CATS, DOGS

South Africa, Pretoria, 12.20pm

 On a hot midday afternoon, on the day of the independence celebrations of the country, a lone man in his mid thirties watched the ensuing spectacle from a tall building in astute silence. The heavily built man had a very keen eye for detail. He knew when the speech would start, and when the security personnel dwindling his target, would leave it. And he knew when to squeeze the perfect killer shot. Below him, the swooning crowd in the sweltering heat of the day cheered the president on, their brightly coloured pennants of red and blue and yellow, flowing like tired sea gulls in the afternoon sea breeze. The light-skinned man, clean-shaven, with his brown eyes fixated squarely upon the president, who stood behind a custom-made shiny mahogany podium twenty-five metres away, did not wander from this black-suited target. The man was wearing army green cargo pants and an olive sweatshirt. The olive sweatshirt was his personal favourite, a birthday gift from his ex-wife, given to him when things had been rosy between them. From his mini-binoculars, he spotted part of the security detail; two men, in dark suits, all wearing glasses and ear pieces, strummed up and down the perimeter where the oak pulpit stood. They had checked this pulpit for the last hour, and were still checking it. Just in case they did not ‘like’ the pulpit, another one was ready at their disposal. A complete replica with the Presidency’s insignia and the country’s Coat of Arms. The man knew that there were about twenty such other men, all canvassing around, and stripping the area. Some were amongst the crowd and others in less distinguishable areas, and wearing less distinguishable outfits. The sharpshooter smiled. He had once been on the presidential security detail, and he knew how the beat went down. On his grim face, dark rimmed Versace sunglasses shielded his eyes well, but they did nothing to hide the hard lines of thought that cut along his sweaty brow. Lines of thought meant that his decision was coming soon, and he knew what he had to do. The sharpshooter was an intelligent thinker, and at the moment, he was thinking. And he was thinking very hard.

 

 He smiled again, at nothing, and wiped down a strand of sweat that streaked down his face at the same time. Removing his sunglasses, he rubbed his eyes. They had to be in perfect condition. Then he checked his equipment once again, as was the revered custom, a tradition that he accustomed himself to every time he was on a mission of such a magnitude. The Winchester was his favourite, and he had relied on the kill perfection of the weapon since his training days as a sharpshooter. Although that had been a long time ago, he could still vividly remember his first touch of the weapon, and how cold it had felt to his touch, and how powerful it had made him feel when he had cracked his first shot. The M24, Sniper Weapon System was a brilliant killing machine. It was not just any other sniper rifle, but consisted of the telescopic sight and numerous other accessories, consequently the name Weapon System. The Winchester had remained his true friend since. It had no soul. It had no emotions and moods. And best of all, it only obeyed two things in life – him, and those three goddamn laws of Newton’s.

 

Slowly, with a marked Swiss precision, the sharpshooter checked the shiny barrel of the Remington 700 Bolt-action, and when he was satisfied with the grim result, began to wipe the telescopic sight of the long range automatic rifle with a cloth taken from his breast pocket. He needed the scope to be clear of any dust. His eyes never swayed from the man delivering the speech on the podium. Demurely he put his eyes on the scope, and angled the gleaming Winchester with minute precision, and it swayed effortlessly, the thin red crosshairs on the scope falling on the president’s chest. If he squeezed that trigger now, the full metal jacket slug from the weapon's barrel would deliver an instantaneous kill, severing the president's heart and stopping it in milliseconds. The president would not even afford the time to experience any pain. One shot, one kill, that was the sharpshooter's creed. The M24’s telescopic scope was its killer sight organ. It was the brain of the weapon, the sharpshooter’s third eye; the precision ligament that made sure the sharpshooter delivered a perfect kill. A thin line of sweat streaked down the side of the sharpshooter’s face again and he let it go down this time, tasting the saltiness as it trailed down to the side of his mouth and down to the tip of his chin. Carefully, and for no reason, he took out the chewing gum from his mouth, and glued it to the Harris-S swivel of the M24 pod stationed on the concrete floor roof, his gloved hands very steady. This was a lucky demure act he did on every mission. Why he did it, he still did not know. Again, he checked the swirling crowd from the view scope. Down below, the people were cheering on, and the president was delivering his speech. But the sniper’s ears were closed to the ensuing commotion. He was listening to his heartbeat.

 ...sixty-nine, seventy, seventy-one...

 The crowd waved and whistled the president on. He continued counting.

 ...seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five…

 

 That was not a good sign. He was supposed to be doing seventy times a minute. That was his calm heart beat. He was not calm. He had to keep himself calm. It was important. He took out a packet of M and M’s from the cargo pants, and threw a couple into his dry mouth, calming his steel nerves. Ropes of sweat trailed down his hot face again. He ignored the body fluid, and scanned the threshold again. For a few seconds, he let the view of his target disappear from his line of sight and in place of the target, the multitudes of the people who were gathered at the Union Buildings lawn area came to view. It was a scene to behold.

 

 “… Comrades, our nation is facing one of its greatest challenges since its independence. We need to be vigilant, because now a global crisis looms before us…” The president’s voice boomed. The crowd cheered and waved, small, green and red and yellow flags flapping like a thousand excited seagulls in the sky.

 

The sharpshooter carefully checked his watch again. Five more minutes. Then he looked upwards, the Versaces on his face shielding him from the glare of the hot sun. He took out a mobile phone, and typed a short message. Then he sent it.

 He knew that it would be time very soon…

 

***

 The TV flickered on. The president was still making his speech.

 “…because now a global crisis looms before us, and it is becoming inevitable that this menacing monster will harm us where it pains the most – the inside of our pockets. Therefore, I urge you; in fact, I want to employ you on this hot day, you as the citizens of this multi-faceted rainbow nation. We need to be laborious in our efforts to turn the economy of the country around…I want to employ you to change today, to put glory before pride, to put work before play, and to expedite our tidings very well. I do not want to give you fish for one day, so you can sleep with a full stomach for that one night. But instead, we need to start giving each other the fishing rod, so we can find those fishes ourselves…”

 

The man sitting on the couch switched off the TV, and threw the remote somewhere on the table in front of him. As the president’s face disappeared from his view, he stood up, stretched his hurting back, and then headed for the armory; his fridge. Along the way, he checked his phone for messages. There were none - not that he had expected anything on the frigid machine anyway. He swore something incoherent under his alcohol-laden breath, and then staggered towards the expensive ceramic tiled kitchen to check his supplies. The kitchen was a mess. On the floor, a dozen or so bottles lay scattered around, some still oozing with last week’s stale beer. A smelly plate lay on a dirty table, sated green flies busy helping themselves to the rotting chaos. The stove, grease stained and visibly smoke charred, was where he headed. He roughly swung open its heavy oven door, and it groaned like a tired steed. Five disturbed cockroaches filed out of the oven, and he swatted them with his hand, crashing them to a white milky pulp. He swore again, not at the deceased insects, but at the prospect of finding nothing to eat in the stove’s oven. He closed the door roughly, and then proceeded to the white microwave. There was nothing in there too. The burly man headed for the fridge, and inside it, he pulled a bottle of his favorite lager, Black Label, and popped the lid open. As the liquid ran down his throat, the cell phone in the bedroom rang. Blast! Did people have to trouble him like this? He wanted nothing to do with the outside world. It was cruel out there. Goddamn cruel, that’s how things were, out there. The cell phone kept ringing, Auld Lang Synge shrilling more techno than he had ever had it before. He slammed down the beer bottle on the top of the fridge, and headed for the bathroom. The mirror in the bathroom reflected a skewed unshaven man.

 

He opened the mirrored cabinet, which hung dangerously to one side, making the myriad of medicine capsules cram to one side of it. He had promised himself to repair the damn thing, but that had been six months ago. Six months ago, when things had been going smooth for him. Six months ago, when his wife and kid had been with him on the same couch that he was now spending most of his time in, groveling like a storm water rat. The phone stopped ringing. He took from the cabinet two pills and popped them into his mouth, then chewed them, taking in the bitter taste. The phone rang again, and he stormed out of the bathroom, and roughly picked it up.“Yes, what do you want?”

 

There was silence for a while, then a male voice spoke, coming out in fast streams, like a jack-in-the-box. “Is this Detective Smit?”

