The Disappeared (41 page)

This troubled
Lindiwe somewhat but she just smiled and nodded. ‘Okay.’

Duggan appeared
next to Lindiwe.

‘Let me know
as soon as you’re ready to go,’ Coetzee said. Lindiwe nodded.

‘Hey,’ Duggan
said.

‘Hey.’

‘Come listen
to this quickly.’ Duggan motioned her aside. Lindiwe gave Coetzee a little
girlie wave and went with Duggan. He led her to an unoccupied booth.

‘Hey, what’s
up, Dugg? You look seriously stressed.’ The nervous excitement of earlier had
subsided into an exhausted weariness.

‘Well, shit,
do you blame me?’ He asked pointing at the people scattered around the
restaurant.

‘Wow. And here
I thought you were actually enjoying the end of the world.’

Duggan smiled
wryly. ‘Well, you know what they say about too much of a good thing. Right?’

‘Uh-huh.’
Lindiwe studied his face. ‘So what’s bothering you?’

‘Okay, um ...
so ...’ Duggan looked slightly flustered and unsure of where to begin. ‘So, I
was listening to Minki, you know, when she was describing her vision or
whatever it was, right?’

‘Yes?’

‘Well,
afterwards, after she had told Moira and Doc Young, I like ... interrogated her
a bit – ’

‘Duggan!’
Lindiwe was genuinely aghast. ‘Do you have no shame? She’s a little girl ...
who’s just been through a traumatic experience. How could you?’

‘Oh for God’s
sake, Lindiwe, sue me.’ She could see that Duggan was truly disturbed by
something. ‘Don’t judge me. Just listen.’

Lindiwe folded
her arms. ‘I’m listening. And this better be good.’

‘I asked her
to describe her ... her visions in detail.’ He motioned for her to keep quiet,
sensing she was about to unleash on him again. ‘Shhh. Just listen.’ He
nervously rubbed a hand through his hair. ‘I mean, look here, usually I think
this whole “psychic” thing is a load of shit, you know. Complete and utter
rubbish. But, the things she said, you know, her description of the way ... the
people died.’ He grabbed her shoulders. ‘Lindi, there’s no way a little girl
would know these things. Her description of the chemical deaths was ... was one
hundred percent accurate. I mean, to a tee, you know what I’m saying. To a tee!
How could she possibly know that? There’s no way. The blisters, the vomiting,
the convulsions, the pissing and shitting. Now, how the hell does a little
ten-year old girl know that?’

Lindiwe was
growing uneasy. ‘Didn’t you say something? What about Robert Visser? Surely he
must have mentioned something? Maybe she overheard him.’

‘Sure he did.
But he spoke in technical terms. I’m not even sure half the people here
understood exactly what he said.’

Lindiwe was
trying to make sense of it all. ‘But ... but ...’

‘And, I mean,
that’s not all. She mentioned names.’

‘I don’t know,
Duggan. What are you saying?’

‘She saw
specific people ... in her vision. Moira ... you ... Coetzee ... she saw me.
Me. She saw us die, Lindiwe.’ He stared at her in tired dejection. ‘If she’s
right ... if her visions are real ... then what happened to the others ... is
going to happen to us. We’re also going to die.’

Simphiwe
‘Mac’ Makubane – the Minister of Defence for the Republic of South Africa – sat
awkwardly in the chair that was too small to contain his bulk. It was cool. The
room was air-conditioned. And yet – once again – he dabbed his sweat-streaked
brow with his expensive handkerchief. He could feel the perspiration soaking
the armpits of his shirtsleeves underneath his expensive Italian suit. And he
felt sick. Sick to his stomach. He wondered if he would ever be able to erase
the ugly images from his mind. Those terrible and horrific images.
Dear
God.

