"I guess."
"Guess?"
"I'm sure."
"Go on," Wallander said. "Don't leave out any detail."
"We chatted about this and that," Jorgensen said. "He was open and friendly. But all the time I somehow felt he was on his guard. I can't really put it any more exactly than that. We got to Limhamn. I docked, and he jumped ashore.
"Since I'd already been paid, I backed out again right away and I wouldn't have given it another thought if I hadn't happened across a Swedish evening paper the other day. There was a photograph on the front page of a man I thought I recognised. A man who got killed in a gun battle with the police."
He paused briefly.
"With you," he said. "There was a picture of you as well."
"When was the paper from?" Wallander said, although he already knew the answer.
"It was a Thursday paper, possibly," Jorgensen said, hesitantly. "It could have been the next day. May 14."
"Go on," Wallander said. "We can check up on that if it's important."
"I recognised that photo," Jorgensen said. "But I couldn't place it. I didn't catch on to who it was until the day before yesterday. When I dropped that African off in Limhamn, there was a giant of a man waiting for him on the quay. He stayed in the background, as if he didn't want to be seen, but I have pretty good eyes. It was him all right. Then I started thinking about it all. I thought it might be important. So I took a day off and came here."
"You did the right thing," Wallander said. "I'm not going to pursue the fact that you were involved in illegal immigration into Sweden. But that assumes, of course, that you have nothing more to do with it."
"I've already packed it in," Jorgensen said.
"That African," Wallander said. "Describe him to me."
"About 30. Powerfully built, strong and supple."
"Nothing else?"
"Not that I can remember. Maybe it's not important."
Wallander put down his pen. "It's extremely important," he said. He stood up. "Thanks for coming to tell me, and please leave a note of your address with the receptionist. I'll see that you are refunded your travel expenses."
"That's OK," Jorgensen said, leaving.
Wallander looked for the copy he had kept of the telex he had sent to Interpol in South Africa. He pondered for a moment. Then he called Swedish Interpol in Stockholm.
"Chief Inspector Wallander, Ystad," he said when they answered. "I sent a telex to Interpol in South Africa on Saturday, May 23. I wonder if there's been any response."
"If there had been, you'd have heard right away."
"Look into it, would you, just to be on the safe side."
He got an answer a few minutes later. "A telex of one page went to Interpol in Johannesburg in the evening of May 23. There has been no response beyond confirmation of receipt."
Wallander frowned. "
One
page?" he said. "I sent two pages."
"I have a copy of it in front of me right now. The thing does seem to stop in mid-air."
Wallander looked at his own copy on the desk in front of him.
If only the first page had been transmitted, the South African police would not know that Mabasha was dead, and that a replacement had probably been sent. Furthermore, it could be assumed that the assassination attempt would be made on June 12, as Tsiki had told Jorgensen the latest date he would be going home. Wallander could see the implications right away. The police in South Africa had spent two weeks searching for a man who was dead. Today was Thursday, June 11. The assassination attempt would probably be made on June 12. Tomorrow.
"How the hell is this possible?" he shouted. "How come you only sent half my telex?"
"I have no idea," the voice said. "You'll have to talk to whoever was in charge."
"Some other time," Wallander said. "I'll be sending another telex shortly. And this one must go to Johannesburg without delay."
"We send everything without delay."
Wallander slammed down the receiver. He could not understand how the hell such incompetence was possible.
He put a sheet of paper into his typewriter and composed a brief message.
Victor Mabasha is no longer relevant. Look instead for a man named Sikosi Tsiki, 30 years of age, well-proportioned
(he looked the phrase up in the dictionary, and rejected "powerfully built"),
no obvious peculiarities. This message replaces all previous ones. I repeat that Victor Mabasha is no longer relevant. Tsiki is presumably his replacement. We have no photograph. Fingerprints will be investigated
.
He signed the message and took it to reception.
"This must go to Interpol in Stockholm immediately," he said. He had never seen the receptionist before.
He stood over her and watched her send the message. Then he returned to his office. He thought it might be too late.
If he were not on sick leave, he would have demanded an immediate investigation into who was responsible for sending only half of his telex. But as things stood, he couldn't be bothered.
