Dark Intent (10 page)

Malakazi township

‘We’re twenty minutes from Malakazi,’ said
Krige, his head between his legs as he rested.

‘
How did you kill him?’ asked Dalton. He lay down, pulling his holstered pistol away from the ground.

‘He got a bullet in the head,’ said
Krige without emotion. ‘Teichmann will get his headlines.’

Dalton
howled with mirth, the noise breaking randomly into a cackle. ‘Well done. I wish I’d been there.’ He pulled the Browning from its sheath, cocking and then releasing the hammer monotonously. ‘At least I’ve the guerillas to look forward to.’

Krige
vented his shirt to let the breeze dry the sweat. Killing Shozi hadn’t gone as planned but he had achieved his objective and the Zulu was dead. He was drained, from the exertion and the mental strain. He hoped the Xhosas would be easier to kill. He had already had a fair share of luck.

Dalton
angrily holstered the weapon. ‘Are you ready? We don’t want the guerillas to run for it. These niggers move so fast on the veld Shozi’s death will be common knowledge before we arrive and anyone not an Inkatha supporter will go to ground fearing revenge.’

‘We’re ahead of the pack,’ said
Krige without interest. He wished Dalton would shut up. He went down to the path. Dalton kept up and they were soon at the steady half-run of before.

An hour later they reached the edge of Malakazi and left the trail, moving on the perimeter to where they expected to find the room.
There were few people about, the four o’clock rise in the morning and the journey to the cities demanding early nights, and the lamps in the main dirt street provided most of the illumination.

‘I can’t see it,’ said
Krige coming to a halt. ‘I’m going in a bit. You stay here.’

Dalton glanced at him.
‘Don’t leave me out of it. I might have to save you again.’

Before
Krige came to the first buildings he saw it, hidden by bush and further over than he had been able to see through the glasses earlier. He couldn’t tell if anyone was inside and he went to fetch Dalton.

In a minute both men were at the room and
Krige went to the front. He took one look at the door and banged it with his fist. ‘They’re not here.’ He stared at the heavy-duty lock, nailed through a galvanized fitting to the wood, conscious of the smile on Dalton’s face.

‘So we wait,’ said Dalton contemplating the lock.
‘I knew we’d be lucky to find them.’

Krige
leant on the wall. ‘The mayor will know if they’re still sleeping here,’ he said. ‘If they’ve gone we’ve lost them. Then it’s up to you and the others in your party to start again.’

Dalton flexed his fists.
‘They’re still here somewhere. I can feel them.’

Krige
went to the back. The grey paint on the small window panes had been hastily applied and there were vacant strips a few centimetres wide. But the external light was insufficient to give him any clue to the contents of the room and he returned to Dalton. ‘I’m going for Dhlamini. Stay here, they might still be using it. But don’t have a go at them without me.’

‘You’re st
ill hogging all the action,’ said Dalton scanning Krige. Then he said acquiescently. ‘Well you never can tell. They might be dead when you get back, all wrapped up ready for body bags. I’m sure you’ll see it as self-defence.’ He went into the bush.

Krige
watched him then set off. He found Dhlamini’s house easily, in a large plot of its own. There was light downstairs and he approached the kitchen door. It was of the stable type, the top open and he heard voices, a man’s and a woman’s, hers louder than his. He understood some Zulu and tried to catch the words. The woman was admonishing the man, her harsh tone rising and falling cadentially. She referred to men she wanted him to have nothing to do with. To her they would only bring trouble. Krige went in.

The voices carried on and he quickened his pace down the passage.
At the end he came to a lounge and saw a man on a chair and a woman standing near the windows. They stared at him in disbelief.

‘
Dhlamini,’ said Krige walking in. The man did not reply and he continued: ‘I want the three men, the guerillas. You know where they are.’ He spoke in English, unwavering.

Dhlamini was quiet, signalling his w
ife to be still. He exhaled, a pair of bellows. ‘They’ve gone,’ he said. ‘I refused to help them.’ He left the chair and made a revolting noise to show disgust. ‘Men like that are of the past, poisoned by hatred for whites and Zulus. I got rid of them.’