The room
was large and yet it felt claustrophobic. Mac Makubane also felt as if the
room’s five other occupants were right on top of him. He turned to look at Lt.
Colonel Meyer – the only other South African in the room – but the senior SANDF
officer had his eyes cast down at the floor. Across from him – sitting behind a
huge desk – was the unpleasant man dressed entirely in black. Wearing a tunic.
A tunic?
Who in God’s name – in this day and age – still wears tunics?
Flanking him were two scientists on one side and a sombre-looking man wearing a
gray suit on the other. After the screening of earlier that morning the man in
the tunic had requested a more
private
meeting with the minister. And
here they were.

Mac was
tired. And edgy. He was by far the youngest member of the SA cabinet – a point
he emphasised with a rigorous daily work-our routine that contributed to his
huge physique – but right now he felt like an old man. An old man who had been
woken in the early hours of the morning then spirited without ceremony to this
God-forsaken compound just north of Hartebeespoort Dam. Until this morning Mac
hadn’t even been aware this place existed. Now he was sitting deep within its
bowels – tired and drained – and being asked to betray his country.

‘This is
preposterous. A bloody travesty.’ Mac fixed the man in the tunic with an icy
stare. ‘In fact, I think we’re done here.’ He made to rise. ‘I think it’s about
time I informed the President of – ’

‘Your
president already knows,’ the unpleasant man with the thin lips said in a clipped
accent. ‘As does ours.’ He was American but Mac couldn’t place the accent. Definitely
from New England though. Possibly Ivy League. ‘And I will be one who decides
when “we’re done”, minister,’ he continued.

‘How dare
you? Do you know whose country this is?’ Mac asked acidly.

‘Yes,’ he
replied coolly. ‘But do you know whose world this is?’

Mac’s eyes
narrowed. ‘Who the hell do you think you are? What’s your name,
son
?’ He
allowed the word to hang in the air. Mac looked at Lt. Colonel Meyer for
support ... but found none. He would
have
to take this up with the chief
of the SANDF ... soonest.

The man in
the tunic smiled thinly, his reedy lips stretching into a cold grimace. ‘You
can call me Smith, Mac. John Smith’ He leaned forward the smile now gone. ‘And
let me remind you,
minister
, the only reason you’re here is because your
president is out of the country.’

Mac didn’t
miss a beat. ‘Well, that
still
makes me the most senior representative
of my government. And, Mr
Smith
, as the representative of the
democratically elected government of South Africa I’m telling you right now I
will not go along with your nefarious little plot.’

‘I’m sorry,
minister, that is not your decision to make.’

Mac
Makubane leaned forward his fighting spirit roused. ‘You’d be surprised what
exactly falls within the scope of my decision making powers, Mr Smith.’

‘No, Mr
Makubane, I wouldn’t be. I get paid to never be surprised ... ever.’ He looked
at Mac with cool disdain. ‘However, I’m sure your wife – Refilwe is it – would
be ... shall we say ...
surprised
to learn about the little teenage slut
that you maintain in that Braamfontein flat.’ He smiled with triumphant menace.
Mac felt as if someone had socked him an upper right hook to the jaw. ‘Tsk tsk
tsk, Mac ... she’s hardly seventeen years of age.’ Mac leaned back stunned. ‘Or
... now that we’re talking about surprises ... imagine how
surprised
the
SA press would be when they learn about your little offshore account in the
Caymans.’

Mac
Makubane felt deflated and ... scared. For the first time he truly understood
the magnitude of the powers he was up against.

The man in
the tunic looked at the ashen minister across from his desk. Then he sighed.
And folded his hands diplomatically. ‘Mr Makubane, please understand. And
please forgive my ... uncompromising stance.’ He rested his chin on his folded
hands. ‘I am not your enemy. I am not the enemy of your country.’ He smiled.
Trying to ooze warmth and compassion. It failed. ‘My job ... my single task ...
is to ensure that this
tragedy
is resolved quickly ... and in the most
mutually propitious fashion possible.’ The smile disappeared. He sat back in
the expensive leather swivel chair. ‘Minister Makubane, do you realise what
would happen to our individual governments were this ...
thing
to become
public. The current US administration would crash and burn, quicker than you
could say
Watergate
. Your own government would be toppled like this,’ he
said, snapping his thumb and middle finger. ‘And you don’t want that to happen,
now do you?’ 

