The October Killings (23 page)

They went back into the building and found a table that looked out over the lawns. “The great do not like to be disturbed while they are deciding our fate,” Freek said, then added after a moment's thought, “or should it be fates?”

“Either will do,” Yudel said.

“The complexities of the English language confuse me sometimes.”

A waiter came unsmilingly toward them. “The car we came in gave us away,” Freek said. “He must have seen Yudel's Toyota. If we're going to frequent this place, you'll have to buy a Mercedes, Yudel. If we'd come in a Mercedes or a Lexus, still better a Jaguar, he would have been smiling.”

The waiter arrived at the table, still showing no pleasure at their presence. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked, his tone not hiding his lack of interest.

“Yes,” Freek said. “We would like something to drink, if it's not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all, sir,” the waiter mumbled morosely.

An hour after the drinks had arrived and their glasses had long since been emptied, the commissioner had still not come. “His
boytjie
said he was going to be here shortly,” Freek said.

“He needs to come now,” Abigail said.

“He'll come,” Yudel said.

“Freek needs to prepare,” Abigail said. “He needs to come now.”

“Take it easy,” Yudel said.

But Abigail felt that she was too close now to take it easy. “I'll give him five minutes, then I'm going to get him.”

“You stay put,” Freek said.

“How can he treat us this way? I'm a senior government official too.” Her chest was heaving with indignation. “So is Freek,” she said to Yudel. “And you are an important consultant to the Department of Correctional Services. I come from a family with a history in the struggle. My parents died in the struggle. Who does he think he is?” Every argument she raised increased her indignation. She was on her feet now, the five minutes she was going to give him forgotten already.

“Sit down,” Freek said.

“You sit down, if that's what you want,” Abigail told him. She turned and started toward the courtyard where the commissioner was either entertaining or being entertained. In a moment she was out of sight, through the doors at the back of the restaurant.

“Why are women so difficult?” Freek asked Yudel. “And so different?”

“The Almighty has decreed it so,” Yudel said philosophically. He liked the sound of his own wisdom.

“What do you suppose He was thinking at the time?” Freek wondered.

A minute passed, then another, and Yudel wondered aloud if they should go in search of Abigail, a sort of rescue mission.

“I have but one career to give for my country,” Freek said. “Let's wait.”

The doors through which Abigail had left swung open and she came in, followed by the commissioner. This time he looked more amused than annoyed. “It takes a woman,” Yudel said.

Freek and Yudel rose and remained standing until both Abigail and the commissioner were seated, then they too sat down. “Freek,” he nodded. “And Mr. Gordon, I think. I hope this is going to be worth messing up my meeting.”

“I think so, sir,” Freek said. “Abigail, you'd better tell the commissioner your story.”

Abigail did as Freek had suggested, but unlike Freek, the commissioner stopped her after just a few minutes. “Come with me, Abigail,” he said. “I want a word with you in private.”

Freek and Yudel watched them go, once again in the direction of the courtyard. “And now? What's this all about?” Freek asked, not expecting an answer. “Is this an all-black thing that we are not allowed to know about?”

In the courtyard, the commissioner was waving Abigail to a seat. “You're Tom Bukula's daughter, right?”

“Yes, sir.” Abigail tried to sound like a nice, humble African girl.

“I knew your father in the struggle days.”

“I know.”

“So what are you doing with these two old boys, these refugees from the old regime?” The smile on his face held a demanding element.

“They're the only ones who have agreed to help me so far.”

“I'm not sure that it looks good, you traveling around with these two old white guys.”

“Commissioner, this is more important than how anything looks.” She was losing the humble African girl thing.

“The only reason that no one else is helping you is because there are serious matters facing the country at this moment.”

“I know.”

“What you don't know is how serious these matters are.”

“I do.”

He looked at her with an expressionless face. Even the smile had gone. “I doubt it.”

Abigail wanted to shout at him that she knew about the deputy president and that no one in high office was able to think about anything else, but it was Robert who had told her about it and he had sworn her to silence.

“This is about Michael Bishop, isn't it?” So far she had not mentioned his name. The surprise must have shown in her face. “He's not just a problem to you,” the commissioner said. “He could be an embarrassment to the entire movement. He has never subjected himself to the discipline of the movement. Tell me what you want.”

“I want deputy commissioner Jordaan to set a trap for him tonight.”

“You know where he's going to be?”

“We think we do.”

“Where?”

For an instant Abigail recoiled from the idea of telling the commissioner. How do I know where your sympathies lie? she wondered. How did you guess about Michael Bishop? “In Diepsloot, with an old comrade of Bishop who lives there,” she lied.

“And Gordon, where does he come in?”

“I met him by chance,” she lied again, “and he led me to Jordaan.”

“Jordaan's an effective policeman,” the commissioner said. “He'll set a trap as well as anyone. And I'll arrange the warrant. There are still a few pliable magistrates who will take my word that this is necessary. Freek will have to pick it up. Let's go back to your new friends.”

*   *   *

After they left the club and the commissioner had returned to further discussions with the business community, they traveled in silence for a few minutes. Then Freek asked, “And this Diepsloot business he was talking about?”

“I told him that's where we're setting the trap,” Abigail said.

“You lied to the commissioner?”

“Yes.”

“My God, woman. I'm on his staff. I'm only doing this because he agreed to it.”

“I know.” Abigail clamped her teeth together and clasped her hands tightly to keep them steady. “You can tell him later that the information I supplied changed during the afternoon. You have to understand that I don't know where his sympathies lie. Not everyone who was in the struggle will care about stopping this man from killing Leon.”