 Smit nodded at himself. “Yes, who is asking? And I’m not buying.”

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but there has…” the man on the other end stumbled on his words. “…there has been an accident, sir.”

  “Yeah, and what does that have to do with me?” Smit replied dryly, the bitter taste of the pills still on his tongue. “Who are you?”

 The man paused for a while, “It’s your brother, the president. He has just been assassinated.”

***

 

   Julius Mandla Nkosi walked briskly away from the gleaming charcoal Nissan Navara in the parking lot, the leather briefcase beside him tagging in to his long arm stride. He was a man in his early thirties, but one could have sworn that he was approaching the sacred banner of forty years. He wore a hugging smart navy blue suit, tailor made by a Greek man to whom he had nearly paid a fortune. But then, as with other missions, the man had had to go, since he now knew much and was a liability. It had been simple. He had gone to him two hours ago, and they had discussed how he was going to pay him. After that, the man had gone out of his office, and when he came back with the suit, Julius had pumped him clean with two bullets, and then taken the expensive suit. His contacts had told him that the man had been talking to some people, who had been talking to some other people, and Julius, being a careful man, had not wanted to take any chances, no matter how slim they appeared. He was a man who believed in a clean job, and he knew that the smallest discrepancy could lead to a whole shitload of trouble. And he was not willing to go to the toilet for such shit. He had experienced it himself. Two years ago, he had been tasked to take out a man who was involved in shady dealings with the cops. The man’s wife was targeted as the only sole source of information, and he had had to get to the man through her. But then emotion had won over him, and he had almost lost track of the mission, because the woman had kept on telling him how he loved her husband, and how she would not survive if anything happened to him. But one night, after a sex romp with her, he had decided he had enough with the bitch, and popped two into her cleavage, and watched as her blood charred the expensive satin sheets. Ten minutes later, he had gone to the husband at a bar, followed him to the toilet, and then pumped two pounds of steel into his head. The moral of the story was simple: the woman had been an inhibition, and he had almost lost track of his mission, and would never derail or let feelings get the better of him. That was him in a nutshell. He did not want people who fucked around with him. Honesty was a credible trait when it came to him. The Greek man, just like the policeman who had given him the police uniform, they all had to go. They were the loopholes in the system, and to him, loopholes had to go. Loopholes had a way of fucking with you in the end. Like a bad dream, they always came back to haunt and gnaw at you. Safety was always a first prerogative to him. Plain and simple. Finish and klaar.

 

As he made his way to the entrance of the glass faceted building in front of him, the phone on his breast pocket vibrated. He fished it out, flicked it open, and stared at its compact contents for a few seconds. The SMS flickered on the small screen, the message simple and straightforward: SYSTEMS GOOD TO GO. CONFIRM STATUS NOW. Julius smiled, and then typed a reply: GOOD TO GO. STATUS IS READY TO RUMBLE.

 

Ten minutes later, 10 kilometres away, the figure of the president dropped dead from the mahogany podium, a steel slug having perfectly pierced his chest and stopped his pounding heart.

***

 The sharpshooter read the SMS grimly, and then he dismantled the M24 with astounding speed, the sombre moment of putting it back into its silver case mocking him crudely. Down below, and just like the crowd, he had watched in shock and horror as the president had dropped down from the podium, and he knew that someone out there had beaten him in his own game. He had to move fast. For any sharpshooter, the exit was the most crucial part of the assignment. The message on his phone had been apt: STAND DOWN, NUMBER ONE. MISSION ABORTED. STAND DOWN.

 A few seconds later, Marcus had watched in utter shock as the president slumped to the floor, dead in a pool of blood.

 

***

 The room was full of hot air, as if the occupants had never heard of the term ‘air-conditioning’. The chaos in the room did not help at all. Everywhere there were people, making noise, rustling paper, screaming orders at everyone. The disorder was overwhelming. An immaculately dressed woman approached a man who was having his make-up finished at one end of the room. “Sir, we are ready for you, two minutes.” She said, with a white smile. The woman clearly was not having one of her best days at the job.

 The man nodded. “I am ready.” He said, and removed the cloth on his shoulders.

 

At exactly twelve noon, the Vice President made his address on national TV. “Fellow citizens, I have sad and disturbing news for our nation. The President of the country, Cde Esau Grootbroom, was assassinated today at around 10am by rogue terrorists. As we mourn his sad and untimely passing, I stand here, telling you that our resolve to fight terrorism, and to bring the suspects who did this heinous act to book, has never been on such a greater scale…”

 

***

   Marcus Khumalo met the American at the Hotel Sun. He ordered his lunch, a bottle of mineral water, and then stared at the hairy man in front of him. “What the fuck happened out there today?” he asked. In front of him, a TV pivoted to a stand on a wall was showing the news of the death of the president.

 

The American stared at him, his fork grinding against the white china plate. Sprawled prawns lay cluttered on the plate. The American was a huge man. He wore an expensive suit, formal casual, and he did not have a tie. For anyone looking at them, they would have simply passed for a business meeting lunch, or something of that matter. On his head, the man wore a red cap with the famous heart symbol and the words ‘New York’. He looked up from his plate, “What do you mean? Nothing happened, that’s what happened out there.” He paused, “Gees, I just love TV. Look at these fuckin’ reporters, I mean seriously...”

 

Marcus smiled. “Look, why don’t we just cut to the chase. Something happened out there, and we both know it. That was my call, and I don’t know what happened.”

 The American smiled slowly. “It was. But looks like some fucker out there had better balls than you. Come on Marcus, you and I both know that you would have not done the kill. You had not cut yourself for it.”

 Marcus stared hard. “And, what would that mean what exactly? What, that you don’t fuckin’ trust me now? Is that it?”

 The man grinned, “I’m not the one saying it, just for the record. Look, my sources here tell me that you might not be who we think you are.”

  “Cut the crap. Which men?” asked Marcus. “Which men? You better be counting your words well when you say that. Tell those fuckers to come and tell it straight to my fuckin’ face! I have been working for you for how long now? How long, Neil?”

 “Six, seven years.” The man replied.

   “Damn right. So you better watch your words. You can’t just be calling me a fucking snitch ‘cos you feel like it.” Marcus warned the American. “We know each other because of this business, and you know how many times I got your back covered. I would not hesitate to break your spine if I you were not my boss.”

  “Watch it, Marcus. Watch it.” The man warned.

 Marcus backed off. “So who was it? What happened out there this morning?”

 The American dug into his plate with his fork, and then he let the cutlery fall on the plate. “I say what goes, and was doesn’t, remember that. The president is dead, but that is Phase One. Now that this has happened, things will start happening, and that is where I really need you. I have for you a better mission; one that I think fits you well, that’s why I called off the assignment at the last minute.”

  “Don’t fuck with me here. You call it off, when I’m at the scene? I’m not that dumb, please.” Marcus said.

  “You had your chance, and you hesitated.” The man said.

 Malcus remained quiet. “I missed a few seconds. I was scoping him out.”

  “Took you longer than usual, Marcus.” said the American, “And it cemented my feelings that you had gone soft. Anyway, like I said, that was just Phase One.”

  “And that is supposed to make me happy, the fact that I have another mission? You had a guy out there to replace me! God knows this whole fucking circus could be traced back to me.” Marcus said, edging closer to the American’s face. “Listen to me, man; I am not a man who likes being fucked with. We had terms, and you did not stick to them.”

  “Now now, Marcus, you do not call the shots here, I do!” The man hissed, taking his cigar and clipping it before setting it on fire with a silver lighter. He scoured the surrounding for a few seconds, before glaring at Marcus “So don’t you dare think that you can come here and bark orders to me. Never think that…”

   “What are you up to?” Marcus interjected. “This deal is not like the fuckin’ others.”

  “Deals are never the same. You and I know this fact. Look, the money we had agreed on is all in your bank account, as per the deal. The terms still stand.” The man suddenly said, shifting from the topic.

  “Even if I didn’t do the hit?” asked Marcus. The man nodded with savoury sarcasm.

   “Who did it? Who took him out?” Marcus asked suddenly.

 The American smiled. “Marcus, look, we have a fuckin’ deal here. And the agreement was that the money would be transferred into your account, and I stayed true to my fuckin’ word now, didn’t I?”

