Zulu (27 page)

“I have to go,” she said.

“This is urgent.”

“I'll call you.”

“
Ngiyabonga
.”
33

Neuman hung up just as Brian came out of the bar. Brian threw the check in the garbage, and saw his friend standing there in the middle of the terrace, looking distraught.

“Did you talk to the Inkatha girl?”

“Yes,” he said. “She's having a look on her side.”

The walkways of the Waterfront had emptied.

Brian went closer to Neuman. “What's going on?”

“Nothing.”

But for a moment Brian thought Neuman was going to cry.

“Send me a message when you get back from Hout Bay,” Neuman said, cutting things short. “We'll meet tomorrow morning.”

Brian nodded, his heart in a vise. “Bye, Cassandra.”

“Yeah, bye.”

A horrible feeling. As if they were seeing each other for the last time.

 

 *

 

The stuff had all been collected, the samples, the tests, the hard disk. Terreblanche closed the second trunk and looked up at Debeer, who'd just entered the room.

“Someone's gotten into our files,” Debeer announced.

“What do you mean, someone's gotten into our files?”

“A hacker.”

Terreblanche's face went red. “What was in the files?”

“The company's accounts. The cop who came here the other day was looking for a Pinzgauer. Maybe they've made a connection with the house.”

The police hadn't risen to the bait. They knew the vehicle existed. Terreblanche hesitated a few seconds, connected the working circuits in his brain, and soon felt reassured. There was no way they could trace things back to him, unless they caught him red-handed, and it was too late for that. Everything was ready, finalized, the lab had been destroyed, the research team was already abroad. They just had to get the stuff out—the plane was ready—and wipe out the last traces.

“How many men are left?”

“Four, including me,” Debeer replied. “Plus the two workers.”

They didn't know a thing. They could leave a security guard at the office, the others would come with him. Terreblanche picked up his cell phone and dialed Mzala's number.

 

The rooms situated in back of the
shebeen
had been spared during the shootout. The sticks of incense burning near the knife couldn't hide the smell of feet, but Mzala didn't care. He was in the middle of getting a blow job on the straw mattress he used as a bed when his cell phone rang—the ringtone was a burst of machine-gun fire downloaded from the Internet, which always made people laugh. He pushed away the fat girl in a bra slobbering over his cock, saw the number on the display—what did that asshole want now?—and stuck the girl's head back again.

“Yeah?”

Terreblanche wasn't in a playful mood. “I want you to throw a big party tonight in honor of the Americans,” he announced in a voice that didn't match the event. “Tell all your friends to be there with flowers in their buttonholes.”

“That won't get them excited!” Mzala laughed. “What are we celebrating?”

“Victory over a rival gang, the money that'll be coming in soon, whatever you like. Drinks on the house.”

Mzala screwed up his eyes, while making sure the girl was still doing her job.

“That's nice, boss. What's this all about?”

“You just have to keep an eye on what they drink,” Terreblanche said. “I'll supply the sleeping powder and the after-sales service. The important thing is that everyone involved should be there tonight. We have to be out of here by dawn.”

Mzala abruptly forgot all about the girl, her large breasts crushing his balls. This was the Big Night.

“A clean sweep before we leave, is that it?”

“A clean sweep, right. I'll be at the church around seven-thirty to hand over the material.”

“O.K..”

“One more thing. I don't want a single witness left. Not one.”

“You can trust me,” Mzala assured him.

“No way I'd risk that,” Terreblanche said. “I need you to bring me proof. Do whatever you have to. No evidence, no money, is that clear?”

Mzala's mind wandered over a carpet of blood. “Very clear,” he said, hanging up.

The girl sucking him off was moaning, her fat ass in the air, as if being mounted by a thousand bulls. Mzala smiled as she sucked him rhythmically. He thought of her big breasts dangling over his balls, her round throat that would soon receive his sperm, the knife lying next to the straw mattress, and came very quickly.

 

 *

 

“Do you still need me, Mr. Van der Verskuizen?”

It was seven in the evening and Martha had finished for the day.

“No, no, Martha,” he said. “You can go home!”

The secretary smiled back, grabbed her pink purse from behind the counter, and opened the door.

“See you tomorrow, Mr. Van der Verskuizen.”

“See you tomorrow, Martha.”

