“We don’t know how much Scheepers has managed to figure out,” he said. “But we must take certain precautions. The most important one is to dissolve the Committee, and divert attention from Cape Town and June 12.”
Franz Malan gaped at him in astonishment. Could he be serious? Would all the executive responsibility fall on his shoulders?
Jan Kleyn could see he was worried.
“I’ll be out again soon,” he said. “Then I’ll take over the responsibility.”
“I hope so,” said Franz Malan. “But dissolving the Committee?”
“We have to. Scheepers might have penetrated deeper and further than we can imagine.”
“But how has he done that?”
Jan Kleyn shrugged in annoyance.
“What do we do?” he asked. “We use all our skills, all our contacts. We bribe, threaten, and lie our way to the information we need. There are no limits to what we can do. And so there are no limits for those who keep watch over our activities. The Committee must not meet again. It will cease to exist. That means it has never existed. We shall contact all the members tonight. But before that there are other things we have to do.”
“If Scheepers knows we’re planning something for June 12th, we’ll have to postpone it,” said Franz Malan. “The risk is too great.”
“It’s too late,” said Jan Kleyn. “Besides, Scheepers can’t be certain. A well-laid trail in another direction will convince him that Cape Town and June 12 are an attempt to mislead him. We turn the tables on him.”
“How?”
“During the interrogation I’ll be subjected to tomorrow, I’ll have the chance to trick him into starting to believe something else.”
“But that’s hardly enough.”
“Of course not.”
Jan Kleyn took out a little black notebook. When he opened it, Franz Malan could see all the pages were blank.
“I’ll fill this with nonsense,” Jan Kleyn went on. “But here and there I’ll note down a place and a date. All except one will be crossed out. The one that is left will not be Cape Town, June 12. I’ll leave the book in my safe. I’ll leave it unlocked, as if I’d been in a great hurry and tried to burn important papers.”
Franz Malan nodded. He was beginning to think Jan Kleyn was right. It would be possible to set false trails.
“Sikosi Tsiki is on his way home,” said Jan Kleyn, handing over an envelope to Franz Malan. “It will be your job to receive him, take him to Hammanskraal, and give him his final instructions the day before June 12. Everything is written down inside this envelope. Read through it now and see if anything is unclear. Then we’ll have to start making our calls.”
While Franz Malan was reading the instructions, Jan Kleyn started filling the notebook with meaningless combinations of words and numbers. He used several different pens to give the impression the notes had been made over a long period. He thought for a while before deciding on Durban, July 3. He knew the ANC would be holding an important meeting there on that day. That would be his red herring, and he hoped Scheepers would be fooled by it.
Franz Malan put down the papers.
“It doesn’t say anything about what gun he should use,” he said.
“Konovalenko has been training him to use a long-range rifle,” said Jan Kleyn. “There is an exact copy in the underground store at Hammanskraal.”
Franz Malan nodded.
“No more questions?” wondered Jan Kleyn.
“No,” said Franz Malan.
Then they started making their telephone calls. Jan Kleyn had three separate lines. They made calls all over the country. Half-asleep men fumbled for receivers, only to become wide awake instantaneously. Some were worried about what they heard, others merely noted how things would be from now on. Some of the men who had been woken up had trouble in getting back to sleep, while others simply turned over and resumed snoring.
The Committee was dissolved. It had never existed because it had disappeared without trace. All that remained was a rumor about its existence. But it could be re-created at very short notice. Just now it was no longer needed, and indeed, could be a danger. But the state of readiness to achieve what the Committee members considered to be the only solution for the future of South Africa was as high as ever. They were all ruthless men who never rested. Their ruthlessness was real, but their ideas were based on a mixture of illusions, lies, and fanatical despair. For some of the members it was a matter of pure hatred.
Franz Malan drove home through the night.
Jan Kleyn tidied up his house and left the safe door unlocked. At half past four in the morning 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 get away from the uncomfortable 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.