 Marcus lifted the blue water container. “Is this a game to you? You ask me to do a hit for you, and someone does it in my fuckin’ place, but you pay me still. What exactly are you playing at here? I’m not exactly a fuckin’ child, if you noticed.”

   “Word out there was that you were not going to do the hit. What was I supposed to do? Put yourself in my place. The president had to go; you and I know this very well.” Marcus remained quiet.

   “You don’t trust me now?” he asked.

 The American shrugged and stood up. “You’re the one who’s saying it, Marcus. You know what, just stay with me here. Pull yourself up man. Stay put. I will contact you. Remember the Colombian deal. It’s on next week.”

***

 

  Smit arrived at the police station ten minutes later. Detective Mabaleka was already waiting for him in the office. The man was huge. He ushered him in courteously. “Coffee?” He offered, already knowing the answer to that question.  Smit stared at him and said nothing. “Ok, morning Smit.” Mabaleka tried again.

 Smit nodded. “Hie.” He replied dryly. “Mind telling me what you boys have running here?”

  “Have you seen the news?” Mabaleka started, the coffee mug billowing by his side. “You know that the president was assassinated today?”

 Smit nodded, with no emotion. “Yes.”

 The detective shifted uncomfortably. “And we know that he is… that he was, your brother…”

   “Step-brother.” Smit interjected.

   “Yes, step-brother.” Mabaleka went on. H stared hard at his former partner, trying to drill into the man’s thoughts. Smit’s skull was a hard one to crack, literally.  “So… Dirk, with all this madness that just took place, how are you feeling? How you holding up?”

 Smit turned the other way. He stood up, hands in pockets. “Will you cut the crap, detective? Me and you, we both know that you and the entire force don’t give a fuck about my well being, so quit asking me stupid questions for starters. What is it that you want from me?”

 Mabaleka put his elbows on his desk, and locked his fingers together. “Take a chill pill Smit. We can’t be fighting forever just because you messed up your career with your indecisions.” Smit was about to comment, but the detective was quick to continue. “Look, let’s lay this thing, whatever it is we are fighting for, or against, aside for the time being and concentrate on why I called you here.”

   “Shoot. I am listening.” replied Smit without emotion.

 Mabaleka smiled. The man in front of him was a tough nut to bash, but they had spent a great deal of their time on the job together to let a few disagreements spoil the fun. “Come on, the man was your step brother, for crying out loud. And you and I know that you are one of the best detectives for the case, working with the secret services guys, of course.”

   “What do you want me to do, Mabaleka? You suspended me like a dog two weeks ago, and now you want me back, just like that. No apologies. No nothing. Just a ‘you can have your job back Dirk’ nod. That’s it?”

Detective Mabaleka remained quiet. “Your brother lies cold in a private mortuary now, and you tell me that you want the guy who did this to go unpunished?”

   “Guys.” Dirk corrected.

   “What?” Mabaleka said, turning to him.

   “I said ‘guys’. Surely, you don’t believe that whoever did this was working alone.”

 Mabaleka smiled. “See, that’s why you’re the man for the case. We are detectives, but still, we are human beings too. Maybe you should make this personal. A vendetta, per say.”

 Dirk Smit did not reply. He stood up, went to the window and parted the blinds carefully. Detective Mabaleka came up behind him. “So what do you say, Detective?”

Dirk Smit turned and looked at him. “My gun, and badge, please.”

 Detective Mabaleka smiled and pulled the desk drawer.

****

 

 The meeting place was crude. In an alleyway, Benson stood alone at a corner, the shadows of the tall dilapidated building shielding him from the street lights. Two minutes later, a black vehicle, a Golf Velocity parked a few metres from him. Two men got out and approached him. The first wore a simple t-shirt and beach shorts, whist the other wore a denim black jacket and trousers. He wore with flip flops on his feet. Benson approached them, and they met in the middle.

   “Benson?” the first man asked. He wore dark glasses, and had a clean shaven face with a recently shaved head. The other man remained in the distance, his hand inside the denim jacket.

 Benson nodded. “Look, I told you this isn’t the way to do business…”

   “Relax man,” the man assured, “We could not meet at a hotel as you had suggested. That would certainly raise a few eyebrows.”

   “They can raise their dicks if they want, I don’t give a fuck. Look, you got the stuff?” Benson asked, checking the perimeter with his eyes.

   “Relax man.” The man gestured to his bodyguard, and the man went to the car, and then brought from the back seat, a long black case and a small bag. He gave the two items to his boss, and then retreated, his arm still under his jacket.

  “I trust that you will like what you find in there. You know what do to with it. In the bag is the package we discussed you will get once the mission is done.” The man said, passing the case to Benson.

****

Smit went home, if that was what it could be called. He got all he wanted from the dilapidation in the room, crammed all of it into a travelling bag, and then called his psychotherapist. “Listen Jane, I won’t make it for this afternoon’s session. In fact, I quit this psycho-analytical crap.”

   “Why is that? You know we were making a breakthrough Smit?” she said, calm as always.

   “Look, I know we were doing whatever we were doing, but listen, something has come up. And I really have to do this. This can wait.”

 Then he dropped the phone.

****

 

  The American man’s name was Neil. He was forty-four, and had lived most of his life in South Africa, having come to the country when he was barely nineteen. He took the cigar off his mouth, and dismissed the two prostitutes in his room. When he was sure that the women had gone, he picked up his mobile phone, and dialed a number. A man answered. “Are we ready for Phase Two?” The voice asked.

 Neil nodded. “Affirmative, sir. But I think we must wait and see how these guys scuttle.

   “Any news on how the investigation is going on?” the man on the phone asked.

 Neil replied. “So far so good. Smooth as an oiled nut. The president’s brother has taken the bait. He has been reinstated. Let’s see, about three hours ago, he was pulled back to his old job. The wheels are now in motion, slow motion, if I can use the word.”

   “Good news. I see that big brother is watching.” The elated voice on the other end of the line said. “Anyway, like you say, maybe we need to chill for a bit. Tie the guy with a very long rope. See what he gets up too. And Marcus?”

   “We still need him. I met him earlier today. He seems satisfied that the money for the deal was deposited into his account, even though he did not take part in it.”

 There was silence. “You think he knows that we know who he really is?”

 Neil cleared his throat. “Negative. He hasn’t the faintest idea. Our men are trailing him as we speak. He is staying at some broken down motel downtown.”

   “Ok. Make sure they keep that rope long enough so he doesn’t become suspicious.” The man said. “By the way how do you like the women of Joburg?”

   “Good thanks for the arrangement. Better than Cape Town I must say. The whores really are expensive though.” Neil admitted. “Anyway, I will keep you posted about him.”

   “Good. Let’s keep the hook baited. And, let’s keep him happy.” The voice said.

****

 

  Hook, line and sinker. Marcus said the words to himself. He had been in the business for a while now. The American had some kind of surprise for him, and he was waiting for the surprise gift, wrappings and all. The hotel room was stuffy, and small, and he felt caged. The motel’s name was called Martha’s B&B, and it was too small for his liking. Marcus rolled on the bed, and then stared at the automatic rifle lying on the floor. The slug from the weapon was supposed to have stopped the president’s heart, but now, someone had offered the services before he could act. Who had done it? Why? Was there a crack?

 He turned over, and faced the white ceiling, which stared back at him, mocking and screaming. His mobile phone rang at that moment. It could only be one person. “Marcus, where are you?” a voice asked.

   “Why are you asking?” Marcus said, standing up and checking the outside the window. There was nothing there, except for his car and another sedan in the parking lot. “Look man, what do you want?”

 Neil’s voice sounded charred on the other end. “We have to meet, Marcus.”

   “Phase Two, I guess?” replied Marcus with a note of sponged sarcasm.

   “Let’s meet at Hotel Sun tonight.”

    “And must I come with those two goons who are following me around?” Marcus asked.

 Neil paused. “Look man, about that…”

    “Don’t’ mention it. Please tell your stupid baboons to stop following me around, will you?”

    “Will do.” Neil said in an embarrassed tone. “So are we meeting?”

    “Yes.” Marcus replied. “What time?”

    “6:30pm please don’t be late. You know me and time…”

    “Yeah…whatever. Fine, let’s meet at 6:30pm then.” Marcus replied, and dropped the phone.

