Dark Intent (16 page)

Durban

One evening, James Steiner had a phone call from Peter Smith of the Scorpions.

‘Would you like to go for a drink?’ said Smith. ‘I know of a good bar opposite the town hall in West Street. It is new and reasonably quiet.’

Steiner had spent the few days since his return from Japan training and conducting classes.
He had contacted Sophie Carswell once, but she had been unable to see him.

‘I would like that,’ said Steiner.
‘I can meet you there at eight.’

‘I’ll see you then,’ said Smith and cut the call.

The two men met in the bar as arranged, ordered beers and found seats.

‘How are things at work?’ asked Steiner.
‘Have you found the missing file?’ He smiled, knowing Smith wouldn’t find the questions amusing.

‘I won’t answer that,’ said Smith. He took a mouthful of beer and lit a cigarette. He exhaled and spoke at the same time.
‘There is a lot going on, some of which leaves a particularly nasty taste in my mouth. It is the kind of stuff that excites tension and hatred and never seems to end.’

‘To what are you referri
ng?’ asked Steiner, interested.

‘I’m talking about deliberate, organized killings between whites and blacks,’ said Smith.
‘In many respects this means that there are still people in this country who have never accepted that apartheid is over.’

‘We know that,’ said Steiner patiently.

‘I am specifically talking about serious crime organized by powerful groups,’ said Smith. ‘Some years ago the British set up SOCA, the Serious Organized Crime Agency, to counter this sort of thing. Our equivalent is the DSO or Scorpions, but sometimes I feel we are getting nowhere in our fight.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps the British feel the same way. I hope they do.’

‘Something’s bugging you,’ said Steiner.
‘What is it?’

‘It preys on me incessantly,’ said Smith, ‘and I don’t know who’s behind it all.
Two days ago, a well known Zulu member of the KwaZulu-Natal provincial government, Moses Shozi, was executed inside his house by a highly trained white male. Shortly afterwards, three black ex-guerillas were attacked in Malakazi township, which is not far from the Zulu’s house. One was killed and the other two escaped. The mayor of the township and his wife were also killed. The killers were whites, probably the same men who visited Shozi. Other than the fact that the killers were white, I have no idea who they were or where they came from.’

‘It sounds like the missing file except that I am the one the group wants to find.’ said Steiner.’ He grinned.
‘But they don’t know who I am or where I came from.’

‘They should have a better relationship with Jan Krige,’ said Smith, at last releasing a smile.
‘He could tell them everything. Anyway, the missing file is also one of my problems, or should I say my real problem. Thinking of it drives me insane. Let’s have another beer and split.’

Pretoria

After Krige had phoned Teichmann and closed the job in KwaZulu-Natal, he sat in the lounge with a drink.
The deeds of murder, whatever the guerillas and Shozi were guilty of, and the lies he had told his wife Kirsty, tore at him. Kirsty did not believe him and he could not blame her considering his antics of the past. He had no doubt that she was in turmoil, and he felt there was little else he could do except tell her he loved her.

Kirsty returned to the farm after lunch.
After she had parked her car in the garage round the back and turned off the engine, she knew what she was going to do. She went through the kitchen and down the passage to the lounge. She saw Krige in a chair on one side, his face drawn. But that did not deter her.

‘I am going away,’ she said, walking into the room. ‘I need more time to think.
I am certain you didn’t go to Pretoria and I think you are still tied up with the group. I don’t love you anymore and I can’t stand your lies. You must think little of me to do this.’

The words struck him hard and he felt empty inside, a dry well. He had no response. ‘Where will you go?’ he said limply.

‘I am not sure at the moment,’ she said, finding satisfaction in his look of despair. ‘I will phone you and tell you what I intend to do.’ She turned and walked down the passage.

Krige soon heard her car and he watched it as it headed for the main gate. He was devastated.

Pretoria

Rupert Bosch left the office at the usual time of seven and returned to his house on the outskirts of Pretoria.
The house was architecturally a fairly modern concept and set in two acres of verdant lawn, shrubs, flower beds and deciduous trees. He loved the place and regarded it as the finest acquisition he had ever made. The house was single-storeyed and the extensive living room in the front opened onto the gardens through large glass doors that offered an unhindered view.

After parking his Mercedes in one of the garages at the rear, he entered the building and went through to the living room.
He had just poured a liberal Scotch and soda when the phone went. He sat down and picked it up.

‘Bosch,’ he said, taking a mouthful of the spirit.

‘Rupert,’ said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘It is John Nofomela. Paul Ngwenya is here as well. Is it convenient for you to speak?’

‘Yes,’ said Bosch.
‘I planned to phone you later. How are things going?’

