She was shivering in the rain, no longer a drizzle, and went back into the house. The mumbling sound of Konovalenko's voice could be heard from behind the closed door. She went into the kitchen and looked at the hatch in the floor. The clock on the wall indicated it was time to give the girl in the cellar something to eat and drink. She had already prepared a plastic carrier bag with a flask and some sandwiches. The girl had not once touched the food. Each time Tania came back up with what she had taken down last time. She switched on the light Konovalenko had rigged up. She carried a torch in one hand.
Linda had crept into a corner. She lay rolled up, as if suffering severe stomach cramps. Tania shone the torch on the chamber pot they had left on the stone floor. It was unused. She was full of pity for the girl. At first she had been so preoccupied with the pain she felt after Vladimir's death, there had been no room for anything else. But now, when she saw the girl rolled up, paralysed with fear, she had the feeling there was no limit to Konovalenko's cruelty. There was absolutely no reason why the girl should be in a dark cellar, with chains on her legs. She could have been locked in one of the rooms upstairs, tied so she could not leave the house.
The girl did not move, but she followed Tania's movements with her eyes. Her cropped hair made Tania feel sick. She crouched down beside her. "It'll be over soon," she said.
The girl did not answer. Her eyes stared straight into Tania's.
"You must try and eat something," she said. "It'll be over soon."
Her fear has already started to consume her, Tania thought. It's gnawing away at her from the inside. She knew now that she would have to help the girl. It could cost her her life, but she had no choice. Konovalenko's evil was too great to bear, even for her.
"It'll be over soon," she whispered, placing the bag by the girl's head and going back up the stairs. She closed the hatch and turned around.
Konovalenko was standing there. She gave a start and squealed softly. He had a way of creeping up on people without a sound. She sometimes had the feeling his hearing was unnaturally well developed. Like a nocturnal animal, she thought. He hears what others can't.
"She's asleep," Tania said.
Konovalenko looked at her sternly. Then he smiled and left the kitchen without saying a word. Tania flopped into a chair and lit a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. But the resolve that had formed within her was irreversible.
Svedberg called Wallander shortly after 1 p.m. Wallander picked up the receiver after the first ring. Svedberg had been sitting at home for some time, trying to work out how to convince Wallander not to challenge Konovalenko on his own again. He recognised Wallander had reached a point where emotional impulses were as strong as reason in guiding his actions. In a way he is not responsible for his actions, Svedberg thought. He is being driven by the fear of what might happen to his daughter. There's no telling what he might do.
"I've found Konovalenko's house," Svedberg said. He had the feeling that Wallander winced. "I found a clue in the stuff Rykoff had in his pockets," he said. It led me to an ICA store in Tomelilla. A check-out girl with a phenomenal memory pointed me in the right direction. The house, which used to be a farmhouse, is just to the east of Tomelilla, not far beyond a quarry that doesn't seem to be in commission any more. It's got a yard and out buildings and there's no house close to it. I saw the woman too."
"I hope nobody saw you," Wallander said.
Svedberg could hear how tense and tired he was. "Not a soul," he said. "Don't worry."
"How could I not worry?" Wallander said.
Svedberg did not answer.
"I think I know where that quarry is," Wallander said. "If you are right, that gives me an advantage over Konovalenko."
"Have you heard from him again?"
"Twelve hours means 8 p.m. tonight. He'll be on time. I'm not going to do anything until he contacts me."
"It'll be disastrous if you try to take him on your own," Svedberg said. "I can't bear to think what would happen."
"You know there's no other way," Wallander said. "I'm not going to tell you where I am going to meet him. I know you mean well, but I can't take the risk. Thank you for finding the house for me. I won't forget that." And he hung up.
Svedberg was left sitting there with the receiver in his hand. What should he do now? It had not occurred to him that Wallander might simply not pass on the vital information. He replaced the receiver, convinced that, whatever Wallander might think, he needed help. The only question was who he could get to go with him.