Krige
grinned wolfishly. The mayor was scared and he was lying.

‘They were in that room of yours.
They were seen there a few days ago and you were giving them a bed.’

‘
No.’ Dhlamini came nearer, holding up his hands, as delicate as a concert pianist’s. ‘It’s a mistake. The room is used as a storehouse. I ordered them to go.’ He was cringing, fear constricting his throat.

‘I want them.’
Krige went up to the mayor. ‘Where are they?’

Dhlamini’s wife ran over and dropped to the floor.
‘Stop,’ she cried. ‘They are murderers. He had no choice.’ She looked at her husband. ‘He was threatened. You don’t know what they’re like.’

‘I do.’
Krige loaded a cartridge into the breech.

Dhlamini gauged the man before him, the wide shoulders and lean pride, the coldness as if he had
just emerged from an ice-box. He was too strong; and he had the gun. ‘Their leader was seriously hurt, near death,’ he said at last. ‘They came to me begging for assistance, as human brothers. I abhor what they represent but I couldn’t ignore their suffering.’ He scraped his feet, hoping what he had said was acceptable. ‘I took the sick man and his comrades to a woman in the township. The local doctor treated him.’

Krige
released the safety on the gun, the long silencer casting it like a sniper’s rifle. ‘How was he hurt, how badly?’

‘The woman didn’t want him,’ said Dhlamini.
‘She’s a good person. I forced her to provide for him.’

‘Answer me,’
Krige grated. ‘What’s wrong with the guerilla?’

Dhlamini heaved his chest, contracting his limp stomach to where it should have been.
‘He tried to kill Shozi, the Inkatha warlord. Something went wrong and he was shot. He’d lost a lot of blood and the wound was becoming septic.’ He presented another look of revulsion.

Krige
hid his astonishment at the coincidence, swinging the gun nonchalantly. The mayor would have to guide him to the woman. Why did the fat woman have to be there? She couldn’t be trusted to keep quiet. And neither could he trust Dhlamini, the squirming mayor who would babble as soon as he was released. A link would be made with the gunmen who had slaughtered Shozi and his guards.

With a plea Dhlamini’
s wife bowed low, placing her hands on the floor. ‘
Nkosi
,’ she said using the term for a chief. ‘We are innocent. Don’t harm us.’

Krige
viewed the pathetic figure. Life or death, it was up to him, he had control. For several seconds he paused then raising the weapon shot her once, then again in the head. She collapsed without ceremony, dead. Dhlamini blubbered, holding his stomach and falling next to her.

The Afrikaner took his jacket.
‘Show me to the woman.’ He led him to the door and shoved him through.

Dhlamini was incoherent, powerless to resist, numbed by the brutal suddeness of his wife’s death.
He could feel the long-barreled pistol digging into him. At first he hadn’t noticed the fitted silencer, but it was all too obvious when the white pulled the trigger, making only the little popping noise as the lead was expelled. It was terrifying seeing life destroyed so cleanly without a sound. And he would be next. He bemoaned his own limitations wishing he had been wrought in the mould of the traditional Zulu warriors, their fighting spirit, their disregard for death and commitment to survival whatever the price, their beautiful physiques. It had not been.

Outside, Dhlamini curved from the room where Dalton waited.
Krige, placing the gun in his pocket, wavered between summoning him or going on alone. Dalton was a powerful force in close combat, his ability with the pistol unquestioned, but he was impulsive and his lust for pure destruction potentially dangerous. And the guerillas might return to the room.

‘Keep walking.’
Krige closed on Dhlamini. ‘No mistakes or you’ll go before them.’

They moved on, Dhlamini, his shoulders set defensively
, and Krige, suspicious, his senses as taut as the string on an archer’s bow. After a few minutes Dhlamini changed course for a group of isolated houses. Fifty metres from them he lifted an unsteady arm. ‘The one at the end,’ he said tremulously. ‘She’s a good woman.’

Like the other houses
in the row the woman’s was a grey shadow. But unlike the others it had an add-on at the rear, a long passage of new brick leading to a room with a vegetable patch that couldn’t have yielded much tagged on at the end.

‘Where’s the guerilla?’
Krige came up to Dhlamini.