‘Pretty good, although I would like to get out of this hotel and the city.’ said Nofomela.
‘We like grass and trees not concrete.’

Bosch laughed.
‘You need a place like mine. It offers the best of both worlds, easy access to the city and the bush.’

‘You told us to phone you to get Jan Krige’s contact details, and anything you might have found out about the two cases involving the murder of Cartwright and the attacks on us in Malakazi.’

‘I haven’t found out much more but I am working on it,’ said Bosch. ‘I have Krige’s details here.’

‘Fire away,’ said Nofomela, feeling he was getting closer to the man he despised.

‘Krige left the police force several years ago after attaining the rank of major in the Johannesburg murder and robbery squad,’ said Bosch. ‘He inherited his father’s farm half-an-hour north of a one-horse town called White River. It’s on the road to the Kruger Reserve.’ He read out the phone number and area code. ‘Krige has a wife, Kirsty, and two sons who are at boarding school in the Cape. Someone who might be of use to you is Krige’s lawyer, David Staples. His practice is in Pretoria under his name.’ Bosch took a swig from his glass and then continued. ‘Krige was definitely the leader of the two-man operation that ended in the deaths of Moses Shozi, your comrade Elijah Ngubane and the Malakazi mayor and his wife. The names and details of Shozi, you, and your two friends are certainly prominent in the black file. Even though the others are dead they will remain in the file, marked deceased.’

‘Do you have anything else?’ asked Nofomela.

‘No,’ said Bosch, wanting to pour another Scotch.

‘Ngwenya and I have been thinking of how we can get Krige to reveal what he knows about the white file, which we believe he has, and his involvement in the operation in KwaZulu-Natal,’ said Nofomela.
‘Cartwright’s death and the deaths of those to whom we have just referred, rank as cold blooded murder. He certainly wouldn’t like us to expose him to the National Prosecuting Authority. We could act as witnesses and we would be immune from prosecution, assuming there is no evidence against us for past deeds. But that is a chance we would be prepared to take. From what you say, virtually all the potentially incriminating stuff on us is in the black file and at the moment it is held by the group. We would like to get hold of it as well as the white file, but that will have to wait until we know how we can do it. The plan I have outlined will have to be enough at this stage and it should enough to make Krige reveal what he knows.’

‘It could work,’ said Bosch, ‘even though you didn’t actually see him kill Shozi, the mayor, the mayor’s wife, and your friend.
As you say, coming out in the open like this is a very good reason for getting hold of the black file for your own protection, knowing that what it has on you is extremely comprehensive. Remember that if you try this on Krige and he resists or denies any involvement in the disappearance of the white file and the murders, you must control yourselves and not harm him. If you do harm him the group will hunt you down mercilessly. They have a soft spot for him.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nofomela.
‘I know what you mean.’

Pretoria

The day after Bosch’s telephone conversation with Nofomela, John Kallis had a phone call from Piet Joubert.

‘Bosch last night received a call from a guy named Nofomela,’ said Joubert, concealing his excitement. He, like many people, was always gripped by listening secretly to the conversations of others. This particularly applied to what he was about to tell Kallis. ‘I recorded the call as we discussed and even though I know nothing about what is going on, I think you will be extremely interested.’

‘Excellent,’ said Kallis. ‘I can meet you at your flat after work.’

‘Fine,’ said Joubert. ‘You know the address. I look forward to seeing you.’

At around six that evening Kallis drove to Joubert’s flat.
He was let in immediately. His friend led him to the sitting room he had seen before and it crossed his mind that Joubert was poorly paid. Joubert pointed to a seat and extracted a computer disc from his bag. He inserted it into a new CD player and started the machine.

Kallis listened intently to every word and the more he heard the more satisfied he became.
When the recording had finished he said: ‘You have done a first class job. It’s exactly what I expected and wanted to hear.’

‘I only pushed a few buttons,’ said Joubert.
‘Take the disc and I will keep at it. Anything else and I’ll ring you.’

‘You are doing me a big favour,’ said Kallis.
‘One day I’ll tell you what this is all about.’

The two men parted and Kallis went down the steps to his car.
He could not believe his good fortune and he was looking forward to proceeding with his plan.

After a quick meal in his flat, John Kallis changed into casual clothes. He left the flat and drove to the area where Rupert Bosch lived alone. Kallis easily found the quiet, winding road and when he saw the magnificent houses he reluctantly admitted that Bosch had very good taste. He drove past the house, saw the lights at the front were on and then parked further along the road. He was 100 metres from the house and when he neared the gates, he vaulted over the fence into a bed of ubiquitous shrubs. He waited for a moment then skirted the lawn towards the front of the building. When he was close to the lounge, he stopped in the shadows and scanned the room through sliding glass doors. Bosch was not in sight and he went quickly onto the verandah. He tried one of the sliding doors and it yielded readily in his hands on well-oiled runners. He slipped into the room and listened, aware that if Bosch did not come to him he would have to go and find him. He was not sure Bosch was in the house and if he was alone. They were uncertainties he had to live with and he would have to assess his options when he knew more.