He went over to a window and looked out at the church tower half hidden by the rooftops. When Wallander was on the run after that night at the training ground, he had chosen to contact Widen. Svedberg had never met the man before. He had never even heard Wallander mention him. Nevertheless, they were obviously friends who had known each other for a long time. He was the one Wallander had turned to for help. Svedberg decided to do the same thing. He left the flat and drove out of town. The rain was heavier, and a wind was getting up. He followed the coast road, thinking how all the things that had happened lately must soon come to an end. It was all too much for a little police district like Ystad.
He found Widen in the stables. He was standing in front of a stall fitted with bars in which a horse was pacing restlessly up and down and occasionally delivering a vicious kick at the woodwork. Svedberg said hello and stood beside him. The restless horse was very tall and thin. Svedberg had never sat on a horse's back in his life. He had a great fear of the creatures and could not understand how anyone would voluntarily spend his life training them and looking after them.
"She's sick," Widen said. "But I don't know what's the matter with her."
"She seems a bit restless," Svedberg said, cautiously.
"That's the pain," Widen said.
Then he drew the bolt and entered the stall. He took hold of the halter and the horse calmed down almost immediately. Then he bent down and examined her left foreleg. Svedberg leaned tentatively over the edge of the stall to look.
"It's swollen," Widen said. "Can you see?"
Svedberg could not see anything of the sort, but he muttered something non-committal. Widen stroked the horse's neck for a while, then emerged from the stall.
"I need to talk to you," Svedberg said.
"Let's go inside."
Svedberg saw an elderly lady sitting on a sofa in the untidy living room. She did not seem to fit in with Widen's surroundings. She was strikingly elegant, heavily made up, and wearing expensive jewellery.
"She's waiting for her chauffeur to fetch her," Widen said, as they sat in the kitchen. "She owns two horses I have in training."
"So that's it," Svedberg said.
"A master builder's widow from Trelleborg. She'll be on her way home soon. She comes over from time to time and just sits there. I think she's very lonely." Widen's understanding surprised Svedberg.
"I don't really know why I'm here," he said. "Or rather, I do know, of course. But what exactly is involved, if I ask you to help, I have no idea." He explained about the house near the quarry outside Tomelilla. Widen got up and ferreted about in a drawer crammed full of papers and racing programmes. At last he produced an old, torn map. He unfolded it on the table and Svedberg used a blunt pencil to show where the house was.
"I've no idea what Wallander intends to do," Svedberg said. "All I know is that he intends to confront Konovalenko on his own. He can't risk involving his colleagues because that would compromise the safety of his daughter. Which I understand. The problem is simply that Wallander hasn't a remote chance in hell of getting Konovalenko into custody on his own."
"So you're intending to help him?" said Widen.
Svedberg nodded. "But I can't do that on my own either," he said. "I couldn't think of anybody to talk to apart from you. Besides, I gave him my word that I wouldn't. That's why I came here. You know him, you're his friend."
"Maybe," Widen said.
"Maybe?" Svedberg said, puzzled.
"It's true we've known each other for a long time, but we haven't been in close touch for over ten years or more."
"I didn't know that," Svedberg said. "I obviously got it wrong."
A car turned into the yard. Widen got up and went out with the builder's widow.
"What exactly do you have in mind?" Widen said, when he returned to the kitchen. Svedberg told him. Some time after 8 p.m. he would telephone Wallander. He would not be able to find out exactly what Konovalenko had said. Nevertheless, Svedberg hoped to persuade Wallander to tell him when the meeting was to take place, if nothing else. Once he knew the time of the meeting, he and preferably someone else as well, would go to the house so they would be there on hand, out of sight, in case Wallander needed help.
Widen listened, expressionless. When Svedberg had finished, he got up and left the room. Svedberg wondered if he had gone to the bathroom, perhaps. But when he reappeared, he had a rifle in his hand.
"We'd better see what we can do to help him," he said abruptly. He sat down to examine the rifle. Svedberg put his pistol on the table to show that he was armed as well. Widen made a face.
"Not much to go hunting a desperate madman with," he said.
"Can you leave the horses?"
"Ulrika sleeps here," Widen said. "One of the girls who works here."
Svedberg felt hesitant in Widen's presence. His taciturnity and odd personality made it hard for Svedberg to relax. But he was glad he would not be on his own.