Rick watched her as she left the clinic. He had only just hired her, she was still on probation. Martha, a blonde fresh from the employment agency, who must have the tightest pussy in the southern hemisphere—ha ha! He had just gotten rid of his last patient, a tiresome architect who was suffering from an abscess caused by a stray wisdom tooth. He had managed to land him with six appointments. If you have money, you might as well spend it, right?

There was a knock at the door of the clinic. Martha must have forgotten something. Her knickers maybe—ho ho ho. He opened the reinforced door, and his oily smile froze as if he'd just been given an anesthetic.

Ruby.

“You look surprised. Were you expecting someone else?”

“No, of course not!” he cried, taking her by the arm. “It's just that you never come to the clinic. Everything O.K., darling?”

Rick had regained his George Clooney smile, the one he used on local celebrities, to show them they were equals. He drew Ruby into his office, with its huge plate-glass window looking out on Table Mountain.

“I just have to find a few papers, and then I'm all yours.”

“I was talking to your old secretary on the phone earlier,” Ruby said, her voice sounding exaggeratedly calm. “She told me you were quite intimate with your younger patients.”

“What?”

“No need to look so scared.”

He'd seen Ruby in this state before. It wasn't how he liked her. He liked her wild ass, her solar energy, her passion, the hope that had driven her into his arms, but her uncontrollable side completely put him off the idea of marriage.

“Well?” she insisted.

“Fay's a little tramp,” Rick hissed. “A tramp who lies as easily as drawing breath!”

“For a liar, she has quite a memory,” Ruby said. “She's particularly good on names and times of appointments.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Kate Montgomery was always your last patient of the day,” she said. “She always arrived just as your secretary was leaving. What do you think of that?”

“My God, Ruby,” he said, imploringly. “We chose times that were convenient for her! What on earth will you think up next?”

Ruby wouldn't let go. “Admit you slept with Kate,” she spat.

“You're crazy!”

“At least admit you tried to sleep with her!” Her eyes were glittering with rage. A madwoman. He was living with a madwoman.

“Ruby, I'm telling you the truth! I never had relations with Kate Montgomery. Jesus!
I was looking after her teeth!
”

“With your dick.”

Rick closed his eyes and put his face in his hands. He had never slept with Kate. She wouldn't have wanted it. Unless it was the one thing she had wanted. In any case, she was a sensitive girl, a girl with problems. He cared for his patients, in every sense of the term—the main thing was to keep them. Rick sighed, suddenly weary. He was hemmed in on all sides, and now Ruby showing up here like a fury.

“It was that bloody cop,” he said at last. “That bloody cop put all these stupid ideas in your head, didn't he?”

Through the window, a plane passed in the sky. Ruby lowered her head.

She didn't want to admit it. She felt ashamed of her desperation. Suspicion and resentment were playing dirty tricks on her. She always expected the worst—worse still, she provoked it. She was eating her own tail, like a fucking scorpion, stinging herself with her own poison. Her need to be loved and protected was too strong. The world had abandoned her before, when she was thirteen. Ruby felt confused, torn between two realities. She didn't believe either of them. Rick was standing there, a few feet away, waiting for a gesture from her, a gesture of love. But something still told her that she was right, that she was going to be betrayed yet again. Ruby gritted her teeth, but her lips were quivering by themselves. Her lips were going to move without her. Her lips were moving without her.

“Take me,” she whispered. “Take me in your arms.”

 

 *

 

Josephina had passed the information around the clubs and associations in the township. They were mostly run by women, charitably minded women who fought hard so that the rats could survive the sinking ship. The kids her son was looking for were lost children. Ali could have been in the same situation if he hadn't fled the militias that had killed his father. And all these children who were going to lose their mothers to AIDS, the orphans who would soon be swelling the ranks of the unfortunate—if they didn't take care of them, who else would? The government had quite enough on its hands already, what with urban violence, unemployment, the mistrust of investors, and this World Cup everyone was talking about.

But she was in luck. Mahimbo, a friend from the Churches of Zion, had contacted her. She had seen two boys matching the description ten days earlier, near Lengezi—a slender boy in green shorts and a younger one in a khaki shirt, with a scar on his neck. There was a church in Lengezi, on the edge of an open space, where they tried to provide food for the most disadvantaged. The priest had a young maid, Sonia Parker, who ran a soup kitchen at least once a week—she may have seen them often. Sonia Parker didn't have a telephone, but she finished work at seven, after the evening service.

It was now ten after seven.