‘At the back,’ said Dhlamini.
‘He was in a poor state. I know he’s there.’ The mayor’s thinking was becoming more ordered and he was sure Krige would kill him when he had confirmation the Xhosas were there. Somehow he had to get away.

Krige
studied the place, begrudgingly conscious of the help Dalton could have given him. ‘Where does that lead to?’ he asked the black, pointing at the only door they could see.

‘
It gives access to the kitchen and the passage that also comes from the front and goes to the rear bedroom.’

             
Krige nodded acceptingly. He wanted Dhlamini alive until he found the men but inevitably the mayor would try and escape or, if the opportunity was there, alert them.

‘Check the door,’ said
Krige drawing the pistol. Dhlamini led the way, Krige watching him like a hawk. The door opened onto a small kitchen fitted out with a stainless steel sink and a cooker and fridge crammed together, the glossy enamel scratched and worn in places down to the raw metal.

‘Go in.’
Krige dug Dhlamini in the ribs and they entered. The inner door was a little ajar and he cautioned the mayor as he went to it. The passage was black and quiet, resembling a tomb. He turned, deliberating for a second, then exploded aggressively, striking for Dhlamini’s head. The mayor reacted courageously but he could not fend off such an assault. As his legs went Krige tried to hold him but Dhlamini was heavy and he hit the floor, his arm careering into the oven. The noise was enough to carry through the house.

Running from the unconscious man
, Krige made for the room he believed sheltered the guerilla. He passed a vacant room and then was as far as he could go. All was still, claustrophobic. He went in. The switch was in the usual place and he gave the room light from a bulb on the ceiling. There was only a single bed along the wall and two piles of clothes stacked under the window with military care. A man was in the bed, his body covered by a thin sheet and he mumbled something, restless. Krige checked the passage and went to the bed, recognizing the haggard countenance of the guerilla leader, Ngubane. The man was sleeping deeply, as if in a coma, and Krige peeled the sheet to his navel. A clean bandage was strapped in overlapping layers around the Xhosa’s chest, from the solar plexus to underneath the arms, a professionally applied wall of white. Krige exalted at seeing one of the men he sought lying powerlessly before him but the others were out there somewhere. They could return at any minute and Dhlamini would regain consciousness. Suppressing his conscience he touched the end of the silencer to Ngubane’s temple and fired, allowing the weapon only the slightest recoil in his hand. He used one bullet, sure of the effect and felt for the pulse under the jaw. It ceased and he left the room as he had found it.

In the kitchen Dhlamini was regaining consciousness
, shifting his body on the hard linoleum for more comfort. He had served his purpose. Krige straddled him, ejecting the near-empty clip from his gun. He inserted another and knelt next to the mayor.

Malakazi township

Several rows west of Ngubane’s death bed Nofomela and Ngwenya weaved their way to their colleague.
They had spent little time in the dingy, cell-like room at the woman’s house, where the closeness and smell of Ngubane’s sick body carried the premonition of death. The flow of blood had been stemmed but he was extremely weak, most of the time asleep, only taking a little broth made by the woman that they had managed to get into him. Before noon they had gone to find food for themselves.

On the main th
oroughfare of the township they had eaten at a small cafe, dried
mielie
porridge and thick slices of bread and jam washed down by strong sweet tea. For the remaining daylight hours and into the night they had rested in the grass on the hill, grieving over the failure of the previous evening and the inevitable revenge that Shozi was sure to want. Ngubane was a problem. A week or more could pass before he had the strength to walk, to rough it in the bush before they dared make contact with compatriots in a neighbouring township, Umbali or Venter’s Hoek further east with its unpalatable Afrikaans name. If, that is, Ngubane survived. The thought that it would be better if he died, naturally or by their hands, had also entered their thoughts.

As they came in sight of their temporary place of abode Nofomela touched Ngwenya on the arm.
‘The foolish woman has left the door open,’ he growled, ‘inviting the beggars who roam these streets to enter. Where are her brains?’

‘She’ll bring trouble on us,’ agreed Ngwenya, angrily increasing his pace.
They were ten metres from the door when Ngwenya stopped and urgently beckoned Nofomela to do the same. ‘Someone’s on the floor,’ he whispered. ‘I can see his boots.’

