Authors: Deon Meyer
‘I thought he was chairman of the board.’
Jeanette glanced down at the document on my lap. ‘He is. That thing is two years old. Look at the cuttings.’
I paged through the pile. A
Business Day
newspaper cutting read ‘Black MD just the first BEE step for Southern Cross’.
The appointment of Mr Philani Lungile as managing director is just the first step in a comprehensive process of Black Economic Empowerment (BEE), says Mr Quintus Wernich, former MD and now chairman of the privately owned Stellenbosch weapons systems developer Southern Cross Avionics.
‘Bloody traffic,’ said Jeanette. I looked up. She wanted to turn off the N2 on to the N7 but it wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
‘We never have this trouble in Loxton,’ I said.
‘Read the one about the missile programme. I found it on the Internet,’ she ordered, and lit a Gauloise.
I rolled the window down and searched through the documents. The printout came from the International Centre for Strategic Research.
South African Ballistic Missile Programme
Even today, little is known about South Africa’s short-lived ballistic missile programme.
The country had been developing short-range tactical missiles and rockets since the 1960s, but only became the focus of international attention after a test launch of what the apartheid regime called a ‘booster rocket’ in July 1989.
Western intelligence agencies soon pointed out similarities between the South African capabilities and Israel’s Jericho II missile, prompting speculation that Israel had supplied crucial technology to South Africa’s development effort.
This claim was substantiated by the fact that the two countries also shared knowledge and expertise in developing electronic weapons systems for the Dassault Mirage jet fighter in the seventies and eighties – through government owned ARMS-COR and privately held companies such as Southern Cross Avionics.
I looked up, because more pieces began to fall into place.
‘When I read that, I knew where the rifle came from,’ Jeanette said.
I nodded.
‘OK, Lemmer, tell me.’
‘What?’
‘Everything. What the fuck has Southern Cross to do with Emma le Roux?’
‘How long will it be before we get there?’
‘At this rate? Half an hour.’
‘What else is in this pile?’ I rifled my fingers through her cuttings.
‘Do you know how the big arms deal works? The one for the new Gripen fighter plane?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Saab of Sweden and BAE in the UK won the contract to supply twenty-eight Gripens to South Africa. But part of the deal was that they must invest and develop locally. Southern Cross was part of that – they are also going to build systems for BAE. And there’s a report that Wernich and company are courting Airbus passionately.’
‘That’s why they still want to keep it quiet,’ I said. ‘That and the black economic empowerment.’
‘What, Lemmer? What do they want to keep quiet?’
‘Did you bring me a firearm?’
She flicked the Gauloise out of the window and pulled the left flap of her jacket open. There was a pistol in a leather holster under her arm. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Today I am your bodyguard, Lemmer. Now tell me everything.’
I didn’t find the new office buildings at Century City attractive. I don’t know how you would describe them. Neo-Roman? Corporate-Tuscan? Overdone, outsized pillars, sharp triangular roofs, glass and concrete, as un-African as it could be. Southern Cross was on the top storey of a five-storey block. The reception room was large and clinical.
In the middle of the room a black woman sat at a desk with a huge glass top. She had a silver laptop in front of her and a tiny telephone switchboard. She was wearing an earphone and microphone headset. It looked like something a fighter pilot would use.
Jeanette spoke to her. ‘We would like to see Mr Wernich.’
She looked Jeanette up and down. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
I stepped forward. ‘Yes, we do. Tell him Jacobus le Roux is here to see him.’
Fingers with long nails danced over the high-tech keyboard. She spoke barely above a whisper. ‘Louise, there is a Mr Le Roux for Mr Wernich.’
‘Jacobus le Roux,’ I said. ‘Please make sure you tell her that.’
The woman looked at me as if seeing me for the first time – and was unimpressed. She listened and then told us, ‘I’m sorry, it seems you don’t have an appointment.’
‘Come on, Lemmer,’ said Jeanette, and bypassed the glass princess. ‘I’ve been here before.’
‘Lady,’ the receptionist said in dismay. ‘Where are you going?’
Jeanette stopped and turned. ‘One thing I can tell you, my dear. I am no lady.’ Then she walked on, not intimidated when the woman said, ‘I’m calling Security.’