The bus had dropped her half a mile from the church. But Josephina was getting over her pains. She walked up the street, trusting the shadows, and made out the church in the gathering darkness. The area was deserted. People preferred to stay in and watch TV in their own houses or at a neighbor's house if he had one, rather than wander aimlessly and risk running into some crazy person coming out of a
shebeen
. A dog without a tail walked alongside her, intrigued by her stick. She stopped on the steps of the church to catch her breath, big beads of sweat on her forehead. A few stars hovered in the petroleum-blue sky. Josephina felt the plywood planks under her feet with her stick, and hoisted her weight to the wooden door.

She didn't have to knock, it was open.

“Is anyone there?” she called into the shadows.

The chairs seemed empty. The altar was in darkness.

“Sonia?”

Josephina couldn't see any light, and smelled a familiar smell as she approached the great hanging Christ. A sooty smell. The candles had not long been blown out.

“Sonia?”

She waddled to the altar, which was covered in a white cloth, and looked up at the cross. The martyred Son of God looked down at her passively.

It suddenly felt cooler under the vaults of the church, as if there was a draft, chilling her. Josephina sensed a presence behind her, a still indistinct shape that had emerged from behind a pillar.

“Well, well. What are you doing here, Big Mama?”

She froze. The Cat was lurking in the shadows.

 

 

 

T
he night wind coming in through the window covered the distorted sound of Cop Shoot Cop on the car radio. It was two in the morning on the M63, which ran toward the south coast of the peninsula. Brian Epkeen was driving fast, his equipment strewn over the seat. According to what Janet Helms had found out during her hacking session, the ADT building had a security camera on the outside, which covered the entrance and most of the forecourt, but not the garage. A security guard in an ATD uniform patrolled on the outside, linked by radio to a colleague inside watching the TV monitors. There was a switchboard operator in reception to take calls and contact the night teams crisscrossing the area.

When Brian reached the outskirts of Hout Bay, he slowed down. The town was empty at this time of night. He drove past the harbor restaurants and the deserted parking lot, and parked the Mercedes at the far end of the jetties. The cry of a seagull echoed from the direction of the sea. He grabbed the equipment from the seat. It was years since he'd last done this kind of thing. He took a deep breath to relieve the stress creeping up his legs. There wasn't a soul near the landing stages. He put on a black ski mask, checked he had all his gear, and set off into the night.

The fish warehouses were padlocked, the nets piled up. He wormed his way between the pallets, reached the sheds, and stood waiting in their shadows. The ADT building stood out beneath the mouse-gray clouds. The only sounds were the wavelets lapping the hulls of the trawlers and the wind in the wooden buildings. A beam of light soon appeared from around the east wing of the former mansion—the security guard, his cap pulled down on his head. He didn't have a dog, but there was a holster and a club hanging from his leather belt. Brian calculated the length of his round: he had exactly three minutes and sixteen seconds before the man's alter ego sitting at the monitor got worried. He let the guard turn the corner and then, avoiding the eye of the camera, ran to the garage.

Three clouds passed beneath the intermittent moon. Brian was starting to sweat inside his ski mask, which stank of mothballs. The security guard finally reappeared at the corner of the building. Brian tightened his grip on his baton, his back up against the wall of the garage. The beam of the torch passed in front of him. The man didn't have time to make a move before the baton hit him on the back of his head, at the top of the spinal cord. Brian held him as he fell and pulled him under cover. The security guard, a white with a crew cut, looked as if he had fallen asleep. Brian took a handkerchief from his pocket, soaked it in chloroform, and pressed it over the man's nose—that'd leave him feeling woozy for several hours. Two minutes forty seconds—avoiding the camera, he ran to the south wing.

The windows on the first floor were barred, but not those on the second floor. He tightened the straps of his small backpack and, supporting himself on the rim of the gutter, hoisted himself onto the balcony. Then he took out a crowbar, and wedged the end of it under the wooden window frame. The wood yielded in a terrible splintering noise. He grimaced, and climbed in.

The second-floor room was obviously used as a junk room. There were two padlocked trunks against the wall, piles of crates. No noise. Brian softly opened the door. At the end of the corridor, there was light coming up from the first floor. One minute. He walked softly to the stairs, forgetting about the seconds. He could hear voices from downstairs, a man and a woman, laughing in front of the TV monitors. He walked down the stairs, gripping his baton.

“How about the blonde who sees a boat in the desert, know that one?”

“No.”

“Well, this blonde and this brunette are in a car, and they see a boat in the middle of the desert, and the brunette says . . .”