He left for home at 3 p.m. They agreed that they would be in touch as soon as he had spoken to Wallander. On the way to Ystad he bought the evening papers that had just arrived. He sat in the car leafing through them. Konovalenko and Wallander were still big news, but they had already been relegated to the inside pages.
Svedberg's attention was suddenly caught by a headline. The headline he had been dreading more than anything else. And a photograph of Wallander's daughter.
He called Wallander at 8.20 p.m. Konovalenko had made contact.
"I know you won't want to tell me what's going to happen," Svedberg said. "But at least tell me when."
Wallander hesitated before replying. "At 7 a.m. tomorrow."
"Not at the house, though," Svedberg said.
"No, somewhere else. But no more questions now."
"What's going to happen?"
"He's promised to let Linda go. That's all I can tell you."
But you know more, Svedberg thought. You know he'll try to kill you.
"Be careful, Kurt," he said.
"Sure," Wallander said, and hung up.
Svedberg was certain that the meeting would be at the house by the quarry. Wallander's reply had come a little bit too readily.
Then he called Widen. They would meet at Svedberg's place at midnight, then drive to Tomelilla.
They drank a cup of coffee in Svedberg's kitchen.
It was still raining when they set out at 1.45 a.m.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The man outside her house in Bezuidenhout Park was there again. It was the third morning in succession Miranda had seen him standing on the other side of the street, waiting. She could see him through the thin curtains in the living-room window. He was white, dressed in a suit and tie, and looked like a lost soul in this world of hers. She had noticed him first not long after Matilda left for school. She reacted immediately, for people very rarely loitered in her street. Every morning the men living in the detached houses drove off to the centre of Johannesburg. Later on the women would set out in their own cars to do the shopping, go to the beauty parlour, or simply to get away. Bezuidenhout was the haunt of frustrated and restless members of the white middle class. The ones who could not quite make it into the very top white echelons. Miranda knew that many of these people were thinking about emigrating. Another fundamental truth was about to be revealed. For these people South Africa was not the natural fatherland where soil and blood had run in the same veins and furrows. Even if they had been born here, they did not hesitate to start thinking about running away from the moment that de Klerk made his speech to the nation in February. Mandela had been released from prison, and a new age was dawning. A new age that would surely see other blacks besides Miranda living in Bezuidenhout.
The man in the street was a stranger. He did not belong there, and Miranda wondered what he wanted. Anyone standing about on a street in the early morning must be looking for something, something lost or dreamed about. She had stood at the window for a long time, watching him; in the end she decided that it must be her house he was keeping under observation. At first that scared her. Was he from one of those incomprehensible surveillance organisations that were still governing the lives of blacks in South Africa? She had expected him to announce his presence, to ring the bell. But the longer he stood there, hardly moving, the more she began to doubt that. Besides, he was not carrying a briefcase and he had nothing in his hands.
That first morning, Miranda kept returning to the window to check if he was still there. She thought of him as a sort of statue no-one was sure where to put. By shortly before 9 a.m., the street was empty. But the next day he was back again, in the same place, staring straight at her windows. She had a nasty suspicion he might be there because of Matilda. He could be from the secret police; in the background, invisible to her, there could be cars waiting, full of uniformed men. But something about his behaviour made her hesitate. That was when she first had the idea that he might be standing there precisely for her to see him, and realise he was not dangerous. He was not a threat, but was giving her time to get used to him.
Now it was the third morning, Wednesday, May 20, and he was there again. Suddenly he looked around, then crossed the street and rang the bell at her gate. That morning Matilda had a headache and a temperature when she woke, possibly malaria, and she was asleep in her room. Miranda carefully closed her bedroom door before going to answer the bell. He had rung only once. He knew somebody was at home, and it seemed he was also sure somebody would answer. She released the gate.
He's young, Miranda thought, when she confronted him at the front door.
"Miranda Nkoyi? I wonder if I might come in for a moment? I promise not to disturb you for long." Alarm bells were ringing somewhere inside her. But she let him in even so, showed him into the living room and invited him to take a seat.