Simphiwe
‘Mac’ Makubane wiped the hot sweat from his forehead. He said nothing.

‘Mac ...
may I call you
Mac
?’ His thin lips twisted into a smile. ‘Mac, I’m sure you
realise the full magnitude of this thing. This ... Super Bowl of a fuck-up.’ He
stared pointedly at the minister. ‘The public can never know. Ever. We
have
to use all the resources at our disposal to ensure that this thing never becomes
public. And we have to combine our individual resources – American and South
African – to present a united front to this colossal threat to our continued
existence. Yes?’

Mac
Makubane looked away. But sensing that some kind of response was required
nodded meekly.

‘Good. Now,
as I told you earlier, we have brought in a highly specialised team. The exact
details need not concern you. However, right now, as we speak, this team is at
work. To neutralise the threat. To remove all ...
obstacles
to a speedy
resolution. And I do mean
all
obstacles.’ The man in the tunic looked at
the Lt. Colonel. ‘When this team is done, when they are finished, the world
will see ... and know ...
only
what we want them to know.’ He folded his
hands and smiled. ‘I’m sure we can count on your co-operation ... Mac?’

Mac
Makubane felt sick to his stomach. He had just made a deal with the devil.

Next to him
Lieutenant Colonel Meyer sat stony-faced and grim. Unbeknownst to either of the
South Africans, the man in the tunic was studying the military man with great
concern.

Coetzee,
Lindiwe and Jansen stood in the antechamber in front of the two prison cells.
The prisoner was also standing hands gripping the iron bars. The prisoner wore
a look of muted excitement ... suppressed anticipation. To his right Coetzee
noted that Lindiwe was bristling with excitement herself, fidgeting nervously.
A barely suppressed smile was bubbling beneath the veneer of her apparent calm.
He paused for a moment. For the first time he accurately gauged the nature of
their relationship. He was surprised that whatever they shared had happened
this quickly. For a brief second he marvelled at the exquisite vagaries of the
human heart. He found it astonishing – and uplifting – that love could bloom in
a situation like this. He cleared his throat as he looked at Lindiwe. She
noticed him staring and immediately swallowed her excitement. Coetzee shook his
head in admonishment barely able to suppress a smile of his own.
Can you
believe it?

At the same
time, Coetzee was aware of the seething wrath of Sergeant Jansen. He stood
sullen, arms folded, slightly behind Lindiwe.

Coetzee fixed
the prisoner with an intense stare. ‘Now listen here, son, and listen good. I
believe Lindiwe has informed you of our situation.’

‘Yes sir.’
Coetzee noted with some satisfaction that the prisoner was attempting as much
respect as possible. His trained eye told him it was genuine.

‘Things are
not looking good. We have missing people. We’re cut off from the outside world.
And we’re unsure of our own chances.’ For a moment, he thought of Visser’s
words.
You’re all going to die.

‘Yes sir,’
Joshua answered solemnly.

‘To be honest
with you, no-one quite knows what we’re facing. Or what’s going to happen next.’
Coetzee paused. He sighed. ‘However, right now we could use a few extra capable
hands.’ Behind them Jansen smirked loudly. ‘So, I’m going to unlock this prison
gate ... and free you. Despite my own misgivings,’ he looked at Jansen from the
corner of his eye, ‘and those of my staff.’ Joshua nodded sombrely. Coetzee
grabbed Joshua’s hand and held it firmly. ‘But let me tell you this ... on the
virginity of sweet mother Mary ... if you try anything, anything at all, I
promise I will not only lock you up again, but I will make you wish you had
disappeared along with everyone else.’ Coetzee addressed Jansen over his
shoulder. ‘Isn’t that right, Sergeant Jansen?’