The lounge was sunken and he had just reached the steps leading to the bowels of the house when he heard someone walking towards him down the passage.
It disappeared at an angle and he guessed it served the bedrooms. He stood as if carved in stone and then Bosch appeared, still dressed in his office suit.

At the sight of Kallis, Bosch stopped dead.
When he had recovered from the shock, he said: ‘What the hell are you doing in my house. Isn’t there such a thing as privacy?’ He spat out the words, wondering what Kallis wanted.

‘I came for a talk,’ said Kallis. ‘It will interest you.’

‘Why can’t it wait until we get to the office in the morning?’ said Bosch, assertively.

‘I want to get this out of the way before then,’ said Kallis, taking a step backwards, allowing Bosch to enter the room. Bosch came down from the landing and lowered his weight into the nearest chair.

‘Last night you received a phone call from a man named Nofomela. His friend Ngwenya was with him. You obviously know these guys. The conversation described a way of getting Krige to tell these two men that he alone had taken the white file, File A, from Cartwright’s house, which he now had in his possession, and extracting a confession that he is guilty of killing some blacks in KwaZulu-Natal.’ Kallis smiled. He enjoyed seeing guilt written on Bosch’s face. He went on. ‘I really don’t have to tell you that if the group leadership knew you were divulging secret information to ex-guerillas, they would hang you by your balls from the tallest skyscraper in Pretoria.’

Bosch sagged in his chair. He knew Kallis had him on a skewer and he knew he would have to pay a heavy price for his actions.
He wished he had never heard of the guerillas. They were disturbing the easy life he had got used to.

‘I know you recently spoke to these guys because I saw you drinking with them in the Voortrekker bar,’ said Kallis.
‘I can imagine now that the conversation would have covered everything about group operations in Durban and KwaZulu-Natal. You had also told them about the black file, which must have mortified them because they’re in it.’

‘What do want of me?’ asked Bosch, feeling powerless under the weight of evidence against him.
‘You must have had my phones tapped.’

‘I did,’ said Kallis.
‘It is not difficult when you have contacts in the right places. Now, I’ll answer your question. You are one of the chosen few who have access to the room and safe where the files are kept. That means only the black file because the white file has gone.’ Kallis moved a little closer to Bosch. ‘I want you, with this access, to remove the black file. I will meet you somewhere and you will give the file to me. After that you must disappear. That is primarily for your benefit, because when it is discovered that the file has gone, you and the others with access will be subjected to the most severe interrogation. I have heard that even if you have a water tight alibi, the slightest suspicion on their part will mean your summary execution. I had thought of killing you myself but that is too untidy and I would run the risk of being found out. You will therefore have your freedom instead. I add that if you decide to run now and not comply with my request, I will reveal your conversation with the guerrillas to the group. They will hunt you down far more assiduously than if you were suspected of stealing the file. They hate traitors more than anything and you would spend the remainder of your life in fear.’

Bosch knew he had no way out.
Kallis held all the cards. At least he would escape with his life. ‘When do you want the file?’ he asked quietly.

‘There is a bar called Fontein a few kilometres out of the city on the Kruger road through White River,’ said Kallis.
‘It is in the middle of nowhere. I’ll be there in the car park at eight tomorrow night. Don’t keep me waiting or I might think something has happened to you.’ Kallis turned towards the verandah doors. ‘I will expect to see you then. Sweet dreams.’ He went like a phantom through the doors and then he was gone.

For an hour after Kallis had gone, Bosch thought about the visit. He recognized he had been caught red handed by a relative newcomer in the group and he did not even know Kallis’s function. In some ways he was grateful that he had been let off the hook rather than be killed, but he was not sure why Kallis wanted the file.

As he sat in the chair, Bosch thought about the next day.
It was a foregone conclusion that after removing the file and giving it to Kallis, he would not be able to return to the house he loved for a very long time. He would become the hunted one and it could mean eventually selling the place. Getting the file was not a problem. He would go to work at the usual time and, using his own set of keys to get into the room and safe, remove the file late in the day at around seven-thirty. Most of the people would have left by then and no one would want to work on the file now that it was effectively complete. After he had taken the file he was aware that it would be too much of a risk to come back to the house and he would have to pack the clothing and important items he wanted tonight.

Bosch packed his things and loaded the car. He was tired, mentally and physically, and he finally fell asleep on the sofa in the lounge.