Jan 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 on Nelson Mandela really had been switched to Durban. He had weighed the reasons for and against without reaching any definite conclusion. He saw absolutely no prospect of Jan 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 opposite Jan Kleyn, and it struck him this was Matilda’s father he was looking at. He knew the secret, but he realized he would not be able to make use of it. It would result in far too big a threat for the two women. Jan Kleyn could not be detained indefinitely. He already looked like he was ready to leave the interview room at any moment.
A secretary came in and sat down at a little 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?”
Jan Kleyn continued smiling as he replied.
“My response is that I will not say anything until I have a lawyer at my side.”
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,” said Jan Kleyn, as if he could see right through Scheepers’ hesitation. “But my lawyer hasn’t arrived yet.”
“We can start with personal details, then,” said Scheepers. “You don’t need to have 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 showed up. When he got to the prosecutor’s waiting room, he was covered in sweat. Jan 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 suddenly began to wonder if he would be able to handle him as required. Maybe he should contact Wervey and suggest that a more experienced interrogator should be called in? On the other hand he knew Wervey was expecting him to carry off the assignment he had been given. Wervey never gave anybody the same challenge twice. His whole career would be under threat if he failed to live up to expectations. He took off his jacket and rinsed his face under the cold water tap. Then he ran through the questions he planned to put one more time.
He also managed to get through to President de Klerk. As soon as he could he 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 when Scheepers was through. That was the end of the conversation.
It was six o’clock before he was info
rmed that the lawyer had shown up. He returned to the interview room immediately. The lawyer by Jan Kleyn’s side was about forty and called Kritzinger. They shook hands and greeted each other coolly. Scheepers could see right away that Kritzinger and Jan Kleyn were old acquaintances. It was possible Kritzinger had deliberately delayed his arrival in order to give Jan Kleyn breathing space and at the same time unnerve the chief interrogator. The effect on Scheepers was the opposite, and he remained quite calm. All the doubts he had experienced over the last few hours had disappeared.
“I have examined the detention order,” said Kritzinger. “These are serious charges.”
“It’s a serious crime to undermine national security,” Scheepers responded.
“My client absolutely rejects all the charges,” said Kritzinger. “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,” said Scheepers. “Your client is the one required to supply the answers, not me.”
Scheepers glanced down at his papers.
“Do you know Franz Malan?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Jan Kleyn without hesitation. “He works in the military sector which deals with top secret security measures.”
“When did you last see him?”
“In connection with the terrorist attack on the restaurant near Durban. We were both called in to assist with the investigation.”
“Are you aware of a secret group of boere who call themselves simply the Committee?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“My client has already answered once,” protested Kritzinger.
“There’s nothing to prevent my asking the same question twice,” snapped Scheepers.
“I am not aware of any such Committee,” said Jan Kleyn.
“We have reason to believe the assassination of one of the black nationalist leaders is being plotted by that same Committee,” said Scheepers. “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 recognize it?”
“Of course I recognize 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?” said Jan Kleyn, 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?”
Jan Kleyn’s expression did not waver when 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 canceled.”
Scheepers thought Jan Kleyn still seemed totally unconcerned.
“What do you have to say about Durban on July 3?”
“Nothing.”
“You have nothing to say?”
Jan Kleyn turned to his lawyer and whispered something.
“My client declines to answer that question for personal reasons,” said Kritzinger.
“Personal reasons or not, I want an answer,” said Scheepers.
“This is lunacy,” said Jan Kleyn, with a gesture of resignation.
Scheepers suddenly noticed Jan Kleyn was sweating. Moreover one of his hands, resting on the table, had started trembling.
“All your questions so far have been completely lacking in substance,” said Kritzinger. “I shall very soon be demanding an end to all this and insisting on the immediate release of my client.”
“When it comes to investigations concerning threats to national security, the police and prosecutors have wide powers,” said Scheepers. “Now, will you please answer my question.”
“I am having an affair with a woman in Durban,” said Jan Kleyn. “As she is married, I have to meet her in extremely discreet circumstances.”
