still sleeping? Minutes ticked past, he sat up, the soldiers kept their weapons trained on him.
“Since when have you been on alert?”
They ignored him.
“Could I have my cell phone back?”
No reply.
He got up, looked down the road, shifted a few steps to see better.
“Stand still.”
He stood still. He could see the truck, the garden area. Soldiers kneeling at the front door, at the truck, all at the ready, the door open. Why didn’t they shoot? Why didn’t Schlebusch shoot? Someone came out, a soldier came up the road, comfortable jog, no hurry – something wasn’t right. The soldier came up to them.
“Van Heerden?”
“Yes.”
“The colonel wants you down there.”
He started walking, only the one soldier accompanying him. “You let Schlebusch get away.”
Silence. Crunch-crunch on the unpaved road, the soldier’s boots loud, his trainers soft. The smallholding opened out ahead of him, neglected, the white paint on an outside building peeling off, long grass, climbing plants growing wildly against a stone wall, weeds in the orchard. As he walked past the truck, he looked. Something wasn’t right with the fucking truck? What was it? The soldier walked to the veranda, nodded at the front door.
“First door to the right.”
He walked in. Bester Brits stood there, arms folded. On the carpet lay Bushy Schlebusch, half on his face, or what was left of it, the blood a reddish brown irregular pool on the parquet floor, eye and nose lost in the exit wound, hole in the back of the head, hands tied behind the back.
He looked, flabbergasted, made the connections, one shot, execution-style, in the back of the head, and then he knew what was wrong with the truck as he remembered it on the N7. Schlebusch had climbed out on the left-hand side. He had assumed it was a left-hand drive, like Kemp’s imported Ford, but Schlebusch wasn’t the driver: there was another one, or more than one. He swore, he should’ve thought, it wasn’t the neighbor who phoned – how the fuck could a neighbor remain anonymous? It was –
“You killed him, Van Heerden.”
“What?”
“The photo in the newspaper this morning. They couldn’t afford to let him live.”
He stuttered, a thousand thoughts in his head. Nothing made sense. Schlebusch was the one, the leader, that was how he’d seen it. Schlebusch was his prey. He struggled with the new information. “They. Who are ‘they,’ Bester?”
“Do you think I would be standing here if I knew?”
He took a step forward, drew a finger through the blood – it was thick and sticky but it wasn’t dry. Lord, it must’ve happened a few hours ago. And then he saw the events in his own head: they must’ve waited for the newspaper, somewhere, waiting to see, every morning since the first copy, made plans. They must’ve shot Schlebusch this morning and then phoned, the voice on the phone, so calm, so innocent. They knew he would come – and then the fear came like a paralysis, his mother, his mother, his mother, and he screamed, “Jesus!” and he ran, out of the door, back to the soldiers who had his cell phone, swearing furiously at his own lack of insight.
“Van Heerden,” Bester called after him.
“My mother, Bester,” he screamed, hearing this morning’s call in his ears, that calm, assured voice. Not the voice of a hate-filled psychopath, but of a calm strategist, which was worse, much worse.
♦
Billy September saw them coming and he grabbed the AK-47 and realized he had to protect the women in the house first: Carolina de Jager in the bathroom, Wilna van As in the kitchen, Joan van Heerden outside somewhere, at the stables. Four men coming from the front, from the road, weapons in their hands, openly moving between trees and shrubs, full of self-confidence, blatant, secure in the knowledge that Joan van Heerden was alone. He screamed at Wilna van As, “They’re coming, get to the bedroom, lie flat,” hammered at the bathroom door, “Trouble, now, come on out.” Wilna van As’s eyes white, he pointed at her: “Look there, please stay in the bedroom.” He ran to the kitchen, looked out toward the stables, didn’t see Joan van Heerden, ran to the living room, looked through the big window. They were closer. The bathroom door opened, Carolina de Jager in a pink dressing gown. “What’s the matter?”
“They’re here, madam, four with guns. Go to the bedroom, lock the door, lie flat.”
“No,” said Carolina de Jager. “Get me a gun.”
♦
He ran up the sloping road, Bester Brits pounding behind him. “Van Heerden!” He ran on. Tiny Mpayipheli was on his way here, only September and the women, and they, whoever they were, knew that. He reached the soldiers. “The cell phone.” He grabbed it out of the man’s hand, kept running, heard the soldiers behind him, heard Bester say, “Leave him, let him go,” pressed the buttons, held the instrument against his ear, ran. He realized he needed his weapon, turned, tried to take the Heckler & Koch, but the soldier jerked it away. The telephone ringing, ringing, ringing.