Jansen smirked
with suppressed rage. ‘Yes.’

Joshua nodded.
‘Yes, sir. You have my word.’

Coetzee stared
at him long and hard. There was something likeable about the young man now
standing before him. And – despite his situation – Coetzee felt him to be
decent ... and trustworthy. Maybe Lindiwe wasn’t such a bad judge of character
after all. Coetzee nodded slowly. ‘You’re free to go.’ He swung open the heavy
barred door.

Behind them
Jansen shifted. ‘You’re making a big mistake, Coetzee.’

Coetzee turned
on his subordinate. ‘That’s
Inspector
Coetzee ...  Sergeant Jansen. Don’t
you forget that. Ever! The world may have gone for a ball of crap, but as long
as you’re wearing that uniform I am still your superior. If you’re not happy
with that, I will gladly have your badge ... and your gun.’ Coetzee had no
intention of losing his most valuable deputy. But he wasn’t about to let Jansen
know that.

Clouded in
black sulk Jansen walked away.

Joshua stepped
out of the cell and walked up to Coetzee. He held out his hand. ‘Thank you,
Inspector. You can trust me. I won’t let you down.’

Coetzee shook
his hand. ‘I hope so. Right now I need all the people I can trust.’

Joshua turned
to Lindiwe and made to hug her. At first she resisted. But then gave in. And
allowed herself to be hugged. Long and fiercely. Despite everything Coetzee
couldn’t help the slightest ghost of a smile. Maybe things would turn out
alright. After all.

Gilbert Jones
and Max Theron were walking hurriedly down Bishop’s main road. Moments before –
while Coetzee was engaged in conversation with the black girl – they had
surreptitiously slipped out. Now they were on their way to the palatial Theron
house. On their way to freedom.

Gilbert Jones
felt rejuvenated. Enlivened by purpose. Emboldened by the possibility of
success. There was a distinct swagger in his gait as marched down the
store-lined street.

Next to him
Max was still smarting from his encounter with Karen Villiers. Protected by his
dad’s influence and the aura of power that this man exuded – even in his
absence – Max was not used to being treated in this fashion. Round and round
and round the memory of the incident swirled in his head. Individual words and
expressions bobbed and weaved in his mind. Together with these were the dozens
of comebacks and insults he should have hurled at the little bitch. Damn! If
only he could have the encounter over again. Then he would tell her. Oh yes
would he tell her. In the
could-have should-have
world of Max Theron’s
existence this line of thinking was nothing revolutionary. It was his mental
bread and butter. Now as Jones walked next to his ward he sensed the chaos and
hurt in Max’s mind. He felt little compassion though. There was only survival
on his mind. The little sensitivities of spoilt brats were certainly not a
priority. As Jones studied the boy out of the corner of his eye he recalled a
phrase the teenagers of today were so fond of using.
Get a life!
Yes.
Damn right. Get a life you little shit.

‘Max! Come
man, we’ve got to get a move on. Before the others discover we’re gone.’

‘Yes, Mr
Jones,’ Max said hurrying his pace.

As they turned
left at the next intersection, heading north towards the Elandsriver and Bishop’s
affluent suburbs, they were of course not aware that someone was following
them.

Driven by the Jones’s
brisk pace, the two intrepid escapees were soon walking along the leafy River
Street. To their left the beautiful quasi-mansions of Bishop’s wealthiest elite
lined the sloping bank of the Elandsriver. The Theron house was just up ahead.

As they
approached the front yard Max choked up and began sobbing quietly. It was
obvious to Jones that Max was struggling to deal with the loss of his father.
He stopped. As distasteful as he found the act he nonetheless embraced the boy
and tried to soothe him. He dutifully intoned as many (meaningless)
consolations as his impatient nature would allow. ‘There there. It’s going to
be alright. Don’t you worry about a thing.’
Etc etc fucking etc.