* * *
Glass desktops were a Southern Cross theme. Louise also presided behind one. She was white, with dark brown hair in a plait, subtle make-up and fashionable glasses. She was thirty-something and faultless. Her job description would be Personal Assistant, never Secretary. She was appointed for her efficiency, computer skills and appearance. In front of her she had only a black keyboard and a flat LCD screen. The rest of the computer was concealed elsewhere. She seemed ruffled when we strode in.
‘Where is Quintus hiding, sweetheart?’ Jeanette asked her, and strode past her to the door leading to her boss’s office.
Louise gasped and sprang up. The grey skirt clung to impressive curves. I winked at her, just because I could. Then we were inside Wernich’s office.
It was spacious, with a massive glass desktop bearing a slender laptop. A high-backed leather chair stood behind the desk, like a royal throne, and six lesser ones in the same style were arranged in front of it. On the walls, in expensive frames, hung perfectly realistic paintings of missiles and jet fighters. But the man himself stood looking out of the huge windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a view of a greenish-brown canal outside. His hands were clasped behind his back.
He looked around only when Louise hissed behind us, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Wernich, they just walked through.’
He stared at Jeanette for a long time and then at me and nodded slightly, apparently to himself. It was the same kindly face as the prospectus photograph, but older. He looked like a church elder, that pious yet friendly appearance of so many Afrikaner men in their late fifties. He was dignified in a dark tailored suit, a definite presence.
‘Never mind, Louise, I was expecting them,’ he said paternally. His voice was deep and modulated, like that of an announcer on a classical music radio station. ‘Please close the door behind you.’
She turned reluctantly and went out. The door closed silently. ‘Please, sit down,’ Wernich said.
We hadn’t expected this reaction. We remained standing.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Let’s discuss this like adults,’ and he gestured gallantly in the direction of the chairs. ‘Make yourselves at home.’
We sat. He nodded in satisfaction, and turned slowly back to the big windows, keeping his back to us.
‘Tell me, Mr Lemmer, my men … Are they still alive?’ It was a conversational tone, as though we had known each other for years.
‘Kappies is alive. I don’t know about Eric’
‘And where are they?’
‘In police custody, by now.’
‘Hmm,’ he said, and clasped his hands behind his back. I saw the thumbs rotating in small circles; he seemed deep in thought. ‘You surprise me.’
I couldn’t think of a response.
‘What’s the amount you have in mind?’
‘What amount?’
‘How much money do you want, Mr Lemmer?’
I finally caught up with him. ‘Is that the way the weapons industry works, Quintus? If you can’t kill, you buy?’
‘A somewhat crude description. Why else would you come here?’
‘You’re finished, Quintus.’
‘Finished?’
‘That’s right.’
He turned around and held open his arms, an invitation. ‘Very well, Mr Lemmer. Here I am. Do what you must.’ Pleasant and reasonable, we might as well have been negotiating over a secondhand missile.
I just stared at him.
‘What now, Mr Lemmer? Are you just going to sit there?’
I was going to say that I was going to make him talk before I dragged him away, but he didn’t give me the chance.
‘You know, Mr Lemmer, the thing that astounded me most was your poor reading skills. I mean, the writing on the wall was so clear: Emma le Roux was in deadly danger, but the so-called bodyguard saw nothing, said nothing, heard nothing and did nothing. At a cost of how much per day? Such incredible incompetence.
Only when it was too late did you wake up. Then you wanted to deal out retribution left and right. Actually, it does make sense. Aren’t you the big, strong man that beat an innocent young articled clerk to death with your bare hands? We investigated you, Mr Lemmer. Such a pathetic, pointless life. And it doesn’t improve. Now you are the jailbird who can do no better than to mislead his clients about his apparent abilities, the man in hiding in a small town so he won’t be found out. The one that takes his orders from a lesbian doing her best to live, look and talk like a man.’
By then I was beside him and my arm was drawn back for the blow, but Jeanette shouted ‘Lemmer!’ and Wernich smiled in satisfaction. ‘You’re an inherent coward, Mr Lemmer,’ he said. ‘Just like your father.’ And then I hit him.
He fell back against the glass and slid to the ground.
Jeanette got between us. She shoved me roughly back. ‘Leave him,’ she said.
‘I’m going to kill him.’
