Deon Meyer by Heart of the Hunter (html)

he was in the office by six every morning— here it was nearly half past eight in the evening and the director, in his early fifties, looked fresh, rested, and alert.
     
     
“I had an interesting call, Janina. This afternoon our Tiger assaulted a Parabat at Tempe.”
     
     
“Assaulted?”
     
     
“Landed him in the hospital, and the commanding officer started phoning higher up. He wants justice.”
     
     
“I am sure there was reason for the fight, sir.”
     
     
“I am, too, Janina. I just want to keep you informed.”
     
     
“I appreciate that, sir.”
     
     
“Ask him about it when you see him.”
     
     
“I will.”
     
     
“Is that all, Mr. Director?”
     
     
“That is all, Janina. I know you are busy.” And he smiled in a fatherly way. She hesitated a moment before turning away; she willed him to say something about the happenings in the Ops Room, he must bring it up so that she could assure him that everything was under control, but he just sat there with his smile.
     
     
She took the stairs, stopped halfway.
     
     
I know you are busy.
     
     
He was weighing her, testing her; she knew it as an absolute truth.
     
     
She laughed softly. If only he knew. She took a deep breath and took the last steps one by one, measuring, as if enumerating a strategic plan.
     
     
Radebe began reporting the minute she walked into the Ops Room, his voice softly apologetic, explaining the redeployment of the teams— six of the best at the airport, six at the Cape Town station, in two teams of three each to watch the trains and the bus terminal. His three teammates beside him were busy contacting every car-rental business in the city, with instructions to let them know if someone of Mpayipheli’s description tried to hire a vehicle. They would also contact every private plane charter service. Three more teams of two each were in their cars, awaiting instructions, down below on Wale Street. There was no activity at Monica Kleintjes’s or at Miriam Nzululwazi’s.
     
     
She nodded. Quinn confirmed monitoring of the Nzululwazi phone. There had been no calls yet.
     
     
Rajkumar, ever sensitive, had a bearing of injured pride as he gave his report: “No record of Thobela Mpayipheli in the Um-khonto we Sizwe files. Mpayipheli’s registered home address is Mitchell’s Plain— the property belongs to one Orlando Arendse. Probably the same Arendse that Monica phoned this afternoon, looking for Mpayipheli. But Arendse’s registered home address is in Milnerton Ridge.” The obese body shifted subtly, self-confidence returning. “The interesting thing is Arendse’s criminal record— twice served time for dealing in stolen goods, in 1975 and 1982 to 1984, once charged and found not guilty of dealing in unlicensed weapons in 1989, twice arrested for dealing in drugs, in 1992 and 1995, but the cases were never brought to trial. One thing is certain: Orlando Arendse is organized crime. Drugs. Big-time. Prostitution, gambling, stolen property. The usual protection racket. And if I read the signs correctly, the Scorpions are looking very closely at his dealings. That Mitchell’s Plain address could be a drug house, seems to me.” Rahjev Rajkumar leaned back in satisfaction.
     
     
“Good work,” she said. She paced up and down the wall behind the Indian, her arms folded.
     
     
Organized crime? She grasped at possibilities, but it wouldn’t make sense.
     
     
“Organized crime?” she spoke aloud. “I don’t see it.”
     
     
“Money makes strange bedfellows,” said Rajkumar. “And if it’s drugs, it’s money. Big money.”
     
     
“Mpayipheli could be a dealer,” said Quinn.
     
     
“He’s a motorbike mechanic,” said Radebe. “It doesn’t fit.”
     
     
Mentz stopped her pacing, nodding. “Rahjev, find out who the owner of the bike shop is.”
     
     
“Company registrations are not up-to-date. I can poke around but…”
     
     
Radebe: “I’ll send a car over there. Sometimes there are emergency numbers on the door.”
     
     
“Do