“Do you meet her regularly?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
Jan Kleyn and Kritzinger protested with one voice.
“OK, we’ll leave her name out of it for the time being,” said Scheepers. “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,” said Jan Kleyn. “I throw full ones away regularly. Or burn them.”
“Where do you burn them?”
Jan Kleyn seemed to have recovered his composure.
“In the kitchen sink, or in the toilet,” said Jan Kleyn. “As you know already, my fireplace has no chimney. It was bricked off by the former owners. I never got around to opening it again.”
The interrogation continued. Scheepers reverted to asking questions about the secret Committee, but the answers were always the same. Kritzinger protested at regular intervals. After three hours of questioning, Scheepers decided to call it a day. He rose to his feet and said curtly that Jan Kleyn would remain in custody. Kritzinger was absolutely furious. But Scheepers overruled him. The law allowed him to detain Jan Kleyn for at least another twenty-four hours.
It was already evening by the time he went to report to Wervey, 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. Wervey was asleep in his chair. He knocked and went in. Wervey opened his eyes and looked at him. Scheepers sat down.
“Jan Kleyn has not admitted to any knowledge whatsoever of a conspiracy or an assassination,” he said. “I don’t think he will, either. 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 references to various dates and locations. All of them were crossed out except one. Durban, July 3. We know that Nelson 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.”
Wervey quickly adjusted his chair to the upright position and asked to see the notebook. Scheepers had it in his case. Wervey leafed through it slowly in the light of his desk lamp.
“What explanation did he give?” asked Wervey when he got to the end.
“Various meetings. As far as Durban is concerned, he claims he is having an affair with a married woman there.”
“Start with that tomorrow,” said Wervey.
“He refuses to say who she is.”
“Tell him he won’t be released unless he tells us.”
Scheepers looked at Wervey in surprise.
“Can we do that?”
“Young man,” said Wervey. “You can do anything when you are chief prosecutor and as old as I am. Don’t forget that a man like Jan 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 doubtful methods.”
“Even so, I sometimes got the feeling he was insecure,” said Scheepers hesitantly.
“He knows we’re snapping at his heels in any case,” said Wervey. “Really put him under 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 actually made the arrest, and he had the distinct impression Jan Kleyn had been warned. Even though only a very few people knew only a short time in advance what was going to happen.”
Wervey 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 secrets is often the best weapon of all. Don’t forget that.”
The conversation was over.
Scheepers left the building and paused o
n the steps, enjoying the fresh air. He felt very tired. Then he went to his car to drive home. Just as he was about to open his car door, one of the parking attendants emerged from the shadows.
“A man left this for you,” said the attendant, handing him an envelope.
“Who?” asked Scheepers.
“A black guy,” said the attendant. “He didn’t say his name. Just that it was important.”
Scheepers handled the letter carefully. It was thin, and could not possibly contain a bomb. He nodded to the attendant, unlocked the car and got in. Then he opened the envelope and read what the note said by the light of the inside lamp.
Assassin probably a black man by the name of Victor Mabasha.
The note was signed 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 Inspector Borstlap at home.
“Victor Mabasha,” he said. “Does that name mean anything to you?”
Borstlap considered before replying.
“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 Jan Kleyn?” asked Borstlap in surprise.
“No,” said Scheepers. “How I got that information is neither here nor there for the moment.”
End of conversation.
Victor Mabasha, he thought as he sat down at the dining table.
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 realize how bad he actually felt. Later, when the murder of Louise Åkerblom 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 lying on the Oland bridge with staring eyes and blazing hair that it really struck him how rotten he felt deep down inside. 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 changing patterns in a kaleidoscope. It was in Kalmar that he lost his grip on himself! He told his daughter it was like a countdown had started, a countdown leading to nothing but a vacuum. The doctor in Ystad, who started treating him in mid-June and tried to sort out his increasing gloom, wrote in his journal that according to the patient the depression started over a cup of coffee at the police station in Kalmar while a man was being burned up in a car on a bridge.