The security guard was sitting on a swivel chair, with his back to the door. Standing by the monitors, the switchboard operator was drinking in his words, smiling in advance. She suddenly opened her eyes wide in surprise, cried out with her hands raised to her mouth, but too late—the baton hit the back of her colleague's neck. The man swiveled in the chair and collapsed at her feet, small feet squeezed into moccasins with pompons, which didn't dare move.

“No.” She tried to struggle. “No!!!”

Easily controlling her feeble writhing, Brian grabbed her by the neck and pressed the soaked handkerchief to her face. She twitched for a moment, then fell like some bold princess into his arms. He laid her out on the floor, administered a dose of chloroform to the security guard, and at last took off his stinking, sweat-soaked ski mask. He felt a little dizzy, but he had no time to waste—if they couldn't make radio contact, one of the patrols would come straight back.

The central computer was in an office on the first floor. Janet Helms had already visited it. He searched in the files stored on the shelves, came across figures, reports, client lists. It would take hours to go through them carefully. There was a ringing from the switchboard in the adjoining office. He went upstairs. The metal crates he had glimpsed earlier were lined up against the wall, two big trunks without names or destinations. With the crowbar, Brian forced the padlock on one of them. Inside were rows of tubes neatly laid out and protected by foam rubber, hundreds of samples with incomprehensible labels. He extracted one of them and took a good look at the liquid. Blood.

He put the sample in his pocket, glanced unnecessarily at the window, and forced open the second trunk, which immediately yielded. In it was a hard disk, packed in polystyrene. Brian lifted it out and placed it on the wooden floor. Then he aimed his torch at the other contents of the trunk. Sachets of powder, hundreds of doses wrapped in plastic. Same texture, same color as the drug found in the mobile home. He thought he heard the sound of a car in the yard. At the same moment, the telephone rang downstairs.

Brian looked feverishly at his watch. The quarter of an hour he had given himself had passed. He put his stinking ski mask back on, stuffed the hard disk in his backpack, took two of the sachets of powder, and left.

 

 *

 

(1) Persons suffering from a deficiency of neurotransmitters (NTs) are especially susceptible to many of the conditions peculiar to Western man: obesity, depression, anxiety, insomnia, menopausal problems, etc. In depressives, several areas of the brain, relating to mood, appetite, sleep, sexual desire, and memory, are disturbed. Apart from the hypophysis, all these areas are part of the limbic system and usually receive signals from the neurons that secrete serotonin and noradrenalin. A decrease in the activity of the serotonergic and noradrenergic circuits contributes to the establishment of a depressive state. According to our studies, many depressions seem to be the result of disturbances of the cerebral circuits that use monoamines as neuromediators. The most common antidepressants on sale in Europe and the United States, such as Prozac, work by artificially increasing the level of serotonin in the synapses of the neurons affected by these conditions. Find the gene that makes it possible to achieve a sufficient regulated level of this NT and you will have “supermen”: no more obesity, no more anxiety, depression, insomnia. In the same way, we could be subjected to the most extreme stress without the mind being affected. This is a potential goldmine, with customers numbering in the hundreds of millions.

2) In our research, we focused on the intracellular enzyme MAO (monoamine oxide), which modulates synaptic concentration and degrades the monoamines (serotonin and noradrenalin). Its gene was cloned, as were the prior areas that allow its regulation. The pieces of the DNA corresponding to this enzyme were therefore successfully introduced into an AAV. This viral vector was successfully tested on monkeys. We used gene therapy
in vivo
, which consists of injecting the vector carrying the gene of therapeutic interest directly into the bloodstream in such a way as to specifically reach the target cells.

As the side effects of this kind of substance can only be seen on human subjects, we prepared and tested these recombinants on specified persons.

After much trial and error, linked to the problems of hypertension and, above all, of increasingly violent suicidal reactions, we can now state confidently that these tests were positive.

3) In addition, we selected a strain of HIV-1-4 before proceeding to the obtaining of viruses mutated into the gene of gp41. This glycoprotein possesses the peptide corresponding to an area responsible for the interaction with caveolin, a protein of the cellular membrane which, in association with other constituent parts of the membrane, is involved in the internalization of external elements, such as viruses. This area of gp41, known as CBD1, plays a major role during the infection of cells by HIV. The mutation, unlike the research developed by our colleagues, allows a larger and more effective penetration of the T4s. The virus thus becomes capable of infecting and destroying 80% of the T4s in a matter of weeks. Persons infected by this “supervirus” die from opportunistic diseases before they have even been found to be HIV positive.