He continued to attack the stacks of paper on his desk. It was nearly 1 p.m. by the time he was finished. He had cleared his desk. Without a backward glance, he left his office and closed the door behind him. He saw nobody in the corridor, and managed to get away from the station without being seen by anybody apart from the receptionist.
There was just one more thing he had to do. Once that was done, he was finished.
He walked down the hill, passed the hospital, and turned left. All the time he thought everybody he met was staring at him. He tried to make himself as invisible as possible. When he got as far as the square, he stopped at the optician's and bought a pair of sunglasses. Then he continued down Hamngatan, crossed over the Osterlen highway, and found himself in the docks. There was a cafe that opened for the summer. About a year ago he had sat there and written a letter to Baiba Liepa in Riga, but he had never posted it. He had walked onto the pier, ripped it to pieces, and watched as the scraps floated away over the harbour. Now he intended to make another attempt to write to her, and this time he would send it. He had paper and a stamped envelope in his inside pocket. He sat down at a table in a sheltered corner, ordered coffee, and thought back to that occasion a year ago. He had felt pretty gloomy then, too. But that was nothing compared to the situation he found himself in now. He started writing whatever came into his head. He described the cafe he was sitting in, the weather, the white fishing boat with the light-green nets moored not far from where he sat. He tried to describe the sea air. Then he started writing about how he felt. He had trouble finding the right words in English, but he persevered. He told her that he was on sick leave for an indefinite period, and that he was not sure whether he would ever return to his post.
I may well have concluded my last case,
he wrote
. And I solved it badly, or rather, not at all. I'm beginning to think I am unsuitable for the profession I have chosen. For a long time I thought the opposite was true. Now I'm not sure any more
.
He read through what he had written, and decided he was not up to rewriting it, even if he was dissatisfied with how he had expressed himself. It seemed wooden and unclear. He folded up the sheet of paper, sealed the envelope, and asked for his bill. There was a postbox in the marina. He walked over and posted his letter. Then he continued walking out onto the pier, and sat down on one of the stone piles. The ferry from Poland was on its way into the harbour. The sea was steel grey, blue and green in turn. He suddenly remembered the bicycle he had found there that foggy night. It was still behind the shed at his father's place. He decided to return it that same evening.
After half an hour he got to his feet and walked through the town to Mariagatan. He opened the door, then stood staring.
In the middle of the floor was a brand-new stereo system. There was a card on top of the CD player.
Get well soon and hurry back. Your colleagues.
He remembered that Svedberg still had a spare key so he could let the workmen in to do the repairs after the attack. He sat on the floor and gazed at the equipment. He was touched, and only with difficulty held back tears of emotion. But he didn't think he deserved it.
On Thursday, June 11, there was a fault in the telex lines between Sweden and South Africa between noon and 10 p.m. Wallander's message was therefore delayed. It was 10.30 p.m. before the night operator eventually transmitted it to South Africa. It was received, registered, and placed in a basket of messages to be distributed the next day. But somebody remembered a memo from some prosecutor by the name of Scheepers about sending all copies of telexes from Sweden to his office immediately. The officer in the telex room could not remember what they should do if messages arrived late in the evening or in the middle of the night. Nor could they find Scheepers' memo, although it ought to have been in the special file for running instructions. One of the men on duty thought it could wait until the next day, but the other was annoyed because the memo was missing. If only to keep himself awake, he started looking for it. Half an hour later, he found it - filed in the wrong place. Scheepers' memo stated categorically that late messages should be conveyed to him immediately by telephone, regardless of the time. The sum total of all these mishaps and delays, most of which were due to human error and sheer incompetence, was that Scheepers was not telephoned until three minutes past midnight on Thursday, June 11. Even though he was sure in his own mind that the assassination attempt would be in Durban, he had difficulty in getting to sleep. Judith was asleep, but he was still tossing and turning in bed. He thought it was a pity he hadn't taken Borstlap with him to Cape Town after all. If nothing else it would have been an edifying experience. He also worried that Borstlap thought it so odd they had received not a single tip about where Mabasha was hiding, despite the reward. Several times Borstlap had said he thought there was something fishy about the apparent disappearance of Mabasha. When Scheepers tried to pin him down, he said it was just a hunch, nothing he could put his finger on. His wife groaned when the bedside telephone rang. Scheepers reached for the receiver as if he had been waiting for a call all the time. He listened to what the Interpol duty officer read out for him. He picked up a pen from the bedside table, asked to hear it one more time, then wrote two words on the palm of his left hand.