 Outside the B&B, in the parking lot, Marcus watched grimly from the curtains as two men briskly got into a white sedan, and drove away steadily into the night.

 

****

 

Smit met Mabaleka at the crime scene. The place had been cordoned off from the public.

   “Anything interesting, Sherlock Holmes?” Smit asked, kneeling beside the burly man. Mabaleka looked up at him, and smiled sarcastically.

   “Nothing much, Mr. Watson.” Mabaleka said. “By the way, I missed working with you.”

   “Ok, time to cut the crap. Didn’t come here the sentimental crap.” Smit said matter-of-factly. “So, what do you make of it?”

   “The crime scene?” Mabaleka said.

 Smit looked irritated. “No, the president’s party. Of course the crime scene, what else?”

 Mabaleka stood up, and then shook his head. “It’s not like we are running the show here anyway, Dirk.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “The secret service guys are running the whole show. They cleaned the evidence they found here to the bone. Apparently the sniper left his rifle in a hurry, because he was compromised or something. And those guys got that too. Right now we are in the blank. Just like everyone out there.”

 Smit looked irked. “Look, I have a guy in the secret service. He should know what’s happening out there.”

 Mabaleka remained quiet. “Have you spoken to him yet?”

   “I would not be here if I had done that.” Smit said.

   “No need to be sour, Dirk. Look, I know the president was your brother.”

   “Step-brother, Mabaleka.” corrected Smit. “Look, that man and me did not have anything in common. This is just another standard investigation to me.”

  “Are you sure about what you saying?” Mabaleka asked him.

 Smit nodded. “Sure I am. Look, if you got me back because the man was my step-brother, then you must reconsider. Anyway, my shrink does not think I am ready for this shit again.”

 Mabaleka looked at him. “I brought you because you are one of our best, and because I missed you.” He winked at him.

 Smit laughed. “Feels good being here again anyway.

   “Sure does. So are you going make that call or what?” Mabaleka asked.

****

 Julius got into the white Golf, and they drove off, leaving Benson in the alleyway. Benson, the black case on his side, walked briskly away from the meeting place and onto a wide street. He checked the time. It was 6.24pm. Then he whistled for a taxi, a yellow Toyota Tazz.

   “Where to?” the middle aged driver asked when he stepped in.

   “You know any Bed and Breakfast places around this town?” Benson asked, closing the door.

****

 

 CTV reporter Nonhle Ncube fixed herself for the final time. “Are we on, Rick?” she asked the cameraman in front of her.

 Rick nodded, counting down with his hands, “We go live in, in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…”

 When the camera cue came, she cleared her throat. “We interrupt normal programming to bring you breaking news. Less than eight hours ago, the president of South Africa was assassinated. Investigations being done at the moment can safely reveal that a long range rifle used to gun down the president was found at the crime scene, and the fingerprints found on it have been verified to belong to this man here. This is the image of the man that authorities have alleged to have assassinated the president.”

 The image of a man flashed on TV, whilst Nonhle’s voice kept talking in the background. “The public has been warned that the man is heavily armed and extremely dangerous and is advised to promptly notify the authorities on these numbers that are now appearing on your TV screens should they suspect anything.”

 Ten minutes later, Nonhle got into her Fiat Punto, and drove off to look for something to eat. Behind the red car, two men trailed her from a safe distance.

****

 

 Marcus got into a shower, and turned the knob. The TV was at full volume. As the water rolled down his face, he thought about Rachel. She had been a good woman, and they had had it going for them. The memories came to him now, now when his life was spiraling down a deep end. For the past two years, he had been battling to organize himself. He had cut all family ties, so that he could protect them. Such was his job. If there was family, and your enemies knew about them, then you were as good as dead. Family weakened you. Family bonds made you weaker and susceptible to the machinations of the enemy. Marcus stared at the shower of water that fell on his face, tasting defeat and loneliness at the same time. Rachel. How had it come to that? Why had it suddenly come to that? If only he had refused to take the last job, maybe things might have worked out, turned out for the best. Maybe he could have ended up being a father. A family man. A normal man.

 

He refrained from the sojourn, discarded it, and cringed as the soap stung his eyes and nose. Maybe all of this had a purpose. Maybe he needed to quit his job. What he needed to do was to re align himself. But not until he finished this last job. Neil would be his last mission, but then again, the job never got to be done. Rachel had had a problem with him because he had kept telling her that he would quit, and he had never seemed to do this. And she had become fed up, and left him, and then returned a few weeks later, to tell him that she was pregnant.

   “Are you sure?” he had asked.

 And that had been a wrong thing to say, because she had stormed out of the building. He had followed her. “Rachel please, I shouldn’t have asked that. Are you ok?”

 

He knew how to hit her soft spots and she had melted into his arms few minutes later, telling him that she was a month pregnant but had been planning for the right time to tell him, and the right time had never come. “You know that I never feel safe. I always think that something wrong has happened to you.”

   “But I am ok. You know that.”

 She shook her head. It felt good to have her in his arms. “I never know what you do. I don’t know what kind of job you do. Do you know how hard it is, to sleep with a fear in your mind, a fear that someone you love might never come home one night?”

   “I know.” He had said.

 But it had been a lie. He had not known how it felt then. To him, that feeling had been remote, too far removed from him. It had not existed. And those were the perks of the job, if you allowed it to rule you. And she had asked him persistently.

  “Marcus, when will you tell me what you do?”

 Until one day, the very last day he would speak to her, he had told her. He could not face not telling her, and he knew how dangerous that night would be, and so he wanted to let her know, should things not go according to plans. “Rachel, I am undercover detective. I’m working on a drug case and I’m close to nailing the guys who are involved. But they think I am one of them, and tonight, we are doing the bust.”

 Then he had left without waiting for her reaction. And that was the last time he would see her. His family could not be compromised. He had arranged for them to disappear from all records. When all this was done, he would know how to get back to them. It would be hard, but he had no choice. Once you were undercover, and you became compromised, the worst thing you could have was a family. That became you weakest point.

 He broke away from the thought when he heard the breaking news announcement on the TV set. Tying on a towel, Marcus went to the lounge, and then stared in grim countenance as the face of the alleged president’s assassin flashed on the screen.

 He was looking at himself.

****

 

 Nonhle entered Patti’s Pizza Hut, and then quickly closed the jingling door. The Indian man on the counter smiled a greeting. “How can I help you, ma’am?” he asked.

 She approached him. “Hie, listen. Can you do me a favour? Here’s my mobile number. Will you give me a buzz if two strange men enter your shop in about, two minutes from now. Just buzz me, and I will know that they are still following me. I’m a detective, and I think they have been following me the whole day.”

 The man smiled at her. “What makes you think I should believe you, lady? You could be a criminal on the loose.”

 Nonhle flashed him with one of her best smiles. “Come on now, a beautiful woman like me?”

   “On second thought, no.” The man said, with an embarrassed smile. She gave him her number, and the R100 bribe.

   “Cool. My phone is on silent, so you just call me and then drop the call if you see them entering your shop.”

 The man nodded.

    “Where is the ladies’?” Nonhle asked. He showed her, and she quickly disappeared into it.

 A minute later, her phone vibrated.

****

 

 Smit’s mother had fallen in love with a black man in the early seventies, and the man, who was a photographer for The South Africa Times, had presented his charm to her with full effect. Marylyn, a devoted member of the Presbyterian Church had melted like butter to a hot knife to this new man. He was charming, and he knew when to say the right things to her. It had been in a church meeting that she had seen him, a twenty-something handsome boy, still in solid grasp with his adolescent behavior. He was on assignment to document on the church’s history and membership, and to expose a racial war that was broiling within its holy walls. After taking photographs, he had come to Marylyn and told her how beautiful she was, and that she must model and appear in a magazine. Two weeks later, the two had made love, a one night stand that had resulted in Marylyn becoming pregnant. And for her, that was the last time she had heard of him. His name was Peter.

 

She brought the child as her own, choosing to move away from the urban area and to hide her shame with her uncle, a devout Catholic who saw race as nothing but just ‘a pigment of skin and nothing more to it’.  When she gave birth to the boy, her uncle named him Esau, and they chose to give him the surname Grootboom.  The uncle told Marylyn that she must forget about the father, because he was lost in a maze that she would not find. “He is only a figment now, leave it like that.” He told her.