Eventually Max
calmed down a bit. He looked up at Jones. ‘Thank you Mr Jones. I don’t know
what I would have done without you.’

‘Son, these
are difficult times. We have to stand together. As long as there is love, we
will make it.’
Goddamn! What a load of bullshit.

‘That’s so
true, Mr Jones. You’re such a wise man,’ Max sobbed through snotty tears.

‘Come son. Let’s
get going. Your dad would have wanted you to get out of here.’

Max nodded,
wiping snot and tears on the sleeve of his jacket. ‘Yes. You’re right.’

They walked up
the walkway with its terracotta tiles. Max hesitated at the front door. ‘Max,
are you going to be alright?’

‘Yes, Mr
Jones.’ Max was lost in a moment of reverie then snapped out of it. ‘The keys
are hanging on a peg just inside the foyer.’

‘Good.’ Max
opened the door. ‘Oh and Max. Don’t linger. It’ll just bring back painful
memories.’

‘Yes, Mr
Jones.’ Max entered. A few seconds later he re-appeared with the keys of the
boathouse and the powerboat. ‘Um, Mr Jones should we –’

‘Yes, I think
we should go round the back. Too many memories inside, don’t you agree?’ In
fact Jones was more concerned that Max would get distracted inside and waste
time fawning over inanities instead of getting on with the important task of
escape. Max nodded. They walked around the side of the house with its beautiful
and neatly arranged flower beds. A little further down they passed a quaint
wooden garden shed that would have been considered luxury accommodation in
certain of South Africa’s townships. And then they were in the huge backyard
with its luscious sloping lawn that undulated all the way to the bank of the
Elandsriver. This sloping lawn ran the full length of the riverbank. And
connected the properties of all the riverfront houses so that it formed one
huge grassy backyard without fences or divisions of any kind. Here a person
could simply stroll over to a neighbour’s backyard and discuss the latest
meanderings of the stock exchange – if one were so inclined, of course – while
the children had the use of a massive fantastical playground bordered by a
rushing river and scores of verdant weeping willow trees.

Now Jones and
Max let the slope of the lawn carry them to the Theron’s huge boathouse. Max
unlocked the Viro lock and swung open the doors. Inside Friedrich Theron’s
powerboat bobbed on the waters of the Elandsriver. It was tied to its own
little jetty. Jones stepped inside and paused for a moment, admiring the stunning
machine. Damn it was a beauty. A Sensation 2200 Deck Cruiser. A deck/sport boat
hybrid cruiser with a powerful inboard 260 HP engine. It not only boasted the
power of a sport boat but featured a sunken seating deck on its nose. A
so-called sun island. The cruiser featured a maroon and silver trim. The
interior was white – sleek and modern – and had all the latest gadgets and
onboard electronics like GPS and sonar. Max walked along the jetty, unlocked
another Viro and using a handle opened the roll-up gate. Beyond, the rushing
waters of the Elandsriver sped past.

Jones inhaled deeply,
feeling the intense elation of success. He couldn’t believe they were actually
this close to escaping the gilded prison that Bishop had become. Max turned
around and began undoing the front moorings. Jones stepped onto the jetty. It
was to the left of the powerboat – shielding the craft from the onslaught of
the river’s current. He began undoing the rear mooring ropes. There. The boat
was free and ready to be launched. The two men stood on the jetty looking at
each other. Jones punched the air and whooped with delight. Max followed suit.
Jones walked up to Max and gave him a high five. ‘We’ve done it, Max! We’ve
done it!’

‘Blooming
great idea, Mr Jones. You’re a genius!’ Maybe the boy wasn’t so bad after all,
Jones thought as he grinned from ear to ear. Yes. Not such a bad sort really.
Jones inhaled deeply. He bowed gracefully, pointing at the interior of the
boat. ‘Shall we, sir?’

