The October Killings (36 page)

The force of the car hitting it lifted the gate off its railing. It rose and bent with the weight of the car, but settled on the bonnet, steel shafts puncturing the bodywork and shattering the windscreen. Stunned by a blow he had taken on the car's door frame and partially blinded by shattered glass, the man called Lesela found the door handle and rolled out onto the pavement. He ran for the pedestrian gate, his right shoulder digging into Sergeant Maake's stomach as the sergeant tried to block the way. By the time he was through the gate, the other guard was already firing. Yudel had put the guard in just the right frame of mind for dealing with someone trying to run the barrier, especially a psychologist. For the moment the car provided some cover.

The first bullet from the guard's gun shattered the back window. The second, as he adjusted his aim, ricocheted off the prison wall, landing in Potgieter Street, the traffic artery some twenty meters away.

Lesela was trying to run, but he could only see partially out of one eye, and was trailing a hand along the prison wall to guide him. He went down hard when the guard's fourth bullet hit him in the back. He tried to rise, but the fifth bullet took him in the back of the head.

By the time Yudel reached the security barrier, the man known to the Department of Correctional Services as Patrick Lesela was dead. His face was bruised and perforated by tiny shards of glass, but the cause of his death was apparent in the two bullet wounds, one in his left shoulder blade, where the bullet had been deflected off the bone and entered his heart, and the other that had entered his brain at the base of his skull. The guard looked altogether pleased with his evening's work. “Five shots,” he was telling Sergeant Maake, “and I hit a moving target twice. And I had to dodge his car.”

No one at the scene of the incident noticed a second car, driven by a single white man, pull away from the curb a hundred meters up Potgieter Street and come slowly past the intersection. The car stopped for a moment to give the driver a view of the body on the pavement and the barrier, now distorted by the crash, before he pulled away smoothly to be absorbed into the traffic.

44

Yudel was still at the security barrier when Abigail arrived. She was alone, having handed Leon over to Freek and his men.

“And this?”

“Bishop's colleague.”

Abigail had tried to approach the body, but was stopped by police who were already erecting barriers to keep the public out. “Are you sure?”

“He went under the name Patrick Lesela. He's just killed van Jaarsveld.”

Her eyes were wide at this new enlightenment. “My God. Were they aiming at him all the time?”

“Remember that I told you Bishop wanted us to go to the house, but I didn't know why?”

“I remember.”

“He wanted us to find Leon. Your friend was always just a decoy, a diversion to keep us busy while he went after the real prize. The truth is that Bishop gave us Leon.”

“He played us,” Abigail said. “That we were just players in his game may be the most disturbing element of the whole thing.”

“It's not quite like that. You still had to find Leon. Bishop didn't exactly hand you a map. And the way we captured him at the concert was not part of his plan.”

“You didn't see Bishop here today?”

“No.”

“Will the police search for him?”

“Yes. Freek would never be able to let matters rest as they are.”

“The government will want him out of the way too,” Abigail said. “He's a potential embarrassment. And what about Leon? Will he be safe a year from now?”

“I don't know,” Yudel said. “I hope they find him before the year is up.”

Abigail and Yudel were standing next to the plastic tape the police used to cordon off the crash scene. They could see the body of Lesela where it had fallen, face downward on the pavement. A detective, who had been bending over the body, straightened up and came over to Yudel. “He had an old ID book in his inside pocket. It gives his name as Matthew Baloyi.”

“Perhaps another alias,” Yudel said.

“Perhaps,” the detective said, “but I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“It's an old book. A forgery would be new.”

Yudel nodded. “Good thinking, detective. You'll need to look into it.”

“I will.”

When they were alone again, Abigail asked, “Where are you going?”

“Home, to sleep, perhaps to listen to a little music.”

“Handel's
Samson
?”

“Maybe.” He looked searchingly at Abigail, this surprising woman. It seemed that there was nothing left to say. He shook her hand before starting toward his car. “We'll probably see each other around.”

“Yudel, wait.” She took him by the arm and drew him away from the police attending to the crime scene. “You remember what you said to me about Bishop and Robert and how I should not confuse them?”

He had to think back before he remembered. “It was up at the house, I think.”

“Yes.”

“I remember saying something.”

“Thank you for that. I've been thinking about it.” He nodded and again tried to leave, but she stopped him. “You also need some advice,” she said.

Yudel looked sharply at her. There was something almost startled in the look. “Come again?”

“Things are not going that well between you and Rosa. When did you last tell her you loved her?”

“Rosa knows I love her.”

“When did you last tell her?”

“I don't know. It's got nothing to do with you though.”

“It does. You gave me advice. Now I'm giving you some.”

“That's different. I'm a psychologist.”

“Don't give me that. You're not my psychologist. When you go home now, tell Rosa you love her.”

“Might there be anything else?” He was trying, without success, to sound sarcastic.

“Yes, just one thing. Kiss her and make love to her after that.”

“You've got a damned cheek,” Yudel said.

“And you had a damned cheek discussing my love life with me, but I needed to hear it. And you need to hear this.”

Yudel frowned deeply at her. She was definitely an unusual woman. “Would it be in order for me to go home now, do you think?” The sarcasm was still not working.

“Sure. I'll see you around.” He started turning away, but Abigail had not yet released her grip on his arm. “Wait. That handshake doesn't do it.” Before he could move any further, she had her arms around him and was hugging him. He felt a quick kiss on his left cheek. “Thanks for everything. You're also an African hero.”

Why does she always say things that I am unable to answer? he wondered. He was halfway to his car, taking a detour around the crash scene, when Abigail called after him. “Don't forget now. Tell her as soon as you get home.”