 

And she did. Two years later, she had met a man, John Smit, and she had fallen in love with him out of necessity, for within her, the fire of love had long since vacated. She had promised herself that men were not meant to be loved. And she had thought that the fire of romance could be rekindled, but to no avail. Nineteen months later, she gave give birth to a frail looking boy and then quietly passed away, birth and life exchanging vows at that precise moment.

****

 

 Smit sat on the metal grilled chair, and his arms flapped themselves onto the pentagon shaped wooden table. “You sure she went in there?”

 Mabaleka nodded. “Damn right. Let me ask that guy over there.” He said, standing up and approaching the Indian. Smit watched from a distance, as Mabaleka grilled the man. Soon, if the man knew something, anything, he would be telling the detective. Mabaleka was known for extracting information using the most dubious of means.

 Smit turned to the window, watching as people passed by, unaware of things that were happening, unaware of his troubles, unaware of nothing at all. This was the same crowd of people that they had sworn to protect. Sworn to fight for and die for. But these people out there were clueless. They did not understand the battle that was taking place. And sooner than later, you found yourself wondering, bordering on thoughts of insanity, after seeing so much blood, so much gore and hatred for human life. Then your life simply dissipated into tiny fragments of nothing, and family and values thinned into air, and you began to aimlessly wander in the street of oblivion, chasing evil men, killing evil men, fighting for a cause that you did not fully comprehend. And then if they realised that you were falling into that psycho-pit, they sent you a shrink, who experimented with your mind, trying to force you to believe that you were sane in the insane world.

   “Smit!”

 Smit turned around, the voice that was calling him sounding like an echo that was locked away in a part of his head.

   “Smit! Snap out of it man!” Mabaleka said, shoving his shoulders. “Get a grip. We’re on a case here. Don’t fuck this one up again!”

 Smit smiled, and the lights in his head came on again. “Anything from our Indian guy?” He asked, looking up at Mabaleka.

 Mabaleka nodded. “The journo’s in the ladies. Let me go get her.”

****

 

 Neil parted the curtains, and he saw Nissan Navara reversing into the parking lot. The one bedroom apartment of the Hotel Sun was not amazing, but it was comfortable, and that was all that mattered to him. He sipped his Scotch, gargling with it, and running his hands through his hair. The buzzer on his door rang. He strode across the room top open it.

   “About time.” He said to Julius.

 Julius smiled, and went to sit on the couch. A few minutes later, he said, “I think Phase Two can take off now. Everything is in order.”

   “You got the reporter’s name?” asked Neil.

   “Yes I do.” replied Julius. “Our man knows what to do.”

   “Then let’s drink to that. You fancy a glass of Scotch?” Neil asked with a smile.

****

 

 Marcus stared at the TV set for a few seconds more. His face flickered on the screen, looking grim and dangerous. The stakes had just turned around. Quickly, he threw the towel aside, and put on a pair of blue jeans and a white shirt. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. Neil picked it up.

   “What’s the meaning of all this?” Marcus hissed. “I just saw my face on TV now! Are you trying to screw with me, Neil?”

 Neil was silent for a few seconds. “Frankly, I was surprised by that news report myself but you just gotta give it to them.”

   “Listen here. Don’t fuck with me Neil. Don’t fuck…”

   “Marcus! Get a hold of yourself man…” Neil stopped him. “Whoever did this does not like you. He clearly wants to fuck you in the ass. But we got to stay on top of the situation here. We gotta think straight, and you can’t do it when you’re fuming with rage like this.”

   “Maybe it’s you, who knows? Maybe you are doing this. Is there any chance?” Marcus hollered.

 Neil laughed. “Are you accusing me here? You think that I am a snitch? You’re hurting my feelings man. Listen, choose your next words carefully Marcus. Why would I wanna do anything like that? Do I have any motives?”

 Marcus slammed the phone down. He picked it up a few seconds later, and re-dialed. “Neil, you don’t wanna be fucking with me. Otherwise, you’ll start a war you cannot win…”

 Neil remained silent. “Are we still meeting?” he asked.

 Marcus looked at the time. “Why the fuck not!” he said, and then he dropped the phone hard.

****

 

 The man wearing a green work suit with the words ‘Bob’s Fix It All’ smiled at the receptionist when she let him through. He proceeded to the elevator, and pressed the knob for the second level. Inside, the man took out his gun, and screwed the silencer barrel firmly. When the elevator gong sounded, he stepped out from it. There was no one about in the dimly lit corridor when he checked. Benson was the king of stealth. He knew his nemesis was also formidable. He walked with efficiency, almost on his toes, very brisk, a man with a face that showed no reprieve. When he reached Room 2671, he knocked. When no one answered, which he expected, he waited, and then knocked again. “Room service!” he called. “I’m coming in.”  Satisfied that there was no one, he took out the key, and opened the door. He placed the rifle case on the door and went further into the room. It was dark inside, and he walked slowly into the lounge, the gun on his hand. But he was too late. He heard a slight sound of footsteps behind him, and before he could turn, Marcus threw a hard punch on his neck, and before he could turn and squeeze the trigger, Marcus’ elbow caught him on the temple, and he fell down, the weapon scattering somewhere under the couch. Marcus approached the man on the lying on the floor, the gun on his hands.  “Who sent you here?”

 Benson remained quiet. Marcus hissed again, and cocked the gun. “I asked you a question, motherfucker! Who sent you to kill me? Is it Neil? Speak, you fuck!”

 Benson did not talk. “Stand up! Keep your hands on your head!” Marcus ordered. But he had miscalculated. As Benson stood up, he retrieved a small knife from his hip pocket, and threw it at his face. It missed him, and gored itself into his arm. Benson lunged at him fiercely, as Marcus’ gun fell to the floor with a thud. The two men wrestled intensely, each using prowess best known to him. The first punch caught Marcus caught straight on the jaw, and he staggered, seeing white stars as the painful force flattened him. When he recovered seconds later, he threw a neat uppercut on Benson’s face but the man ducked, and gorged him with a punch on the stomach. Air escaped from Marcus’ chest, his lungs fighting to supply him with oxygen. In the corner of his eyes, he saw Benson go for his gun, but before the man could hold it firmly, Marcus dived for him, his arms locking on the man’s body. Benson got the gun, and tried to use his elbows to fight but Marcus held tight, his arms trying to disarm the other man.

 

Then suddenly there was gunshot, and both men crashed to the floor in a heap.

****

 

 Smit found himself grinding his teeth. He was a formidable tooth grinder, and usually found himself doing the habit when he was stressed about something. His brother (step brother) was lying in some cold expensive government mortuary somewhere, and he knew that his brother would have liked him to find out who his killer had been. He wondered why this stressed him. And memories flashed before his eyes; old memories of them playing together on the vlei, on the mealie and sugarcane fields, growing up in an Apartheid era, where their skins had demarcated them into classes. It had been a hard time to grow up in. The white man was superior, and the black man had been under his feet, but he and Esau had grown fond of each other over the years, realizing that they were brothers, and blood was always going to be thicker than anything else, more so thicker than the colour of their skins.

 

Mabaleka brought her from the ladies toilet, and Smit looked up at the beautiful woman in front of him. She looked relaxed. “Are you guys arresting me?” she asked cheekily.

 Smit smiled. “We would have put the cuffs on you, ma’am. Sit down.”  He ordered. She remained standing. “Please.” Smit said with a cold smile.

 Nonhle sat down.  She wagged her finger at Smit. “This is abuse, you know that.”

   “Yes I know.” Smit said smugly. “But who gives a fuck about rights in this day and age?” Mabaleka cringed at the statement. He was the only one standing between them and would have liked to say he gave a damn about people’s rights, but the timing was not right. So he played along.

   “So what do you guys want from me?” Nonhle asked, fixing her hair.

   “You broke that story about the assassination of the president. Who is your source?” Smit said bluntly. Nonhle laughed.

   “And you seriously think I can reveal my source?” she replied.

   “Yes. Yes I actually do.” Smit said.

****

 

Benson held his bleeding arm, and turned to look at Marcus, who seemed to have been knocked out when he hit the floor. The man would wake up in a few seconds. Benson swore under his breath. If he had his way, he would have finished him off. But he had his orders. He stood up, and searched for his gun, which he found under the couch.