The virus was successfully introduced into 100% of the subjects treated.

 

Brian read the document for the third time.

His adrenalin had dropped since his nocturnal excursion to Hout Bay. The computer was purring in the bedroom at the back, David's room, which had been empty for ages—there was still a Nirvana poster on the wall, in the upper-left-hand corner hanging at half-mast, as a sign of mourning.

It was 5:43 by the alarm clock. He was starting to feel sleepy. He was supposed to be meeting Ali and Janet in a couple of hours and he wasn't sure he had grasped all the ins and outs of the case, let alone the technical gibberish written by the director of research. Charles Rossow, his name was. A specialist in molecular biology. Brian had clicked the icons on the hard disk he'd stolen from the trunk at Hout Bay, and found files with cryptic names, containing series of charts, details of experiments, and various analyses, in a jargon that was almost incomprehensible to a layman. But he had understood the gist. Goldmine, virus. This file was dynamite.

He made two copies of the hard disk, and stuffed the memory sticks in the pocket of his black fatigues. 5:52 now by the old alarm clock. Brian still stank from his earlier stress. As he contemplated taking a shower, his eyes wandered over the posters in this room that he had transformed into an office. David. The prodigal son. Top of his class. He was jolted out of his lethargy by a strident beep from the fax machine next to the printer. Yawning, Brian peered at the machine. There was no sender's name, not even a number. A list of names soon appeared on the glazed paper. A message from Janet Helms—three pages detailing the structure and membership of Project Coast.

He tore off the roll and looked through the document. There were two hundred names in all, with the skills and specialties of Wouter Basson's various colleagues. Brian went straight to the letter
R
and found what he was looking for. Rossow. Charles Rossow, specialist in molecular biology.

Neuman had been right. Terreblanche had recruited the scientist to develop a revolutionary new kind of chemistry. They had conducted secret experiments, enjoying protection and collusion from all sides. He sent a text to Janet Helms's cell phone by way of reply, confirming the Rossow lead—she still had two hours before she met them at the Waterfront. Epkeen reread the fax in detail, from the top. Burger, Du Plessis, Donk . . . Terreblanche, Van Haas, Van der Linden . . . He was just lighting another cigarette when his eye fell on a name at the bottom of the list. Van der Verskuizen. First name Rick.

“Shit.”

Rick van der Verskuizen was on the Project Coast roster.

That toupéed fashion plate had worked with Basson and Terreblanche . . . Kate Montgomery. The dentist. It was him, he was the accomplice, the man who had been waiting for Kate on the coast road.

A slight noise made him prick up his ears. A creaking in the rafters, his imagination, exhaustion? The wind was blowing outside. He held his breath. Silence. Brian was about to take a shower when he heard another noise, this one much nearer. His heart started pounding. This time he was sure of it: someone was coming up the stairs. David? The floorboards creaked, somewhere very close. He flattened himself against the wall of the bedroom. The steps had come closer, they were in the corridor—at least two people. He saw the hard disk connected to his computer, the holster on the Red Indian bedspread, contemplated diving for his .38, thought better of it as the door burst open and thudded against the wall. Two figures rushed into the room, Debeer and another man, and began spraying the room with bullets. They were using Walther 7.65s with silencers. The feathers from the pillow on David's bed went flying, while Debeer demolished the computer. The killers looked for their prey through the shower of plaster, saw the figure climbing through the window, and opened fire at the very moment it threw itself into the void.

A bullet whistled past Brian's ear and hit the wall of the house next door. He landed in the flowerbed and ran across the lawn. Four more bullets decapitated a few innocent stalks and pursued him toward the garden. He felt a pain, and took refuge behind the corner of the wall. He heard muffled voices cursing above his head, then the sound of boots rushing to the stairs. He ran toward the gate.

Debeer jumped from the second floor but, not being very agile, twisted his ankle as he landed and yelped with pain. He waved his gun in the darkness. All he could see at the end of the silencer was flowers.

Brian dashed into the empty street and ran to the Mercedes, parked ten yards away. He had the keys in his pocket and fear in his belly. Feverishly, he opened the door, switched on the ignition, and put the car in first gear. A stocky figure came running out through the open gate. The tires of the Mercedes screeched on the asphalt. The killer stood still and fired from twenty yards. The rear windshield shattered as he was pressing his foot on the accelerator. The other shots were smothered by the clatter of the firing pin.