The White Lioness (44 page)

Malan drove home through the night.

Kleyn tidied up his house and left the safe door unlocked. At 4.30 a.m. he went to bed and prepared to get a few hours' sleep. He wondered who had provided Scheepers with all the information. He could not dislodge the feeling that there was something he did not understand. Somebody had betrayed him, but he could not figure out who it was.

Scheepers opened the door of the interview room.

Kleyn was sitting on a chair against one of the walls, smiling at him. Scheepers had decided to treat him in a friendly and correct manner. He had spent an hour going through the notebook. He was still doubtful whether the assassination attempt had been switched to Durban. He had weighed the reasons for and against without reaching any conclusion. He saw no prospect of Kleyn actually telling him the truth. He might just be able to lure him into providing snippets of information which could indicate indirectly how things stood.

Scheepers sat facing Kleyn. This was Matilda's father he was looking at. He knew the secret, but he knew he would not be able to make use of it. It could only compromise the two women. Kleyn could not be detained indefinitely. He already looked like a man who was ready to leave the interview room at any moment.

A clerk came in and sat down at a table to one side.

"Jan Kleyn," he said. "You have been arrested because there are strong grounds for believing you are involved in and possibly even responsible for subversive activities, and plotting to commit murder. What do you have to say?"

Kleyn continued smiling as he replied. "My response is that I will not say anything until I have a lawyer present."

Scheepers was momentarily put off his stride. The normal procedure was that when a person is arrested, the first step is to give him the opportunity of contacting a lawyer.

"Everything has been conducted by the book," Kleyn said, as if he could see right through Scheepers' hesitation. "But my lawyer, who was available this morning, as you apparently were not, hasn't arrived back yet this afternoon."

"We can start with personal details, then," Scheepers said. "You don't need a lawyer present for that."

"Of course not."

Scheepers left the room as soon as he had recorded all the details. He left instructions to send for him the moment the lawyer appeared. When he got to the prosecutor's waiting room, he was drenched in sweat. Kleyn's nonchalant superiority unnerved him. How could he be so indifferent when faced with charges which, if proven, could result in his being sentenced to death?

Scheepers wondered if he would be able to handle him as required. Should he contact Verwey and suggest that a more experienced interrogator be called in? On the other hand, he knew Verwey was expecting him to carry off the assignment. Verwey never gave anyone the same challenge twice. His career would be under threat if he failed. He took off his jacket and rinsed his face with cold water. Then he ran one more time through the questions he planned to put to Kleyn.

He also managed to reach the President, and passed on his suspicion that the President's office was bugged. De Klerk heard him through without interrupting.

"I'll have that looked into," he said. That was the end of the conversation.

It was 6 p.m. before at last Kleyn's lawyer arrived. He returned to the interview room immediately. The lawyer at Kleyn's side was about 40 and called Kritzinger. They shook hands, greeting each other coolly. Clearly Kritzinger and Kleyn were old acquaintances. It was possible that Kritzinger had deliberately delayed his reappearance in order to give Kleyn breathing space and at the same time unnerve his chief interrogator. The effect on Scheepers was quite the opposite. He was now perfectly calm. All the doubts he had experienced over the last few hours had disappeared.

"I have examined the detention order," Kritzinger said. "These are serious charges."

"Undermining national security is a serious crime," Scheepers said.

"My client rejects all the charges," Kritzinger said. "I demand that he be released immediately. Is it sensible to detain people whose daily task it is to uphold precisely that national security you refer to?"

"For the moment I am the one asking the questions," Scheepers said. "Your client is the one required to supply the answers."

Scheepers glanced at his papers. "Do you know Frans Malan?" he said.

"Yes," Kleyn said, without hesitation. "He works in the military sector which deals with the most sensitive security measures."

"When did you last see him?"

"In connection with the terrorist attack on the restaurant outside Durban. We were both called in to assist with the investigation."

"Are you aware of a secret group of
Boers
who call themselves simply 'the Committee'?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"My client has already answered once," Kritzinger said.

"Nothing will prevent my asking the same question twice," Scheepers said, sharply.

"I am not aware of any such committee," Kleyn said.

"We have reason to believe that the assassination of one of the black nationalist leaders is being plotted by that committee," Scheepers said. "Various places and dates have been mentioned. Do you know anything about that?"