 

Ten minutes later, he slipped out of Room 2671, and by the reception, he winked at the receptionist. “Something is wrong with the light fitting. I need to get my tools outside in the truck.”

 When he got out of the reception area, he took off the glasses, and proceeded towards a Telkom public phone and dialed a number. A woman answered on the other end.

   “I think you need to come check out Martha’s B&B.” Benson told her.

****

 

  “I really don’t know the name of the guy.” Nonhle told Smit again. The man looked at him. There were still at Patti’s Pizza Hut, and had not ordered anything, which was freaking out the Indian owner. “Are you guys going to order or what? Or I will call the police.”

 Smit went up to him, and took out his badge and gun. “Tough luck. We are the police.” He went back to the table and sat down. “And I’m supposed to believe that shit? That you don’t know the name of your source?” Smit asked, tuning to Nonhle. Mabaleka remained quiet, arm folded.

   “Yes, detective. Look, it’s not like I have an option here. This guy tells me things, and they happen to be all true, so far that is.” Nonhle replied. “And my sources do not usually reveal their names, especially if the case is sensitive, like this one for instance. They are my eyes, and from past experience, I have grown to trust them, because they always seem to tell the truth. I trust my eyes.”

 

Mabaleka intruded. “But you telling me that you don’t even have a name?”

 Nonhle gave a Mabaleka a crude look. “You guys, of all people, you should know this.”

   “Know what?” Smit interjected numbly.

   “Come on, you all should know what victimisation does to people. It’s what my sources always want to prevent. So it’s always on a no-name basis, whatever they tell me.” she said.

 Smit tapped at the desk. “So what now?” he asked Mabaleka, who shook his head.

   “I guess we wait.” He said, beckoning to Nonhle, who was smiling. “And then? Why are you smiling?”

   “It’s nothing. But if you guys stick around with me…”

   “Which is what we intend to do.” Smit cut in.

 Nonhle ignored him and nodded at Mabaleka. “Anyway, I was saying, if you guys stick around, my source might call me, because he promised to do so.”

   “Is that so?” Smit said, looking intensely irritated. “And I suppose you will tell us when this so called ‘source’ of yours contacts you? Anyway, when where you planning on telling us that you have been talking to this guy for more than enough time?”

   “I’m not under arrest, am I, detectives?” she asked curtly.

   “No, you’re not.” Mabaleka said, turning to Smit, and giving him a hard stare.

   “What?” Smit said, flinching at Mabaleka’s stare, and standing up. “I’m going to relieve myself. You and your new ‘partner’ here will tell me when something happens, right Mabaleka?”

   “Right?” Nonhle said. “Right Detective?” she asked Mabaleka.

   “Right.” He concurred.

 Smit had not even moved a metre when Nonhle’s mobile phone rang. He stopped dead in his tracks, and looked at her. “Are you going to answer it?”

 Nonhle stared at him, before taking out her phone. “Yes, how may I help you?” she said.

 Ten seconds later, she looked up at both the detectives and smiled. “Well, smile boys. I think we’re going for a vacation.”

   “What?” Smit said. “And we are not your boys, by the way.”

 Nonhle ignored him. “My source tells me to check out Martha’s B&B.” she said.

****

 

 Marcus woke up a minute later, still dazed. His attacker had disappeared. His head throbbing like a bell gong, he looked haphazardly around him. Everything was a mess. Whatever had happened, he had to go now. He was now, a cannon fodder. He went to the fitted wardrobe, and got the medical kit and tied a bandage around his bleeding arm. Things were now in motion. Neil had wanted him out of the room for the ‘meeting’ so that the man who had attacked him could do something in his room whilst he was away. This was all a setup to nail him for something he had not done. The cover had been blown. Neil must have probably found out who he was. Now he was a hot moving target. No wonder the man sent to his room had just left without killing him. They wanted him to take the fall for whoever had killed the president. They wanted to get rid of him, and in the meanest of ways. He was being framed!

 

 He was still thinking about the motive of the attacker when he heard a voice from a hailer downstairs. His heart stopped in its tracks. Adrenalin pumping in a crescendo, he rushed to the window and parted the curtains slightly. A sea of blue and white lights met his gaze. Then he heard the familiar voice. 

  “This is the police! We have the whole place surrounded!”

****

 

 Neil knew something was not right when Marcus did not show up. The plans would not go well. He dialed a number and smoked his cigar whilst it rang on the other side. A man’s voice sounded. “Did you do it?” he asked point blank.

   “Yes.” Benson replied. “The police are knocking on his door as we speak.

****

 

 Smit and Mabaleka arrived at Martha’s B&B, and then called for backup. Nonhle was with them. They went to the reception and spoke to the woman there. She was a beautiful twenty-one year old.

    “Did you see anything suspicious in this place in the last ten minutes or so?” Smit asked her, after the hurried courtesies.

   “Like what?” she asked, staring at her fingernails.

   “Like suspicious.” Smit said again. Anything out of order, anything you don’t usually see happening in this place?  Anything that you might have thought to be out of map.”

 The girl shook her head, she blew at her nails again, and Smit felt the nail polish insinuating his nose. “Well, nothing much ever happens in this place anyway. I wouldn’t call it suspicious, but the only thing that I can remember is that a man came here and said he wanted to fix a light fitting in one of the rooms.”

   “And you took down the room number, I presume?” Smit said.

 She nodded. “B&B regulations. Room 2671.”

   “And did you get a good look at this guy?” Mabaleka asked, edging closer, his arms resting on the mahogany desk.

 The woman shook her head. “Look, these guys are contracted to fix the B&B. It’s not like it’s my job to have to cram their facial appearances. I’m not the FBI, you know.”

 Smit shot her with a stare. “Don’t get cheeky with me, young lady. Just answer the damn question.”

   “I didn’t get a good look.” She said.

   “You said Room 2671?” Mabaleka chipped in. She nodded.

   “And is there anyone in the room now?” Smit went on.

   “No, the guy left about an hour ago.” She said.

   “Is there any fire exit path you might not know of?” Smit said. The girl shook her head pensively. Smit turned and looked at Mabaleka. “Can we have the keys to the room?” he asked, stretching out his arms.

    “I need to talk to my boss first.” She said. Smit gave her a hard look.

   “Lady, the keys, please?” he continued. The girl nodded reluctantly, and fished out the set of keys from a hook behind her. Smit thanked her coldly, and told her that he was not done with his questioning, and that she must stay put. They left her at her desk. But had not gone a few metres when a sound from outside stopped them in their tracks. Smit and Mabaleka stared at each other in complete amazement as they heard a familiar voice sounding from a hailer.

   “This is the police! We have the whole place surrounded.”

 Smit sprinted towards the reception door and went outside. “Damned bastards! Who the fuck is doing that?” he shouted furiously.

 

****

 

Smit shouted at the policeman with the hailer when he got outside. “I specifically told you not to use that shitty hailer!” he sauntered towards the man, and took the hailer from him and threw it on the ground. “God knows our guy could be inside that room, and you have just given him a head start. Jees, you guys are thick!”

 The policeman looked at him dodgily. “Protocol sir, we are just following protocol.”

    “Well, fuck protocol Merwe! It’s because of protocol that we don’t get the bad guys! Get your men to surround this place! Now!”  Smit left Merwe shouting orders for his men to scatter around the place. He went back to the building, shaking his head.

   “Protocol?” asked Mabaleka with a grin. Smit’s face had the word splashed all over. Smit glared at him.

   “One more mention of that stupid word, I swear by God I will shoot someone, trust me.” He warned, and turned to the receptionist. “You sure no one else came through these doors in the last ten minutes?”

 The woman shook her head. “Like I said…”

   “Look, are you sure or not?” Smit interjected with irritation. She nodded.

   “I am sure.”

   “That’s all I wanted to hear from you.” He told her, and then beckoned at Mabaleka “Listen, you and I know that those state detective geeks should be on their way to pulverise this place. Let’s see what we can salvage before they mess this up.”

 They moved away from the reception and Smit called the elevator. Nonhle followed behind, with her cameraman. Smit turned to her. “I’d rather you remained behind.” He said.

 Nonhle shook her head. “I’d rather I stayed with you. Look, I got you guys here. Don’t tell me what to do and what not to do, detective.”