As usual, Georg Scheepers felt insecure when he was alone with a black woman. It did not happen often in his life. Mostly it would be one of the black secretaries that had begun to appear in the prosecutor's office when the race laws were relaxed. This was in fact the first time he had ever sat with a black woman in her own home.
He had spent the last days delving as far as possible into Jan Kleyn's secret. He knew now that Kleyn regularly visited this house in Bezuidenhout. For many years in fact, since Kleyn moved to Johannesburg after graduating from the university. With Verwey's help and through some of his own contacts, he had also managed to get around the bank confidentiality regulations, and discovered that Kleyn transferred money to Miranda Nkoyi every month.
One of the most respected members of NIS, an Afrikaner who carried this high esteem with pride, secretly lived with a black woman. For her sake he was prepared to take the greatest of risks.
But Scheepers had the impression that he was only scraping the surface of the secret, and decided to visit the woman. He would not explain who he was, and it was possible she might tell Kleyn that he had been there. If she did, he would very soon work out who the visitor was, but he would not be sure why; he would be afraid that his secret had been exposed and that Scheepers would have a hold over him in the future. There was a risk that Kleyn would decide to kill him. But Scheepers believed that he had insured himself against that possibility as well. He would make sure that Miranda understood that other people, too, were aware of Kleyn's secret life outside the closed world of the intelligence service.
She looked at him, looked through him. She was very beautiful. Her beauty had survived; it survived everything, subjugation, compulsion, pain, as long as the spirit of resistance was there. Ugliness, stunted growth, degeneration, all those things followed in the wake of resignation.
He forced himself to tell her how things stood. That the man who paid her visits, paid for her house, and was presumably her lover, was a man under grave suspicion of conspiracy against the state and the lives of certain individuals. He sensed that she knew some of what he was telling her, but that some parts were new to her. At the same time he had a strange feeling that she was relieved, that she had been expecting, even fearing, something different. What, he asked himself, could that be? It had something to do with this hidden life of hers, he thought. There was another secret door, he thought, waiting to be opened.
"You shouldn't think," he said, "that I'm asking you to testify against your husband. But what is at stake is a threat to the whole country. So grave that I cannot even tell you who I am."
"But you are his enemy," she said. "When the herd senses danger, some animals run off on their own. And they are doomed. Is that how it is?"
"Maybe," Scheepers said. "Perhaps it is."
He was sitting with his back to the window. When Miranda was talking about the animals and the herd, he detected the slightest of movements at the door directly behind her. It was as if someone had started to turn the handle but then thought better of it. It dawned on him he had not seen the young woman leave the house that morning. The young woman who must be Miranda's daughter.
It was one of the strange circumstances he had discovered while doing his research these last few days. Miranda Nkoyi was registered as the single housekeeper for a man named Sidney Houston, who spent most of his time on his cattle ranch miles away in the plains east of Harare. Scheepers had no difficulty in seeing through this business of the absentee rancher, especially when he found out that Kleyn and Houston had been together at university. But the other woman, Miranda's daughter? She did not exist. And now here she was, standing behind a door, listening to their conversation.
He was overwhelmed by the thought. Afterwards, he would see his prejudices had misled him, the invisible racial barriers that ruled his life. He understood who the listening girl was. Kleyn's secret had been exposed. It was like a fortress finally giving way under siege. It had been possible to conceal the truth for so long because it was quite simply unthinkable. Kleyn, the star of the intelligence services, the ruthless Afrikaner, had a daughter with a black woman, a daughter he presumably loved above all else. Perhaps he thought that Mandela would have to die so that his daughter could continue to live alongside, and be refined by her proximity to, the whites of this country. As far as Scheepers was concerned, this hypocrisy deserved nothing more than scorn. He felt that all his own resistance had now been broken down. At the same time he thought he could understand the enormity of the task President de Klerk and Mandela had taken upon themselves. How could they possibly create a feeling of kinship among peoples if everybody regarded everybody else as traitors?
Miranda did not take her eyes off him. He could not imagine what she was thinking, but he could see she was upset.
He let his gaze wander, first to her face and then to a photograph of the girl on the mantelpiece.