"No."

Scheepers produced the notebook. "When your house was searched, the police found this book. Do you recognise it?"

"Of course I recognise it. It's mine."

"There are various notes in it about dates and places. Can you tell me what they mean?"

"What is all this?" Kleyn said, turning to his lawyer. "These are private notes about birthdays and meetings with friends."

"What do you have planned for Cape Town on June 12?"

Kleyn's expression did not waver as he replied. "I have nothing planned at all," he said. "I had thought of going there for a meeting with some of my fellow numismatists. But it was cancelled."

Kleyn seemed totally unconcerned.

"What do you have to say about Durban on July 3?"

"Nothing."

"You have nothing to say?"

Kleyn turned to his lawyer and whispered something.

"My client declines to answer that question for personal reasons," Kritzinger said.

"Personal reasons or not, I want an answer," Scheepers said.

"This is lunacy," Kleyn said, with a gesture of resignation.

Scheepers noticed Kleyn was sweating. Moreover one of his hands, resting on the table, had started trembling.

"Your questions so far have been lacking in substance," Kritzinger said. "I shall very soon demand an end to all this and insist on the immediate release of my client."

"When it comes to investigations concerning threats to national security, the police and prosecutors have wide powers," Scheepers said. "Now, will you please answer my question."

"I have a friendship with a woman in Durban," Kleyn said. "As she is married, I have to meet her in discreet circumstances."

"Do you meet her regularly?"

"Yes."

"What's her name?"

Kleyn and Kritzinger protested with one voice.

"We'll leave the name out of it for the time being," Scheepers said. "I'll come back to that. But if it's true you meet her regularly and, moreover, note down various meetings in this book, is it not a little odd that there's only one reference to Durban?"

"I get through at least ten notebooks a year," Kleyn said. "I throw full ones away all the time. Or burn them."

"Where do you burn them?"

Kleyn seemed to have recovered his composure.

"In the garden," Kleyn said. "As you obviously know, my fireplace has no chimney."

The interrogation continued. Scheepers reverted to questions about the Committee, but the answers were always the same. Kritzinger protested at regular intervals. After three hours of questioning, Scheepers rose to his feet and said curtly that Kleyn would remain in custody. Kritzinger was furious, but Scheepers reminded him that the law allowed him to detain Kleyn for at least another 24 hours.

It was already evening by the time he went to report to Verwey, who had promised to remain in his office until he arrived. The corridors were deserted as he hurried to the chief prosecutor's office. The door was ajar. Verwey was asleep in his chair. Scheepers knocked and went in. Verwey opened his eyes and looked at him.

"Kleyn has not admitted to any knowledge whatsoever of a conspiracy or an assassination," he said. "Nor do I think he will. Moreover, we have no evidence to connect him with either offence. When we searched his house, we found only one item of interest. There was a notebook in his safe, with various dates and locations. All of them were crossed out except one. Durban, July 3. We know that Mandela will be giving a public address on that day. The date we first suspected, Cape Town June 12, is crossed out in the book."

Verwey quickly adjusted his chair to the upright position and asked to see the notebook. Scheepers had it in his case. Verwey leafed through it slowly under the light of his desk lamp.

"What explanation did he give?" Verwey said, when he got to the end.

"Various meetings. As far as Durban is concerned, he claims he is having an affair there with a married woman."

"Start with that tomorrow," Verwey said.

"He refuses to say who she is."

"Tell him he won't be released unless he tells us."

Scheepers looked at Verwey in surprise. "Can we do that?"

"Young man," Verwey said. "You can do anything when you are chief prosecutor and as old as I am. Don't forget that a man like Kleyn knows how to eradicate every trace of where he's been. He must be beaten in battle. Even if one has to resort to dubious methods."

"I sometimes got the feeling he was insecure," Scheepers said, hesitantly.

"He knows we're snapping at his heels in any case," Verwey said. "Put him under real pressure tomorrow. The same questions, over and over again. From different angles. But the same thrust, the same thrust every time."

Scheepers nodded. "There was one more thing," he said. "Inspector Borstlap who made the arrest had the strong impression Kleyn had been warned. Only a very few people knew only a short time in advance that it was to happen."

Verwey looked at him for a long time before responding. "This country of ours is at war," he said. "There are ears everywhere, human and electronic. Penetrating and stealing secrets is often the best weapon. Don't forget that."