Damned woman, Yudel thought. He kept going toward his car. He saw no reason to reply.

Abigail was still not finished. “Then, when you've told her, do what I said you should,” she yelled after him.

45

The opening evening of the Department of Justice conference on the role of gender diversity in expanding developing national economies in Africa had been planned as a brief affair, but the program had been delayed. The delegates had all been traveling, some of them for more than a day. Johanna's plan was for them to register, have a drink, enjoy a finger supper and listen to two five-minute welcoming speeches from the minister and the director-general.

That had been the plan. But in just a few minutes, it started to go sadly awry. She had come across the minister and the DG comparing notes. And their notes were copious. It had immediately become clear that neither of them were going to pay any attention to the five-minute limit.

Johanna stood in the foyer, on the steps leading up to the auditorium, looking across the sea of moving, chattering humanity. Most of the people in the gathering were tired from the travels that had brought them here. An hour-long program, most of which was devoted to socializing, was about all they could take this evening. But for her to try giving instructions to the minister and the DG was beyond the scope of her imagination.

The voices in the gathering rose suddenly in excitement. The glass doors through which they had all entered had opened, and people were moving aside to make a path for someone who was coming in. “It's Madiba,” an excited female voice reached her.

“I didn't know he was on the program,” someone else was saying.

Ordinarily Johanna would have always have been delighted to see the great man who had led the country through its years of transition, but now she wondered if he was just going to add to her problems. She wondered if she would have to fit him into the program as well.

The minister had rushed forward to meet the unexpected guest. The great man shook the minister's hand briefly, then continued toward the auditorium, taking small steps on his stiff, old-man's legs. Close behind, two members of his staff followed, in case he needed help.

To reach the auditorium he had to pass within a few steps of Johanna. As he drew abreast, he noticed her for the first time. Stopping opposite her, he turned and smiled. “My dear, you look troubled,” he said.

“Oh, President Mandela, I…”

“Former president,” he corrected her.

“Former President Mandela…” Speaking was suddenly a problem. Johanna could barely breathe.

“What seems to be troubling you?”

“I'm the program organizer, and the guests are all tired … and I'm afraid some of the speeches…”

“May be too long?”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached out and squeezed one of her shoulders gently. “Never mind, my dear. I'll deal with it.”

A few minutes later the delegates had assembled in the auditorium. The former president had told the master of ceremonies that he had something to say before the speakers who were on the program, and that all introductions were to be kept brief.

Moments later, he had the microphone. His welcome to the delegates took less than a minute. “But I have especially good news for all of you,” he went on. “Tonight, none of the speeches are going to be longer than three minutes.” A vigorous round of applause followed. He turned his head to look at the speakers seated on the podium behind him, but spoke loudly enough for the audience to hear. “And I'll be timing you.”

This time the applause was mingled with laughter and it continued for some time. No one applauded harder or laughed louder than Johanna.

*   *   *

The police car was being driven by one of the flying squad men who, a few hours earlier, had accompanied Freek to the old ruin in the Magaliesberg hills. Leon Lourens sat in the passenger seat next to him. He was massaging both hands. It felt as if their circulation would never be normal again.

The house where the flying squad driver stopped the car was a nondescript suburban dwelling, set back perhaps ten paces from the road. A straight concrete path led from a simple steel and wire gate to the front door. Fewer security measures were visible than at the homes of Abigail or Yudel. There was less worth stealing, and those who lived in the house would be less able to afford elaborate security arrangements.

The driver had called ahead as they entered the Kempton Park municipality and there was a gathering of people, adults and children, around the front door of the house. Susanna Lourens formed the center of the group, the others all hanging back behind her. This was her moment.

Leon got slowly out of the car. His joints and muscles were still stiff. It took him a moment to straighten up. Susanna stared at him, unblinking and seemingly unable to move.

He walked slowly to the gate, pushed it open and stepped onto the path. “Hello, Susanna,” he said.

The sound of his voice broke the chains that were holding her to the spot. She would never be able to remember at what point she had moved or how she had traveled the length of the path, but in an instant she was in his arms and they were holding each other. “Leon,” she heard herself saying, “I thought I was never going to see you again.”

“It was Abigail,” he said. “She found me.”

“Thank the Lord,” Susanna said. “Why did she do it for us? I don't understand why she did it.”

*   *   *

The security guard at the entrance to the parking garage had been told what to expect. As each expensive sedan arrived, he directed it to the block of parking spaces that had been reserved for the purpose. A second security guard directed the new arrivals to the lift, where a third accompanied them to the top floor.

Of the country's eight top black newspaper editors, Robert was the seventh to arrive. The state television service was also present. The six editors who had gotten there before him were gathered in a group in the ante room, waiting to be summoned into the presence of the head of public prosecutions. Since his briefing by the chairman of the company he worked for, Robert had assumed that the other editors would also have known what the meeting was about. It surprised him that they all seemed to be puzzled.

“If he's resigning to move into the corporate world,” one was saying as Robert entered the room, “I don't know why we had to come.”

“Robert, my man,” someone else said, as he joined the group. “So what about this?”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Robert said. “I have it on good authority that the purpose of this is to invite us to tea with the president.”

“Oh, sure. The head of prosecutions doubles as the president's social secretary now?” There was some laughter at the idea.

One of the others, who had been the first beneficiary of an empowerment deal with a major media company, moved in front of Robert, trying to cut him off from the others. “My man, I heard about your deal. That was a biggie.” The tone of voice and slightly chagrined expression suggested some envy. His deal had not been nearly as lucrative.