Sikosi Tsiki.
He hung up and sat there motionless. Judith was awake now and asked him what had happened.
"Nothing of danger to us," he said. "But it could be dangerous for somebody else."
He dialled Borstlap's number. "A new telex from Sweden," he said. "They say it's not Victor Mabasha. It's a man called Sikosi Tsiki. The attempt will probably take place tomorrow. Well, today."
"Goddammit!" Borstlap said. They agreed to meet at Scheepers' office.
Judith could see her husband was extremely shocked. "What's happened?" she asked again.
"The worst that possibly could happen," he said.
Then he went out into the darkness. It was 12.19 a.m.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Friday, June 12, dawned a clear but somewhat cool day in Cape Town. In the morning a bank of fog drifted into Three Anchor Bay from the sea, but it would blow off later. The cold season was approaching in the Southern Hemisphere. You could already see lots of Africans on their way to work in woollen hats and thick jackets.
Mandela had arrived in Cape Town the previous evening. When he woke at dawn, he thought about the coming day. It was a custom he had grown used to during the many years he spent as a prisoner. So many memories, so many bitter moments, but such a great triumph in the end.
He was an old man now, more than 70 years old. His time was limited, but he ought to live a few more years at least. Together with President de Klerk, he had to steer his country along the difficult, painful, but also wonderful path that would lead to the end of the Apartheid system forever. The last fortress of colonialism on the black continent would fall. Once they had achieved that goal, they could withdraw, even die if need be. But he still had a great lust for life. He wanted to see it all through, and enjoy the sight of the black people liberating themselves from hundreds of years of subjugation and humiliation.
Mandela knew he would be elected the first black President of South Africa. That was not something he was striving to achieve, but he would have no grounds for declining.
It is a long way, he thought to himself. A long way to go for a man who has spent almost half his adult life in captivity.
He smiled at the thought. But then he grew serious again. He thought about what de Klerk told him when they last met, a week ago. A group of
boere
had formed a conspiracy to kill him in order to create chaos and drive the country to the brink of civil war.
Could that really be possible? He knew there were fanatical
boere
, people who hated all blacks. But did they really think they could prevent what was happening in the country by means of such a desperate conspiracy? Could they be so blinded by hatred - or was it fear? - that they thought it possible to return to the old South Africa? Could they not see they were a dwindling minority? Admittedly with widespread influence, but even so. Were they really prepared to sacrifice the future on a bloodstained altar?
Mandela shook his head. He had difficulty believing that was true. De Klerk must have been exaggerating or misreading the information he had received. He was not afraid of anything happening to him.
Tsiki had also arrived in Cape Town on Thursday evening, but unlike Mandela, he arrived unnoticed. He came by bus from Johannesburg, and when he had recovered his bag, he allowed himself to be swallowed up by the darkness.
He had spent the night in the open, sleeping in a hidden corner of Trafalgar Park. At daybreak, roughly the same time as Mandela had woken and stood at his window, he climbed up the hill as far as he needed to, and installed himself there. Everything was in accordance with the map and the instructions he had received from Malan at Hammanskraal. He was pleased to be supported by such good organisers. There was nobody in sight; the barren slope was not suitable for picnics. The path to the summit, 350 metres high, meandered up on the other side of the hill. He had never used an escape car. He always felt freer on foot. When it was all over he would walk quickly down the hill and blend in with the furious crowds demanding revenge for the death of Mandela. Then he would leave Cape Town.
