“Why?”
“Everything has to have a name. Have you ever shot an antelope? If you hit it in the right spot, it jumps into the air before it dies. That’s the jump I’m going to offer to the greatest enemy we have.”
They sat up until dawn. Franz Malan could not help admiring the meticulous way in which Jan Kleyn had thought the whole thing through. The plan was daring without taking unnecessary risks. When they walked out onto the veranda at dawn to stretch their legs, Franz Malan voiced one last objection.
“Your plan is excellent,” he said. “I can see only one possible snag. You are relying on Victor Mabasha not letting us down. You are forgetting he comes from the Zulu tribe. They are reminiscent of the boere in some respects. Their uttermost loyalty is given to themselves and the ancestors they worship. That means you are placing an enormous amount of faith in a black man. You know they can never feel the same loyalty we do. Presumably you are right. He will become a rich man. Richer than he could ever have dreamed of. But still, the plan means we are relying on a black man.”
“You can have my answer right away,” said Jan Kleyn. “I don’t trust anybody at all. Not completely, at least. I trust you. But I’m aware that everybody has a weak point somewhere or other. I replace this lack of trust by being extra cautious. That naturally applies to Victor Mabasha as well.”
“The only person you trust is yourself,” said Franz Malan.
“Yes,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll never find the weak point you’re speaking of in me. Of course Victor Mabasha will be under constant scrutiny. And I’ll make sure he knows that. He’ll get some special training by one of the world’s leading experts on assassination. If he lets us down, he will know he can look forward to a slow and painful death so awful, he’d wish he’d never been born. Victor Mabasha knows the meaning of torture. He will understand what we expect of him.”
A few hours later they separated and drove off in their different directions.
Four months later the plan was firmly established among a group of conspirators who had sworn a solemn oath of silence.
The plan was becoming a reality.
When the car came to a halt outside the house on the hill, Franz Malan tethered the dogs. Victor Mabasha, terrified of German shepherds, remained in the car until he was certain he would not be attacked. Jan Kleyn was on the veranda to receive him. Victor Mabasha could not resist the temptation to hold out his hand. But Jan Kleyn ignored it and asked instead how the journey had been.
“When you’re sitting in a bus all night, you have time to think up any number of questions,” Victor Mabasha replied.
“Excellent,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll get all the answers you need.”
“Who decides that?” asked Victor Mabasha. “What I need or don’t need to know?”
Before Jan Kleyn could reply, Franz Malan emerged from the shadows. He did not offer his hand either.
“Let’s go inside,” said Jan Kleyn. “We have a lot to talk about, and time is short.”
“I’m Franz,” said Franz Malan. “Put your hands up over your head.”
Victor did not protest. It was one of the unwritten rules that you gave up your weapons before negotiations could begin. Franz Malan took his pistol and then examined the knives.
“They were made by an African armorer,” said Victor Mabasha. “Excellent both for close combat and throwing.”
They went inside and sat down at the table with the green felt cloth. The driver went to make coffee in the kitchen.
Victor Mabasha waited. He hoped the two men would not notice how tense he was.
“A million rand,” said Jan Kleyn. “Let’s start at the end just this once. I want you to bear in mind the whole time how much we’re offering you for this job we want you to do for us.”
“A million can be a lot or very little,” said Victor Mabasha. “It depends on the circumstances. And who’s ‘we’?”
“Save your questions for later,” said Jan Kleyn. “You know me, you know you can trust me. You can regard Franz, sitting opposite you, as an extension of my arm. You can trust him just as much as you can trust me.”
Victor Mabasha nodded. He understood. The game had started. Everybody was assuring everybody else how reliable they were. In fact, nobody trusted anybody but themselves.
“We thought we’d ask you to do a little job for us,” repeated Jan Kleyn, making it sound to Victor Mabasha’s ears as though he was asking him to get a glass of water. “Who ‘we’ are in this context doesn’t matter as far as you’re concerned.”
“A million rand,” said Victor Mabasha. “Let’s assume that’s a lot of money. I take it you want me to kill somebody for you. A million is too much for such an assignment. So let’s assume it’s too little-what’s the explanation?”
“How the hell can a million be too little?” asked Franz Malan in annoyance.
Jan Kleyn made a deprecatory gesture.
“Let’s just say it’s good money for an intense but brief assignment,” he said.
“You want me to kill somebody,” Victor Mabasha repeated.
Jan Kleyn looked at him for a long time before replying. Victor Mabasha suddenly felt as if a cold wind was blowing through the room.
“That’s right,” said Jan Kleyn slowly. “We want you to kill somebody.”
“Who?”
“You’ll find out when the time is ripe,” said Jan Kleyn.
Victor Mabasha suddenly felt uneasy. It ought to be the obvious first move, giving him the most important piece of information. Who he would be aiming his gun at.
“This is a very special assignment,” Jan Kleyn went on. “It will involve travel, perhaps a month of preparations, rehearsals, and extreme caution. Let me just say it’s a man we want you to eliminate. An important man.”
“A South African?” asked Victor Mabasha.
Jan Kleyn hesitated for a moment before replying.
“Yes,” he said. “A South African.”
Victor Mabasha tried to work out quickly who it could be. But there was a lot he did not know. And who was this fat, sweaty man sitting silently and hunched up in the shadows on the other side of the table? Victor Mabasha had a vague feeling he recognized him. Had he met him before? If so, in what connection? Had he seen his photograph in a newspaper? He searched his memory frantically, but in vain.
The driver put out some cups and saucers, and placed the coffeepot in the middle of the green cloth. Nobody said a word until he left the room and closed the door behind him.
“In about ten days we want you to leave South Africa,” said Jan Kleyn. “You’ll go straight back to Ntibane. Tell everybody you know there you’re going to Botswana to work for an uncle who has an ironmonger’s store in Gaborone. You’ll be receiving a letter postmarked in Botswana, offering you a job. Show people this letter as often as you can. On April 15, in a week, you’ll take the bus to Johannesburg. You’ll be picked up at the bus station and spend the night in an apartment, where you’ll meet me in order to receive your final instructions. The next day you’ll fly to Europe, and then on to St. Petersburg. Your passport will say you’re from Zimbabwe, and you’ll have a new name. You can choose one yourself. When you get to St. Petersburg you’ll be met at the airport. You’ll take the train to Finland, and go from there to Sweden by boat. You’ll stay in Sweden for a few weeks. You’ll meet somebody there who’ll give you your most important instructions. On a date as yet unfixed you’ll return to South Africa. Once you’re back here, I’ll take over responsibility for the final phase. It’ll be all over by the end of June at the latest. You can collect your money wherever you like in the world. You’ll be paid an advance of 100,000 rand as soon as you’ve agreed to carry out this little assignment we have lined up for you.”
Jan Kleyn stared intently at him in silence. Victor Mabasha wondered if his ears had deceived him. St. Petersburg? Finland? Sweden? He tried to conjure up a map of Europe in his mind’s eye, but failed.