Scheepers left the building and paused on the steps, enjoying the fresh air. He felt very tired. As he went to his car, one of the parking attendants emerged from the shadows.

"A man left this for you," he said, handing him an envelope.

"Who?"

"A black man," the attendant said. "Didn't say his name. Just that it was important."

Scheepers handled the letter carefully. It was thin, and could not contain a bomb. He nodded to the attendant, unlocked the car and got in. Then he opened the envelope and read by the light of the dashboard what the note said.

Assassin probably a black man by the name of Victor Mabasha
.
Steve
.

Scheepers felt his heart beating faster. At last, he thought. Then he drove straight home. Judith was waiting for him with a meal. But before sitting down, he called Borstlap at home.

"Victor Mabasha," he said. "Does the name mean anything to you?"

There was a pause before Borstlap replied. "No," he said.

"Tomorrow morning, go through all the files and everything you have in the computer. Victor Mabasha is a black, and probably the assassin we are looking for."

"Have you managed to break Kleyn?" Borstlap said.

"No," Scheepers said. "I got that information elsewhere."

Victor Mabasha, he thought as he sat down to dinner, if you're the one, we'll put a stop to you before it's too late.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

That day in Kalmar, Kurt Wallander began to realise how bad he actually felt. Later, when the murder of Louise Akerblom and the sheer nightmare that followed in its wake had become a series of unreal events, a desolate charade in a distant landscape, he would insist stubbornly that it was not until Konovalenko was sticking out of his windscreen on the Oland bridge with staring eyes and his hair on fire that it really struck him how profoundly unwell he was. That was the moment of insight, and he would not budge from that view, even though the memories and all the painful experiences came and went like shifting patterns in a kaleidoscope. It was in Kalmar that he lost his grip on himself. He told his daughter that it was as if a countdown had started, a countdown to nothing but a void. The doctor in Ystad, who began treating him in mid-June and tried to sort out his increasing gloom, wrote in his journal:
According to the patient, the depression started over a cup of coffee at the police station in Kalmar while a man was being burned alive in a car on a bridge
.

There he sat in the police station in Kalmar, drinking coffee, feeling exhausted and drained. Everybody who saw him hunched over his cup that half-hour thought he was preoccupied or aloof. Or was he just thoughtful? In any case, nobody went to keep him company or to ask him how he was doing. The strange officer from Ystad was treated with a mixture of respect and hesitation. He was simply left in peace while they dealt with the chaos on the bridge and the flow of telephone calls from newspapers, radio and television.

After half an hour he jumped to his feet and demanded to be taken to the yellow house on Hemmansvagen. When they passed the place on the bridge where Konovalenko's car had become a smoking shell, he stared straight ahead of him. When he got to the house he immediately took command, forgetting that the investigation was being led by a Kalmar detective called Blomstrand. But they deferred to him, and he worked up an enormous level of energy over the next few hours. He seemed to have put Konovalenko right out of his mind already. There were two things that especially interested him. He wanted to know who owned the house. He also kept going on about Konovalenko not being alone. He ordered a house-to-house search of the street, and he wanted taxi drivers and bus conductors contacted. Konovalenko was not alone, he kept repeating. Who was the man or woman he had with him, who had now obviously disappeared? None of his questions could be answered straightaway. The property register and the neighbours who were questioned gave conflicting answers as to who owned the yellow house. The owner, a widower called Hjalmarson who worked at the provincial records office, had died about ten years earlier. His son lived in Brazil. According to one of the neighbours he was a representative for a Swedish firm, and an arms dealer according to others. He had come home for the funeral. It had been a worrying time for Hemmansvagen, according to a retired department head at the council offices in Kronoberg, who emerged as a spokesman for the neighbours. So there was considerable relief when the "For Sale" sign was taken down and a removal van drove up with all the belongings of a retired reserve officer. He used to be something as antiquated as a major in the Scanian hussars, a bizarre relic from a former age. He was called Gustav Jernberg, and he announced his presence to the world at large by friendly bellowing. The worries returned, however, when it became apparent that Jernberg would spend most of his time in Spain, on account of his rheumatism. When he was away, the house was occupied by a grandson in his mid-thirties, who was arrogant and rude. He was Hans Jernberg, and all anyone knew was that he was some kind of businessman who paid fleeting visits, sometimes with strange companions.