"Your daughter," he said. "Jan's daughter."
"Matilda."
Scheepers recalled what he had read about Miranda's past.
"Like your mother."
"Like my mother."
"Do you love your husband?"
"He's not my husband. He's her father."
"What about her?"
"She hates him."
"She's behind her door now, listening to our conversation."
"She's sick. She has a fever."
"Even so, she's listening."
"Why shouldn't she listen?"
Scheepers nodded. He understood. "I need your help," he said. "Please, think carefully. The slightest thing might help us to find the men who are plotting to throw our country into chaos. Before it's too late."
It seemed to Miranda the moment she had been awaiting for so long had arrived. She had always imagined nobody else would be there when she confessed to how she went through Kleyn's pockets at night, and wrote down the words he uttered in his sleep. There would only be the two of them, herself and her daughter. But now things would be different. She wondered why, without knowing even his name, she trusted him so implicitly. Was it his own vulnerability? His lack of confidence in her presence? Was weakness the only thing she dared to trust?
The joy of liberation, she thought. That's what I feel. Like emerging from the sea and knowing I'm clean.
"I thought for ages he was just an ordinary civil servant," she said. "I knew nothing about his crimes. But then I heard."
"Who from?"
"I might tell you. But not yet. You should only say things when the time is ripe."
He regretted having interrupted her.
"He doesn't know that I know," she said. "That has been the advantage I had. Maybe it was my salvation, maybe it'll be my death. But every time he came to visit us, I got up during the night and emptied his pockets. I copied even the smallest scrap of paper. I listened to the words he muttered in his sleep. And I passed them on."
"Who to?"
"To the people who look after us."
"I look after you."
"I don't even know your name."
"My name doesn't matter."
"I spoke with black men who lead lives just as secret as Jan's."
He had heard rumours. But nothing had ever been proved. He knew the intelligence service, both the civilian and military branches, were always running after their own shadows. There was a persistent rumour that the blacks had their own intelligence service. Maybe linked to the ANC, maybe an independent organisation. They investigated what the investigators were doing. Their strategies and their identities. This woman, Miranda, was confirming the existence of these people. And Kleyn is a dead man, he thought. Without his knowing it, his pockets have been picked by the people he regards as the enemy.
"Only the last few months," he said. "But what have you found recently?"
"I've already passed it on, and forgotten," she said. "Why should I bother myself to remember?"
He could see she was telling the truth. He tried appealing to her one more time. He had to talk with one of the men whose job it was to interpret whatever she found in Kleyn's pockets or heard him saying aloud in his sleep.
"Why should I trust you?" she asked.
"You don't have to," he said. "There are no guarantees in this life. There are only risks."
She sat in silence, and seemed to be thinking. "Has he killed a lot of people?" she asked. She was speaking very loudly, and he gathered this was so that her daughter could hear.
"Yes," he said. "He's killed a lot of people."
"Blacks?"
"Blacks."
"Who were criminals?"
"Some were. Some weren't."
"Why did he kill them?"
"They were people who preferred not to talk. People who had rebelled. Causers of instability."
"Like my daughter."
"I don't know your daughter."
"But I do."
She stood up suddenly. "Come back tomorrow," she said. "There might be somebody here who wants to meet you. Go now."
He left the house. When he got to his car parked on a side street, he was sweating. He drove off, thinking about his own weakness. And her strength. Was there a future in which they could be reconciled?
Matilda did not leave her room when he left. Her mother left her in peace. But that evening she sat on her bed for a long time. The fever came and went in waves.
"Are you upset?" Miranda said.
"No," Matilda said. "I hate him even more now."
Scheepers would remember his visit to Kliptown as a descent into a hell he had thus far in his life managed to avoid. By sticking to the white path mapped out for Afrikaners from the cradle to the grave, he had trodden the path of the one-eyed man. Now he was forced to take the other path, the black path, and what he saw he thought he would never forget. It moved him, it had to move him, because the lives of 20 million people were affected. People who were not allowed to live normal lives and never given the opportunity to develop, who died early, after lives that were artificially restricted.