But Nofomela carried on past his comrade up to the door.
He took one look and bolted into the kitchen.

Krige
, the pistol wrapped in his fist, was lining up the muzzle on Dhlamini’s head. His back was to the door and he was about to do the job when the minimal change in shadow caused by Nofomela’s long frame, alerted him and he came round as the Xhosa launched into a dive. Swinging the gun from Dhlamini to his assailant Krige fired.

The bullets missed Nofomela’s cheek by a small fraction and the two men locked, each fighting for control, knowing that the least error could mean death. They rocked back and forth, banging into the fridge and stove, the sour stench from the black’s unwashed body overwhelm
ing in the humidly confined space and Krige breathed harshly through his mouth as he tried to get the Beretta that Nofomela held as if it was the only thing he wanted in life.

All at once another shadow filled the kitchen as Ngwenya came in.
Krige saw him and increased his bid to get the weapon. Strong as he was his arms began to tire against the rangy power of Nofomela who, like Ngwenya, had the lean exercised muscles of men who had experienced hardship for most of their lives without the lavish excesses of the privileged.

Like a racing horse coming out of the starter’s gate Ngwenya sprang into the fray, instantly going behind
Krige and getting his forearm across his neck. He yanked and then yelled: ‘White man, you’ve come for us.’ His triumph was obvious in the small enclosure. ‘Now let’s see what you can do.’ He tightened his hold, using his strength and weight to take Krige to the floor.

Krige
’s valiant efforts grew weaker as he was strangled by the pressure on his throat. He fought for air, a fish stranded on a beach, the denied need for life-giving oxygen intolerable. He released the pistol and with a strange sense of relief felt the weapon removed, to what end he couldn’t care. His family spun dizzily, his beautiful wife Kirsty, their sons. What would happen to them, he loved them so much. Nofomela stood over him, a look of contentment as he held up the Beretta, briefly admiring the solid workmanship of the famous Italian gunmaker.

‘Don’t kill him,’ he said to Ngwenya, ‘just make him rest until I’ve seen Ngubane.
Then he’ll crow like a cockerel.’

In a last go at breaking the grip
Krige flopped weakly onto his side, taking Ngwenya’s arm and enveloping the long muscles that stood out like snakes on a branch. He tried to pry the arm loose but his waning strength was as feeble as a baby’s and he relented. He saw Dhlamini lift himself up onto his elbows, shaking his head as he tried to clear it. Then, immersed in a black tide, he lost consciousness and fell against Ngwenya.

The black lay
out the body, looking at Nofomela and then Dhlamini.

‘You led him here,’ Ngwenya accused the mayor.
‘If Ngubane is hurt you will die.’

‘He killed my wife,’ pleaded Dhlamini.
‘There was nothing I could do.’

‘Get up,’ ordered Ngwenya. ‘Bring the white by the feet and follow us.’
The guerilla stood aside as Nofomela marched off, waiting for Dhlamini to obey.

The Zulu took
Krige by the ankles and into the passage, knowing he was in grave trouble if Krige had already killed Ngubane. In seconds his worst fears were confirmed as he heard Nofomela hysterically proclaim the death of the Xhosa leader.

In the room Ngwenya went for the mayor and beat him with his fist.
‘You betrayed us. You’re as guilty of this foul murder as the white. Your death will be most sweet.’ He challenged Dhlamini: ‘Who else was with him? Where are they?’

‘No one,’ said Dhlamini.
‘He’s working alone. Whites still hate the ANC.’

On a quarter turn Ngwenya nodded to Nofomela then slammed his knee into the mayor’s groin,
hard against the pubic bone, lifting him off the floor. The pain robbed Dhlamini of any resistance and he doubled over helplessly. Taking a stride Nofomela sighted the pistol and fired into the mayor’s head.

The bullets lodged in Dhlamini’s brain and he was dead before he collapsed at Nofomela’s feet. ‘We should never have trusted him.
He’s always been weak.’ Nofomela stamped on the mayor’s face, still etched in the agony he had suffered before death. ‘Now it is time for the white.’