The police immediately started looking for the young Jernberg. They tracked him down in the early afternoon to an office in Goteborg. Wallander spoke with him on the telephone. At first he claimed to have no idea what they were talking about, but Wallander was in no mood to wheedle and coax people into telling the truth that day. He threatened to hand him over without delay to the Goteborg police, hinting also that it would be impossible to keep the press out of it. Halfway through the call one of the Kalmar officers stuck a note on the table next to Wallander. They had run a search through various files: Jernberg had links with neo-Nazi movements in Sweden. Wallander stared at the note before the obvious question to ask the man at the other end of the line struck him.

"Can you tell me your views on South Africa?" he asked.

"I can't see what that has to do with it," Jernberg said.

"Answer the question," Wallander said, brusquely.

The reply came after a short silence. "I consider South Africa to be one of the best organised countries in the world," Jernberg said. "I regard it as my duty to do all I can to support the whites living there."

"And you do that by renting out your house in Kalmar to the Russian Mafia who run errands for the South Africans? Is that it?"

This time Jernberg was genuinely surprised. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh yes you do," Wallander said. "But you can answer another question instead. Which of your friends has had access to the house during the past week? Think carefully before you answer. The slightest evasion and I'll ask the Goteborg prosecutors to issue a warrant for your arrest. And that's what will happen, believe you me."

"Ove Westerberg," Jernberg said. "He's an old friend of mine who runs a construction firm here in town."

"Address?"

It was all very confusing, but effective work on the part of the police in Goteborg threw light on what had happened at the yellow house over the last few days. Westerberg was also a friend of South Africa. He had had a query some weeks ago as to whether the house could be rented to some South African guests, who would pay good money. As Jernberg was abroad at the time, Westerberg had not told him about it. Wallander also suspected that the money had gone no further than Westerberg's pocket. But Westerberg had no idea who these guests from South Africa were. He did not even know whether they had been there.

That was as far as Wallander got that day. The Kalmar police would have to delve further into contacts between Swedish neo-Nazis and the upholders of Apartheid in South Africa. There was still no indication who had been in the yellow house with Konovalenko. While neighbours, taxi drivers and bus conductors were being questioned, Wallander made a thorough search of the house. Two of the bedrooms had been used, and the house had been abandoned in a hurry. Konovalenko must have left something behind this time. Presumably the other visitor had taken Konovalenko's belongings with him. Maybe there was no limit to Konovalenko's caution. Maybe he anticipated the possibility of a burglary every night and hid his belongings before going to bed? Wallander summoned Blomstrand, who was scouring the toolshed. Wallander wanted the house searched for a bag. He couldn't say what it looked like or how big it might be.

"A bag with some things in it," he said. "There must be one somewhere."

"What kind of things in it?" Blomstrand said.

"Papers, money, clothes," Wallander said. "Maybe a weapon. I don't know."

Various bags and cases were carried down to where Wallander was waiting on the ground floor. He blew the dust off a leather briefcase containing old photographs and letters, most of them starting with
Dearest Gunvor
or
My dear Herbert
. Another one, as dusty, unearthed in the attic, was crammed with exotic starfish and seashells. But Wallander waited patiently. There had to be traces of Konovalenko somewhere, and also of his companion. While he was waiting, he spoke with his daughter and with Bjork. News of what had happened that morning had spread all over the country. Wallander told Linda that he felt OK, and that it really was all over now. He would be home that night, and they could take the car and spend a few days in Copenhagen. He could tell she was not convinced he was well, or that it was all over. He reflected afterwards that he had a daughter who could read him like a book. The conversation with Bjork came to an abrupt end when Wallander lost his temper and slammed down the receiver. That had never happened in all the years he had worked with Bjork. But Bjork had begun to question Wallander's judgment because, without telling anybody, he had set out after Konovalenko on his own. Wallander could see there was a lot to be said for Bjork's point of view, of course, but what upset him was the fact that Bjork started going on about that now, when he was at a critical stage of the investigation. Bjork regarded Wallander's outburst as an unfortunate sign that he was still mentally disturbed. "We'll have to keep an eye on Kurt," Bjork told Martinsson and Svedberg.