Now he knew it was Mandela he was going to kill. He realised it the day Malan told him when and where the shooting was to take place. He had read in the papers that Mandela was to speak at the Green Point Stadium on the afternoon of June 12. He contemplated the oval-shaped arena stretched out in front of him, some 700 metres away. The distance did not worry him. His telescopic sights and the long-range rifle satisfied his requirements of precision and power.
He had not reacted to the news that it was Mandela who was to be his target. His first thought was that he ought to have been able to work it out for himself. If these crazy
boere
were to have the slightest chance of creating chaos in the country, they would have to get rid of Mandela first. As long as he continued to stand up and speak, the black masses would keep their self-control. Without him everything was more uncertain. Mandela had no obvious successor.
As far as Tsiki personally was concerned, it would be an opportunity to right a personal wrong. It was not actually Mandela who had kicked him out of the ANC, but as he was the overall leader, he could nevertheless be regarded as responsible.
Tsiki looked at his watch. All he had to do now was wait.
Scheepers and Inspector Borstlap landed at Malan Airport on the outskirts of Cape Town just after 10 a.m. They were tired and looked washed out after being on the go all night, trying to find out about Sikosi Tsiki. Detectives had been hauled from their beds, computer operators with access to various police registers had turned up in overcoats over pyjamas, collected by patrol cars. But when it was time to go to the airport, the result was depressing. Tsiki was not in any of the registers. Nor had anyone ever heard of him. He was totally unknown. By 7.30 p.m. they were on their way to Jan Smuts Airport. During the flight they tried with increasing desperation to formulate a strategy. They could see that their chances of stopping this Sikosi Tsiki were limited, perhaps non-existent. They had no idea what he looked like, they knew nothing about him. As soon as they landed in Cape Town, Scheepers went to call President de Klerk to ask him, if possible, to persuade Mandela to cancel his appearance that afternoon. Only when he threatened to have every police officer at the airport arrested did he manage to convince them who he was, and they left him alone in a room. It took almost ten minutes to reach the President. Scheepers told him as succinctly as possible what had happened during the night. But de Klerk had responded in ice-cold fashion to his suggestion, saying it would be pointless. Mandela would never agree. Besides, they had got the time and place wrong before. It could happen again. Mandela had agreed to an increase in his bodyguard. There was nothing more the President could do now. When the conversation was over, Scheepers had the uncomfortable feeling again that de Klerk was not prepared to go to all possible lengths to protect Mandela from assassination. Was that really possible, he wondered indignantly. Have I misunderstood his position? But he had no time to go on thinking about President de Klerk. He found Borstlap, who had meanwhile picked up the car the police had ordered from Johannesburg. They drove straight to Green Point Stadium, where Mandela was due to speak in three hours' time.
"Three hours is not long enough," Borstlap said. "What do you think we'll have time to do?"
"We have to stop the man," Scheepers said. "It's as simple as that."
"Or stop Mandela," Borstlap said.
"That's just not possible," Scheepers said. "He'll be on the platform at 2 p.m. De Klerk refused to plead with him."
They showed their IDs and were allowed into the stadium. The podium was already in place. ANC flags and colourful streamers were everywhere. Musicians and dancers were getting ready. Soon the audience would start arriving from the townships of Langa, Guguletu and Nyanga. They would be greeted by music. For them, the political meeting was also a festival.
Scheepers and Borstlap stood on the podium and looked around.
"There's a crucial question we must face up to," Borstlap said. "Are we dealing with a suicide killer, or somebody who will try to get away afterwards?"
"The latter," Scheepers said. "We can be sure of that. An assassin prepared to sacrifice his own life is dangerous because he's unpredictable. But there's also a big risk that he would miss the target. We are dealing with a man who is expecting to get away."
"How do we know he'll be using a gun?" Borstlap said.
Scheepers stared at him with a mixture of surprise and irritation. "What else could he do?" he said. "A knife at close range would mean he'd be caught and lynched."
Borstlap nodded gloomily. "Then he has lots of possibilities," he said. "Just look around. He could use the roof, or a deserted radio cabin. He could choose a spot outside the stadium."
Borstlap pointed to Signal Hill, which loomed up half a kilometre from the stadium.
"He has, from our viewpoint," he said, "only too many choices."