‘Yes! We damn
well shall,’ Max said shouting with joy.

‘After you,
sire.’

‘Don’t mind if
I do, Mr Jones,’ Max said stepping inside the boat. Jones followed, sitting
down on the plush leather seat that lined the interior. Max inserted the key
and turned the ignition. The powerful engines exploded with power. ‘Don’t
worry, Mr Jones, I know what I’m doing.’

‘Of course you
do, son,’ Jones said making sure he was close enough to take over should Max
lose control or do something stupid.

‘Just sit back
and relax. Captain Max is in charge.’ Max unleashed the power of the engines.
And immediately slammed into the side of the boathouse. The engines spluttered
and died. He looked at Jones with a sheepish grin. ‘Oops. Sorry ‘bout that. Won’t
happen again.’ He turned the ignition and this time eased the boat forward.
Gradually they slipped out of the confines of the boathouse.

And then. They
were in the tug of the Elandsriver’s current. Slap bang in the middle of the
sweeping waterway. And heading for freedom. Jones felt an immense sense of
excitement and euphoria. At the same time he experienced a deep feeling of calm
and peace. Yes. They were going to make it. Yes –

The engine
splutter-spluttered. And died.

Which was of
course no accident.

Unbeknownst to
them, the mysterious stranger who had been following them earlier ... was still
watching them. Watching from the safety of the riverbank. Watching with a huge
grin on her face.

Karen Villiers
felt a smile of victory spread slowly across her face.

Take that
you two bastards!

Just like our
two courageous would-be escape artists felt moments before, Karen Villiers now
felt like whooping with delight. You see the much-beleaguered and
long-suffering Karen had done more than just follow Jones and Max down to the
boathouse. Oh no. She had done a
whole lot
more.

You see it’s
reasonably safe to say that on that spring day of the twenty-seventh of
September, Karen Villiers had snapped.

Now who’s to
say exactly what it takes to make a woman like Karen Villiers snap. Even more
enigmatically who’s to say what form this brand of female-specific psychosis
may take. Let’s be honest. Even the most spirited and audacious of men folk
fear to tread in the dark side of the female psyche. These are our mothers. Our
wives and lovers. The fairer sex. The softer representatives of humanity. We
attribute to them the virtues of compassion. Unconditional love. And
tenderness. They nurture. They soothe. They heal. So when a woman does snap –
as scientifically inadequate as this term may be – we as men react with horror
and revulsion. Unable to comprehend how one extreme could call into being its
polar opposite. Because we fear – with an unspoken terror – that the darkness
that resides in the female psyche is far more terrible ... and far more
complete than that which lives in the hearts of men. Who knows?

So it was the
case with Karen Villiers. It suffices to say that she had snapped. Badly.
Completely. For the sake of the fragile male psyche, let’s not delve any
deeper.

You see,
unbeknownst to Max and Mr Jones, Karen had overheard their conversation while
standing outside The Abbot. Specifically the part of their conversation that
dealt with the Theron powerboat. Driven by the new mindset that came courtesy
of having ‘snapped’, Karen had made a simple yet powerful decision. She had
turned and proceeded to run all the way to the Theron house. Having been
Friedrich’s personal assistant and lover for all these years, she knew the
exact layout of the house as well as its composition. She had easily found the
keys to the powerboat and raced down to the houseboat. Not having the benefit
of being Karen Villiers, we cannot rightly say why she didn’t choose to take
the boat herself and make her own escape. No. What we do know however is that
she unlocked the boathouse, and then chose to take a small garden shovel and
heap three loads of dirt into the diesel tank that fed the inboard engines. She
had then replaced the keys and rushed back to the restaurant. Waiting to follow
them, to see for herself the consequences of her handiwork. Because – you see –
the reason the Theron powerboat now spluttered and died. The reason why it
would never start again – ever – was a direct result of Karen’s little act of
vengeance.