It was Blomstrand who uncovered the right bag, hidden behind a neat row of boots in a cupboard in the corridor between the kitchen and the dining room. It was a leather suitcase with a combination lock. Wallander wondered whether the lock might be booby-trapped. What would happen if they forced open the case? Blomstrand drove to Kalmar airport, and had it put through the X-ray machine. Nothing to suggest it might blow up. Wallander took a screwdriver and forced the lock. There were a number of papers in the case, tickets, several passports, and a large sum of money. There was also a small pistol, a Beretta. The passports all belonged to Konovalenko, and were issued in Sweden, Finland, and Poland. He had a different name in each passport. As a Finn he was called Konovalenko Makela, and as a Pole he had the German-sounding name of Hausmann. There were 47,000 Swedish kronor and $11,000 in the case. But what interested Wallander most was whether the other documents would indicate who the companion might be. To his disappointment and annoyance, most of the notes were written in what he assumed was Russian. They seemed to be some sort of journal since there were dates in the margin.

Wallander turned to Blomstrand. "We need someone with Russian," he said, "who can translate this on the spot."

"We could try my wife. She's very interested in Russian culture. Especially 19th-century writers," Blomstrand said.

Wallander closed the suitcase and tucked it under his arm. "Let's go and see her," he said. "She'd only get distracted if we brought her to this circus."

Blomstrand lived in a terrace house north of Kalmar. His wife was an intelligent, straightforward woman, and Wallander took an immediate liking to her. While they were drinking coffee and eating sandwiches in the kitchen, she took the papers into her study and looked up a few words in the dictionary. It took her nearly an hour to translate the text and write it down. But then it was ready, and for Wallander, it was like reading about his own experiences from a different point of view. Many details of what had happened now became clear. The main thing, the answer to the question of who had been Konovalenko's final companion, who had managed to leave the yellow house without being seen, was quite different from what he had expected. South Africa had sent a substitute for Mabasha. Another African called Sikosi Tsiki. He had entered the country from Denmark. "His training is not perfect," Konovalenko wrote, "but sufficient. And his ruthlessness and mental resilience are greater than those of V.M." Konovalenko also referred to a man in South Africa by the name of Kleyn. Wallander assumed he was an important go-between. There was no clue about the organisation Wallander was now certain must be behind it all. He explained to Blomstrand what the notebook had revealed.

"There's an African who even now is in the process of leaving the country," Wallander said. "He was in the yellow house this morning. Somebody must have seen him, somebody must have driven him somewhere. He can't have walked over the bridge. We can rule out the possibility he's still on Oland. There is a chance that he had his own car or has stolen one. More important is the fact that he's trying to leave Sweden. Where, we don't know, but we have to pull out all the stops to prevent him leaving."

"That won't be easy," Blomstrand said.

"But not impossible," Wallander said. "There can only be a limited number of black men going through Swedish border controls each day."

Wallander thanked Blomstrand's wife. They returned to the police station. An APB went out on the unknown African. At about the same time the police found a taxi driver who had picked up an African that morning from a car park at the end of Hemmansvagen, after the car burned and the bridge was closed. Wallander assumed the African had first hidden somewhere outside the house for an hour or two. The taxi driver took him to the centre of Kalmar. Then he paid, got out, and disappeared. The driver could not give much of a description. The man was tall, well built, and wore light-coloured trousers, white shirt, dark jacket. That was about all he could say. They had spoken English.

It was almost evening and there was nothing more Wallander could do in Kalmar. Once they picked up the fugitive, the last piece of the puzzle could be fitted into all the others.

They offered to drive him to Ystad, but he wanted to be on his own. He said goodbye to Blomstrand, apologised for shamelessly taking over command for a few hours in the middle of the day, and left Kalmar.

He had studied a map and come to the conclusion that the shortest way home was via Vaxjo. The forest seemed to go on forever. Everywhere was the same mood of silent detachment he had experienced inside himself. He stopped in Nybro for a meal. Although he would have preferred to forget all that had happened to him, he forced himself to call Kalmar and find out if the African had been traced yet. There was still no sign of him. He got back in the car and kept on driving through the endless forest. He got as far as Vaxjo and hesitated whether to take the Almhult route or to go via Tingsryd. In the end he chose Tingsryd so that he could at least start heading southwards.