They could both see what this implied. They would be forced to choose, to take a chance. Impossible to investigate everything. Scheepers thought that they might have time to check maybe one in four.
"We have two hours and 35 minutes," Scheepers said. "If Mandela is on time, that's when he'll start speaking. I assume an assassin won't hang about."
Scheepers had requested ten experienced police officers to assist him. They were under the command of a young sergeant.
"Our assignment is very simple," Scheepers said. "We have a couple of hours in which to turn this stadium inside out. We're searching for an armed man. He's black, he's dangerous, and he must be put out of action. If possible we should take him alive. If there's no other choice, he has to be killed."
"Is that all?" the sergeant said, when Scheepers had finished. "Don't we have a description?"
"We don't have time to argue," Borstlap said. "Arrest anybody who seems to be acting at all strangely. Or is somewhere he shouldn't be. We can find out if we have the right person or not later."
"There has to be some kind of description," the sergeant said, and was supported by murmurs from his officers.
"There has to be nothing of the kind," Scheepers said. "We'll divide the stadium into sections and get started right away."
They searched cleaners' cupboards and abandoned storerooms, crept around on the roof and out onto girders. Scheepers left the stadium, crossed over Western Boulevard, the broad High Level, and then started climbing up the hill. He stopped after about 200 metres. It seemed to him the distance was too great. A potential assassin couldn't possibly pick a spot outside the stadium itself. He returned to Green Point soaked in sweat and short of breath.
Tsiki had seen him from where he was hidden behind some bushes, and thought it was a security officer checking the area around the stadium. He was not surprised; he had expected something like this. What worried him was that they might use dogs to comb the area. But the man scrambling up the slope was on his own. Tsiki crouched low, a pistol with a silencer ready. When the man turned back without even going as far as the top, he knew nothing could go wrong. Mandela had only a couple of hours to live.
Crowds were already flocking into the stadium. Scheepers and Borstlap fought their way through the teeming mass. All around drums were beating, people were singing and dancing.
An hour later, 30 minutes before the meeting was due to commence with Mandela's arrival at the stadium, Scheepers was in a panic. Borstlap tried to calm him.
"We haven't found him," Borstlap said. "We have very little time left to continue the search now. We have to ask ourselves what we might have missed."
He looked round. His eyes focused on the hill beyond the stadium.
"I was there already," Scheepers said.
"What did you see?"
"Nothing," Scheepers said.
Borstlap nodded, lost in thought. He was beginning to think they would not find the assassin before it was too late.
They were pushed backwards and forwards by the massive crowds.
"I just don't get it," Borstlap said.
"It was too far away," Scheepers said.
Borstlap looked at him questioningly. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Too far away?"
"Nobody could hit a target from there," Scheepers said angrily.
It was a while before Borstlap realised that Scheepers was still talking about the hill outside the stadium. Suddenly he was deadly serious.
"Tell me exactly what you did," he said, pointing to the hilltop.
"I climbed up part way. Then I turned back."
"You didn't actually go to the top of Signal Hill?"
"It's too far away, I told you!"
"It's not too far away at all," Borstlap said. "There are rifles that can kill at more than a kilometre. That's 800 metres at most."
Just then an enormous cheer went up from the dancing crowd, followed by intense drumming. Mandela had arrived in the stadium. Scheepers caught a glimpse of his greyish-white hair, his smiling face, and his waving arms.
"Come on!" yelled Borstlap. "If he's here at all, he has to be somewhere on that hillside."
Through his powerful telescopic sights Tsiki could see Mandela in close-up. He had removed the sights from the rifle and followed him from the moment he stepped out of his car at the stadium entrance. Tsiki could see he had only a few bodyguards. There did not seem to be any conspicuous alert or unrest around the white-haired man.
He remounted the sights on the rifle, checked the loading mechanism, and sat down in the position he had selected. He had rigged up a stand made of light metal. It was his own invention, and would give his arms the support they needed.
He glanced up at the sky. The sun was not going to cause him any unexpected problems. No shadows, no reflections, no glare. The hilltop was deserted. He was alone with his gun and a few birds hopping around on the ground.