‘You’re going to leave him alone.’ She grabbed me by the collar.
Wernich wiped blood from his mouth and got up slowly. ‘Before you go on, I think it’s only fair to tell you that each of our offices is monitored by video. You might just want to deactivate the camera before you proceed. Otherwise it might look like cold-blooded murder.’
Jeanette kept a handful of my collar and said to Wernich, ‘Don’t be ridiculous. How many have you killed? Four, five, six? Let me see … Your partner? I see they call it a climbing accident. He didn’t like the Machel affair, so you got rid of him? And the Le Rouxs, the conservationist, the gate guard …’
‘You’re going to jail,’ I said to him.
‘Would that be before or after you beat me to death?’
‘You’re going to do time, I promise you.’
He looked at me with a frown. ‘Do you think so, Mr Lemmer? Do you really think so?’
‘Yes, I do think so.’
He took a snow-white handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his mouth. Then he walked slowly around to his throne and sat
down slowly like a tired man. ‘There’s the minor problem of proof, Mr Lemmer.’
Jeanette shoved me into a chair opposite Wernich. ‘The proof is sitting in a police cell in Hoedspruit,’ I said.
He sighed. ‘I can understand your limited intellectual capacity, Mr Lemmer. That is, after all, genetic. But not your naivety.’ He looked at Jeanette. ‘Please sit down, Miss Louw. We can’t negotiate unless we are all calm and relaxed.’
‘Negotiate?’ she asked.
‘That’s right. But before we begin, let me ask, for interest’s sake, how did you imagine things would proceed from here? Did you truly believe that Eric would voluntarily tell the police everything?’
‘Last night Kappies sang like a canary, Quintus.’
‘Very well, let us say Kappies tells them everything he knows. What then?’
‘Then they come and get you.’
‘There’s nothing that connects me with him, Mr Lemmer. Nothing. He’s not an employee, not on contract, nor has he ever been in this building. His knowledge is quite limited because we are not fools. Naturally, there are other options. Such as passing on certain information about Kappies’ colourful history to the law enforcers. That would shed new light on his testimony. But in my opinion there’s an easier way. We live in Africa, Mr Lemmer, where justice has a price. More so in certain provinces. Where is Hoedspruit again? Limpopo, if I remember correctly … Now what do we know about the general morals of Limpopo?’
‘Are you going to bribe the press as well?’ asked Jeanette.
His kindly face was back. He smiled as though a child had asked a cute but stupid question.
‘And what are you going to tell the press, Miss Louw?’
‘Everything.’
‘I see. Let me get this clear. You are going to tell the press an incredible story based on the word of a highly unstable labourer at an animal rehabilitation institution who is wanted by the police for the mass murder of five innocent black people. In addition, you
expect them to accept the supporting testimony of a man who has served four years for road rage murder?’
‘Manslaughter,’ Jeanette corrected him.
‘I am certain the press will take the difference into account, Miss Louw.’
‘The government is going to reopen the Samora Machel affair this year.’ She said it without much enthusiasm. She realised, as I did, that he had a point.
‘Aah,’ he said. ‘So if the police and the media don’t work for you, there’s always the government. And they will believe Misters Lemmer and Le Roux? Even though fifty-one per cent of our company will be in the hands of the black empowerment group Impukane in a few weeks? And a former ANC minister and three former provincial premiers on the board of directors? Miss Louw, from what I gather, you are a capable businesswoman despite your aberrations. I didn’t expect naivety from you.’
‘I’ll get you, Quintus,’ I said.
‘You have an interesting thought pattern, Mr Lemmer.’
‘You think so?’
‘Not illogical. The concept of identifying a scapegoat who must be punished is very instinctive. But that leaves no room for nuances.’
‘What nuances?’
‘The nuance of a generous offer.’
‘Let me hear it,’ I said. Jeanette glared at me, but I ignored her.
‘I understand your need for justice, Mr Lemmer. You feel that Jacobus le Roux and his family were done a great injustice, and that it should be rectified. Am I right?’
I nodded.
‘Very well. I believe we can help. According to the evidence available to me, there’s little doubt that Jacobus is responsible for the sangoma murders. But assume that I can rectify the matter, so that he is no longer a suspect. Would that be reasonable compensation?’