27

The pain in Leon Lourens's back and shoulders had been growing throughout the two nights and one day since he had been abducted. He had been given enough food and water, but since he had been in this place he had been untied just three times, once for only seconds and that had ended in a loss of consciousness.

The first time he had been untied he had tried to remove the blindfold. Before his hands had reached it he had been seized from behind, an arm closing around his neck so quickly that there was no chance of resisting. The blood supply to his brain was cut off by pressure on the carotid artery, and in a moment all consciousness was gone.

When he awoke he found himself tied to the chair again. After being left that way for another ten hours and having urinated twice in his pants, he did not try to resist again. On the other occasions his hands had been freed just long enough for him to eat and perform the necessary ablutions.

The blindfold that covered his eyes had been taped to his face and forehead and had not once been removed in the time that he had been there. Not the smallest gleam of light penetrated the blindfold at any time. He was certain that the room was in complete darkness.

He was tied to a wooden chair, his arms drawn back tightly by the rope and fastened to the backrest, his hands tied tightly together. His ankles were tied to the chair legs. Any movement was impossible.

The strangest aspect of his abduction was that he did not even remember seeing the face of the man who had taken him. When he had come into Leon's workshop, he had been silhouetted against a bright afternoon sky. When Leon was led to the car he had tried to see the other man's face, but it was turned away. It was as he slipped into the passenger seat that Leon lost consciousness. When he regained consciousness he was blindfolded and tied to the chair.

No one had spoken to Leon during the time he had been there. He could smell the food and hear it being put down on a second chair. The bucket he was to use for defecating was handed to him in silence.

At no time did he know how many people were in the room with him or if he was alone. Although he had listened for it, he had never heard a door open or close. But he had heard other sounds. He had heard breathing again, very soft, but clearly in the same room and only occasionally. Time had passed, often hours before he heard the breathing again, but whether his captor had left and returned or had simply moved farther away, he had no way of judging.

Once on the first day, after hearing the breathing louder than before, he had tried to reason with his captor, explaining about Abigail and how he had never agreed with the indiscriminate killings of the apartheid regime. He had tried to tell his captor that he had been moved to ordinary duties because his seniors had felt that he could not be trusted with special operations.

To none of it was there any response. When he had finished speaking he listened for the breathing to see if he was reaching anyone, but this time he heard nothing.

When reasoning failed, Leon's anger had grown. He had roared at the injustice of this imprisonment, shouting that whoever they were they did not know who their enemies were, that he had a wife and children, and could they tell him who would care for them? The roaring had only lasted a few seconds before a gag was slipped skilfully and firmly into his open mouth and part of the way down his throat. It was clear that more shouting would only dislodge it further, suffocating him.

The attempt at reason had failed and his anger had lasted only a few hours. The state of mind that accepted his own death as inevitable came surprisingly quickly. If he had been able to judge the time, he would have known that, after only twelve hours since he had first been tied to the chair, he had given up any thought of survival.

He had occasionally heard the wind in trees and more than once he thought that he had heard a car hooting. It was clear that he was not in the suburbs, but that there was road traffic not far away. It was also clear that he was the one chosen to die this year. He had been abducted on the nineteenth and, even without a view of daylight, it now had to be at least the twentieth. Leon Lourens had no doubt that he had less than forty-eight hours to live.

To Leon, the prospect of death had never been frightening. He was an uncomplicated man who believed that he had done the best he could in life and that he had done no wrong serious enough that atonement might be necessary. He believed that there was sure to be a life after death and that God was certainly good. He had nothing to fear.

Only one aspect of his approaching death caused him pain. Without him, Susanna and the children would suffer terribly. It was true that they had Susanna's half-brother, but he and his family were also not wealthy people. They would try to help, but they were probably also struggling to keep their own heads above water. He knew that the new South Africa was not a good place for those white people who were not able to look after themselves. His family was fairly secure as long as he was alive, but what would they do after he died? He tried not to think about it.

28

The city hall was an old building by the standards of Johannesburg, one of the world's youngest cities. It stood in the center of the original part of the city. It was made of brown stone and had the clock tower, the broad staircases, the intricate system of passages, entrances and exits that reflected the architecture of the early twentieth century. Besides the theater, the building also housed the city's main library and various municipal offices. People attending the concert would be able to park in a broad basement parking garage and enter the lobby from there. It was not an easy building in which to set a trap.

Deputy commissioner Freek Jordaan, wearing the dress suit and bow tie of the impresario's staff, was on site by three in the afternoon, five hours before the start of the performance. After the meeting with the commissioner, he had spent almost an hour with Abigail trying to understand why she was so certain that Bishop was the most likely suspect. Most of all, it was the method of killing that persuaded him. Garrotting the victim with piano wire was not a method of killing he had ever come across in his career and it was certainly not a method in which soldiers of the liberation movement had been trained.

Thirty of his officers, all wearing overalls and carrying furniture, posters, banners and equipment, trickled in during the next hour. They all gathered in the theater: Freek, a captain, four lieutenants, seven sergeants, some inspectors and the rest constables. Twenty years before, all the men for a mission of this sort would have been white. Now two-thirds were Africans. Ten of the officers were women.

Copies of the photograph of Michael Bishop had been handed to all of them. “Take a good look at it,” Freek said in English. In years past he would have been addressing them in Afrikaans, but many saw that language as being part of the system of oppression they had endured for so long. “I know it's not much to recognize him by, but that's all we have. His name is Michael Bishop, and we will be arresting him on suspicion of murder.”