 When the elevator came, Smit and Mabaleka got in, and made sure the journalist stayed behind. Nonhle turned to her assistant when the doors closed in her face. “Rick, you ready?”

 Rick nodded, ruffling his hair nervously. “Always, Nonhle. Always.”

   “Then let’s follow them wherever they go.” Nonhle told him, calling the lift to the ground floor.

****

 

Benson changed to fifth gear, and the vehicle lunged forward. He had a meeting with the two guys who had been following Marcus. He picked up the phone when it rang. “Yes Neil?”

   “Is it done?” Neil asked.

 Benson nodded, controlling the vehicle with one hand. “Like I said, yes. Ran into a bit of trouble though, but I think all is still going well.”

   “You think?”

   “All is well, sir. I left it under the bed. The police will find it there. That ought to nail the guy.”

 Neil was silent. “Well, that’s good news, Ben. Julius gave you the rest of the money?”

 Benson nodded. “Yes. Where to now?”

   “Just stay put, and I will contact you in an hour’s time.” Neil replied. “It’s been nice doing business with you.” He said and cut the phone.

   “What do you…?”

 Benson did not finish his sentence, because a force suddenly lifted the sedan from the road, the explosion of the bomb underneath the car ripping it out of control. Benson was dead before it hit the ground. The vehicle veered off the road and crashed into a tree, exploding into flame and smoke and burning rubber.

****

 

Smit opened the door slowly, making sure it did not creak. His weapon raised into the void of the dark room, he motioned for Mabaleka to cover him. He was in the middle of the room when he felt the hairs on his neck rise. The cold hard feeling of a gun rested on his neck. He had made a great mistake.

   “Slowly put your hands up.” Marcus hissed, cocking his pistol. “And tell your partner to get in quietly and close the door behind him if he wants you to live...”

****

 

 Outside, Detective Van de Merwe stood by his squad car, the loud hailer on his arm. He turned to his right, and his face met with that of the female reporter. Nonhle stared at him with distaste. “This could be my big break. Why did you order your men to take me away?”

   “Obvious reasons, ma’am.” The detective replied. He took out his radio, and spoke to it. “Second team, is everything ok?” When he got an answer, he turned and looked at Nonhle. “Very soon, this place will be swarming with TV reporters and newspapers. I doubt if this will be your big break, but who knows? Anyway, with the secret service guys pitching up, that media coverage might as well be restricted. Those guys are a pain in the ass, trust me.”

 

Nonhle looked away just as two men, dressed in immaculate black suits, came up to the detective. They spoke in low tones, and then Nonhle heard them say, “We will take over from here, detective.”

 

Nonhle looked about her. The detective had been right. The place was now swarming with reporters. This was now a fully fledged hostage scene. 

****

 

 Smit put his hands up. He placed the gun on the floor and kicked it towards Marcus. Mabaleka, not wanting to risk his partner had also put his hands up.

   “Move away from the door, detective.“ Marcus ordered. “And put the weapon on the ground, and kick it towards me, slowly.”

 Mabaleka obeyed. “Weapon?”

   “You have no chance. The whole place is surrounded. It’s swarming with cops and state agents.” Smit said in a whisper.

   “You shut the fuck up!” Marcus warned, the barrel of the gun digging deep into Smit’s neck. “You!” Marcus called Mabaleka. “Get behind here. No funny tricks. Get that chair, use one hand!”

 When he got the chair, Marcus pushed Smit towards it, and then ordered the men to cuff themselves to the chair.

   “There’s no way out of here.” Smit reminded him. “You pop you head out there, you are as good as dead. Those guys will roast you for killing the president.”

 Marcus smiled. “Not with you around as hostages.”

   “What do you want from us?” Mabaleka asked. “You killed the president today! You are going down! With us or without us.”

   “Detective, tell your man to shut up!” Marcus repeated, nodding at Smit. “Two hostages are ok, but one is still enough to get me out of here. You get the point, detective?”

 Mabaleka nodded. “Look, the weapon that was used to kill the president will be found here, your fingerprints will match. It’s no use, really…”

   “Detective!” Marcus said. Mabaleka looked at Smit and kept quiet. “I did not kill the president. I am a detective in undercover operations in narcotics, and I have been framed.”

 Smit smiled. “Easy for you to say. And I am Nelson Mandela.”

 

Marcus continued. “My name is Marcus, Marcus Dlomo, and I have been in undercover operatives for the past seven years. I infiltrated an American drug cartel, and have gone very deep into its systems. But I think these guys managed to blow my cover. How, I don’t know, but will find out soon. I was on the verge of exposing the drug business, which in worth about R2billion now…”

    “And you expect us to believe you just like that?” Smit interjected.

   “You have no choice.” said Marcus. “Look, about 5 people in the country knew that I am undercover, so it kinda hard to prove.”

   “And you fingerprints? The assassination of the president?” Mabaleka went on. “How do you fit into that scheme?

 Marcus coughed slightly, and then looked at the two detectives before lowering his gun. “Now, I will tell you something that only five people knew in the country. And I need you to do is listen carefully…”

****

 

It was ten minutes into the drama that Nonhle and Rick started reporting from the site. They were the first with the news, and soon, all major channels had stopped normal scheduling to focus on the breaking news. Nonhle said the drama that was unfolding was going to take more time to break than what most people thought.

 And she was almost right.

****

 

Neil watched the news with enthusiasm. He called Julius, and they talked for while. “Looks like the big bosses will be pleased.” He said.

   “Not a chance. This is just the beginning.” Julius reminded him. “We need to stay put. The big bosses want a shift, and we will give them a shift.”

 Neil was quick to agree. “But the game is still on. This is just part of Phase One.”

   “Yes it is.” Julius replied. “When Phase Two hits them, they won’t know which button to press.”

****

 

 The state agent who had taken the role of being the negotiator stood by the door of Room 2671. He spoke clearly. “My name is Moses, Moses Dube, and I want to make sure that this here ends peacefully, and that no one will be hurt in the process. Can you tell me your name?”

 Marcus hesitated. “Marcus! The name is Marcus.”

   “Ok, Marcus.” Moses said. “Is anyone hurt there? I need assurance of that.” The answer was negative.

    “What are your terms, Marcus? What do you want? I’m your friend here. We can come up with a deal.” He said.

 There was silence. Marcus said, “For starters, why don’t you get me a truck will a full tank, Mr. Moses.”

****

 

Marcus began from the start. His training to become a cop, and his narcotics training, and consequently, his enrollment into the special undercover unit program. He had spent two years on the streets, trailing Neil and his crew. And after pushing a few deals for two years, with the money from the government, he had managed to finally earn his trust with Neil. The drug cartel was well organised, and it involved top senior cops, and ministers and businessmen in the country. Neil, who was the major supplier, got the biggest bucks in the end.

   “You have proof about that?” Smit asked.

   “Plenty. All seven years worth of proof. But now, if these guys nail me for this, that proof might as well disappear into thin air. That’s why they framed me for this. They want to destroy me and the proof.”

 Smit looked at Mabaleka. “How did you get into assassination drama?

   “Five years ago, President Esau was the Police Commissioner, if you all remember. And by the way, Smit Grootboom, I know you very well, because last year, I did an investigation on you and the president. Remember the smear campaign during the pre-elections period?”

 Smit said nothing. He looked up. “You fuck! You were responsible for all that dig up about our past?”

 Marcus nodded. “They had to try and derail the pre-elections by any means possible. And they had to use whatever they had on the man. And you had been convicted of using drugs before, and of using aggravated violence on suspects. You were the perfect candidate for the smear campaign. Your racial slurs, your character; it was perfect opportunity. Look, these guys I work with are serious guys, and that’s why I must nail them, no matter the cost. That was all part of the job. You do what they want you to do. That way, you earn their trust.”

   “The Commissioner, continue.” Mabaleka said, staring at Smit, who was fuming.

  “So, I was already undercover by then, and had been on the verge of busting Neil’s cartel. The hit had been simple. We wanted to catch Neil red handed. He was set to receive a large consignment of drugs from Colombia, and I was one of the members selected for the meeting with the Colombians. With Neil there, the bust would be proof enough to have a warrant of his arrest and send him to the slammer for life. We set up properly, me and the other partner I was working with. The meeting would be recorded.”

