Deon Meyer - Dead at Daybreak

“Don’t pretend to be unconscious, Gary.”

There was still no reply.

♦

“I can’t talk to you now,” Van Heerden said to Kara-An Rousseau.

“I heard it on the radio. About the shooting.”

“I’ve got to go.” He stood in the doorway of his house, machine pistol in his hand.

“Why were you at my house last night?”

“I wanted to…tell you something.”

“Tell me now.”

“I’ve got to go.”

“You want to know why I am like I am.”

He shifted past her. “This isn’t a good time,” he said, and walked toward his mother’s house. He had to get Tiny.

“Because you’re afraid you’re like that, too.” Not a question.

He halted, turned. “No,” he said.

She laughed at him. “Zatopek, it’s in you, too. And you know it.”

He looked at her beauty, her smile, the perfect teeth. Then he walked away, faster and faster, to get away from the sound of her laughter.

♦

At four minutes past two Nougat O’Grady walked into Hope Beneke’s office and said, “We have taken over the case. Completely.”

“I know,” said Hope Beneke, wondering how she could get rid of him in the next few minutes.

“I believe Van Heerden has not been absolutely frank with us,” he said, and wondered why this female attorney always wore clothes that hid her talents. He suspected there was a nifty body underneath it all. He sat down on a chair opposite her. “A lot of people have died, Miss Beneke. And unless you share everything with us, the killing won’t stop. Now, do you want that on your conscience?”

“No,” she said.

“Then please – ”

The phone rang. She started.

“Been expecting a call?” he asked, and knew instinctively that something was cooking here. “Please go ahead. We’re a team now, so to speak.”

♦

The owner of the Girls-to-Go Agency on Twelfth Avenue, Observatory, looked like a retired film star – long, elegant nose, square jaw, black hair flecked with gray, bushy Tom Selleck mustache – but when he opened his mouth to speak, he showed a set of teeth that were terrifying in their decay: stained yellow, crooked, half of them missing.

“It’th confidenthial information,” he said to Zatopek van Heerden and Tiny Mpayipheli, lisping slightly.

“A prostitute’s destination is not confidential information,” said Van Heerden.

“Thyow me your badge.” The lisp was more marked.

“I’m a private investigator. I don’t have a badge,” he said slowly and patiently. But he didn’t know how much more of the man’s attitude he would be able to take.

“Here’s my badge,” said Tiny Mpayipheli, the impatience strong in his voice as he opened his jacket to show the Rossi model 462 in its shoulder holster.

“I’m not thcared of gunth,” the film star said.

The Xhosa took out the .357 Magnum revolver and put a hole in the O of GO in the sign behind the man, the noise of the gunshot earsplitting in the small room. Behind a door a few women shrieked.

“The next one goes through your knee,” said Mpayipheli.

The door opened. A young woman with green hair and big eyes asked: “What’s going on, Vincent?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” Calm, unintimidated.

“The address, Vincent,” said Van Heerden.

Vincent looked at them with eyes that had seen everything, looked at the Rossi aimed at his leg, slowly shook his head back and forth as if he didn’t understand the universe, and patiently pulled a large black book toward him, then took the credit card slip that Van Heerden had put on the counter and lazily started leafing through the book.

Tiny put the weapon back under his jacket. They waited. Vincent licked a finger, leafed on.

“Here it ith,” he said.

♦

“This telephone is tapped by Military Intelligence,” Hope said to the man on the phone. “I must ask you to phone another number, a cell phone number. My colleague is waiting for your call.”

A moment’s silence. “No,” he said. “Go to the Coffee King at the Protea Hotel next to your building. I’ll phone there in five minutes.”

“Fffff – ” said Hope Beneke, biting back the word. “I’ve got to go,” she said, and stood up swiftly behind the desk.

“I’m coming with you,” said Nougat. “Where are we going?” They ran down the passage, out through the door, down the stairs, and out of the building, a fit Hope ahead, a puffing O’Grady a few yards behind her.

“Wait up,” he shouted. “They’ll think I’m trying to assault you.” But she kept on running, jerked open the door of the Coffee King, and stopped at the counter.

“I’m expecting a telephone call,” she said to the Taiwanese woman.

O’Grady steamed in, breathing hard.

“This is not a telephone booth,” said the Taiwanese woman.

“It’s police business, madam,” said O’Grady.

“Show me your identification.”

“Jeez, everybody watches television these days,” he said, still trying to catch his breath as he put his hand in his pocket.

The telephone next to her began ringing.

♦

“This man urgently needs hospitalization,” said the captain with the insignia of the SA Medical Services on his uniform.

“Not necessarily,” said Bester Brits.

“He’s dying.”

“He has to talk before he turns up his toes.”

The captain looked disbelievingly at the officer from Military Intelligence. “I…I thought the Truth and Reconciliation Commission had eradicated your kind.”

“I wasn’t always like this.”

“Colonel, if I don’t get him stabilized in intensive care, he’s never going to speak again. We have half an hour, maybe less.”

“Take him, then,” said Bester Brits, and walked out. He walked to a Port Jackson tree, leaned against the trunk. Hell, he wished he still smoked.

Oh-ri-un.

Orion.

“No, no, no,” Gary had said. Not Operation Orion?

What, then?

Oh-ri-unSh…

♦

Tiny Mpayipheli held the Rossi in both hands and stood next to the door while Van Heerden knocked, on the sixth floor of a block of flats in Observatory with a view over the mountain and Groote Schuur Hospital.

“Yes?” A male voice on the other side of the door.

“Parcel for W.A. Potgieter,” said Van Heerden, imitating the bored voice of a delivery man.

Silence.

“Get away from the door,” said Tiny.

Van Heerden stood aside, pushed his hand down inside his jacket, felt the butt of the Z88, knocking again with his other hand. “Halooo.”

The bullet holes splintered out in that nanosecond before they heard the automatic gunfire, the cheap door exploding in a rain of wooden chips. They dropped to their knees – he held the Z88 in his hand now, the other hand protectively over his eyes – then sudden silence.

“Shit,” said Tiny Mpayipheli.

They waited.

“You should have kept the Heckler and Koch.”

“Maybe.”

“And that?” Tiny nodded at the Z88.

“It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time,” said Tiny, and grinned.

“Is this the only door? The fire escape is in front, next to the lifts.”

“He can only get out through here.” Tiny pointed the Rossi’s barrel at the remains of the door.

“And they have the heavy artillery in there.”

“Yes, but you have your Z88.” Sarcasm.

“Anything in your Russian training for this situation?”

“Yes. I take my antitank missile out of my backpack and blow them to smithereens.”

“We need them alive.”

“Okay, scrap the missile. You’re ex-SAP. You ought to know what to do.”

“Gunfights were never my strong point.”

“I’ve heard.”