 Marcus paused. “It had been a perfect arrangement. Had the Police Commissioner not bundled things up.”

 Smit stretched his neck. “What did President Esau do?”

   “Your brother,” Marcus began. “He got hold of news of this bust, and I still don’t know how but information leaks. Anywhere, the Commissioner, wanting to score his own Brownie Points since the elections were coming up, he began to organise something without letting us know. He wanted to get merit for the bust. So but like I said, Neil’s group is very well networked. He got wind of the arranged bust and called off the meeting with the Colombians. A guy I had been working undercover with was suspected to have been the informer. He was shot on the head in front of my sight.”

 Smit remained numb. “If you’re looking for our solace, then you better look somewhere else.” He said.

 Marcus stared at him. “Fuck you man. I want you guys to believe and understand my situation, nothing else.”

 Mabaleka nudged Smit. He asked Marcus to go on

   “Because of the bust that almost took off, The Police Commissioner had suddenly become Neil’s number one liability. He had names of all who was involved with Neil, and the only thing that was stopping him from busting Neil was solid proof. And from that day onwards, Esau became a permanent name on Neil’s hit list.”

  “You mean to say that all those attempts on The Police Commissioner’s life were from Neil’s orders?” Smit asked.

   “Exactly.” replied Marcus.

****

 

 Neil stared at Nonhle’s figure as it appeared on the TV screen. The woman would thank him one day.

   “News in just now, “Nonhle started to say. “We have just received news that the two detectives taken hostage by the man who is alleged to have assassinated the president earlier on today are all well. No one is hurt. However, we also know for a fact that the alleged assassin has asked for a truck, and that the truck must have a full tank. We will let you know as soon as anything else comes by. But it’s set to be a very long night here at Martha’s B&B...”

 Neil lowered the volume and sipped on the Scotch. “You think he will talk?”

 Julius shook his head. “Even if he does, who will believe him? The only other person who knows about our operations is lying cold in the mortuary. His word is as good as fodder.”

 Neil ran a hand through his hair. “The evidence he has been collecting all these years? He has been storing it in a database, somewhere.”

   “Who can corroborate it?” put up Julius.

   “But do we know where it is?” Neil asked.

   “Our men are working on it. They are tracking all his email accounts, his house has been stripped bare. So far they have found nothing.

   “You wonder why we didn’t get rid of him?” Neil asked Julius, who nodded.

   “That thought has crossed my mind numerous times.” He said.

 Neil smiled with disgust. “Sometimes I think I work with morons. And what of the evidence he has been collecting? Maybe he is feeding it to someone. You know crime has a way of biting you back if you don’t do a proper cleanup, like closing all the loopholes.”

   “You have a plan about that, I presume.” Julius said, unabated by the previous statement.

   “When he gets into the slammer for the assassination of the president, and that’s for life, I assure you. Then that’s where we sneak in, do a deal with him. Tell him we can get him out of jail; give him a new identity in a country overseas, basically give him a new ‘lease’ of life. A clean slate per say. But that’s if he tells us where the evidence he has been collating is. And when we know we got a sole right over it, we can do this, and you know nothing is impossible in this country if you have money. And money is one thing we have.”

 Julius smiled. “It’s Marcus we are talking about here. He has already skipped us once. He ought to be in our hands. He might be babbling to someone as we speak.”

   “You think I don’t know that?” Neil exploded. “How did I know he was not going to come and meet me at the Hotel? Please tell me that!”

   “Maybe he knew that his cover was blown. He suspected that we were following him around, and that the meeting you had set up was probably a hoax. We’re talking about a detective here. And one who’s been at it for the last seven years, fooling us.”

   “No need to point Marcus’ accolades at me, Julius.” Neil hissed. He remained grim. “Had the meeting gone well, then Benson would have had enough time to plant the second rifle in his room with no problem, and we would have had a better bargaining tool with him. Anyway, I doubt it very much that he will speak to anyone. Not Marcus. The information he has on him cannot just be imparted to any Dick or Harry.”

   “But if you put him in a corner, the information he has might as well be the key to his escape.” Julius replied.

   “Will you shut the fuck up and let me think! Seems to me you are praising this fucker more than finding a solution for us to rake him in!” Neil burst out.

 Julius kept quiet. “I’m just trying to cover our asses here, Neil. And by the look of it, our asses are in the open, and Marcus might just fuck us with ice picks, boss.”

   “Every man has a weak point, Julius. If he decides to play ball with us, then we will play ball. We will get him where it hurts the most, if worst comes to the worst.” Neil said.

****

 

 Moses Dlomo spoke again. “Marcus, it’s me, Moses. Listen, we have the truck ready. Full tank and all, just as you said. Now how about you show some bit of trust by releasing at least one of your hostages. That way, I can negotiate with you on better terms.”

 There was no sound from the other room.

   “Marcus, is everything ok inside? I don’t want this to end in tragedy.” Moses shouted. There was silence. But after two minutes he heard the man bark another demand.

   “I need two more trucks, with fuel!” Marcus said.

 Moses smiled and dropped down the hailer by the side of his legs. Marcus was playing a game he knew very well. The man was good.

 He was simply just buying time. 

****

 

Smit stared at him in disbelief. “You mean to tell me that there has been a war brewing in our midst, and we failed to get wind of it?”

 Marcus nodded. “Only five people knew this…”

 Mabaleka stopped him. “Knew?”

 Marcus nodded. “Yes, knew. With the president dead, I am the only one who has the information now. Three or four months back, five prominent police officials were gunned down, hijacked, involved in accidents or whatever. But they were all killed. All these men were linked to the drug cartel story and were all my people I reported to. They had information that could take Neil down. Apparently, the info disappeared with their graves.”

   “And since you say you are involved. Any reason why you are still alive?” Mabaleka asked. “Why you are the special one?”

   “Simple. The other guys had evidence collated in the open, and Neil managed to get his hands on it and destroyed it with the help of other police officials. Neil discovered that I was undercover three months back, but he also discovered that I had stakes of evidence against him, and that the difference with me was that the evidence was impossible to get. There was no way of tracking where I had put it. So he knew he had to tread carefully. I was worth more alive rather than dead.”

   “Wait, how big is this thing? Who is involved?” Smit asked, recovering.

   “A number of ministers, influential businessmen, celebrities, they all have a stake at Neil’s drug cartel. They do not know each other per say. You see, these big cats are the oil that drives the business. They fund the dogs heavily, the dogs being the runners, or the drug cartels. In turn, the dogs make for the cats large profits of money which they must launder in small companies called kittens. It’s called a Cat Dog network, that’s how we term it in the drug industry. We are talking about a very well oiled machine here. Neil is the top dog.”

   “Names?” Smit went on. Marcus looked at him.

   “How about the vice president, for a start?” he said. Smit and Mabaleka dropped their jaws.

   “What?”

   “It’s that big. And no one wants this thing to come out. And the President’s speech today, it was rumoured that it contained bits of information about that, and they had to stop him in his tracks.”

   “They?” Smit asked. “Who is they?”

   “The ruling party,” Marcus told them. “They are the ones who hired a sniper to stop their own president.”

****

 

 Smit and Mabaleka shook their heads. “Impossible!” they almost said at once.

   “Trust me. The run up to the elections had quite a few nasty accidents. The Commissioner narrowly missed death twice, in dubious accidents, and the propaganda machine quickly said that the opposition party was behind all of that.”

   “Perfect cover.” said Smit.

   “Indeed.” replied Marcus. “Now, with that done and them failing to kill the president, they decided to let it pass for a while, and then Neil had a meeting with the president.”

 Smit and Mabaleka were left with gape mouths. “The drug lord? Meeting with the president?”

   “You underestimate these guys. That’s how powerful they are. They can do anything. They can influence the courts. They run the country from the background. They pull most of the strings. That’s why I want to go public with this exposé. They might just get hold of the evidence before it makes sense. Neil advised the president to forget the drug scams and concentrate on running the country.”

   “And how did they frame you?” Smit asked.

   “Three months ago,” Marcus began, “Neil approached me and said that he had mission for me. He called it Phase One. And I’m guessing that by the time he came to me, he already had discovered that I was working undercover. Neil had a deal. He wanted me to take out the president, because rumours were surfacing that the president would expose the people involved in drug scandals in his forthcoming independence speech. That would pave way for a complete cabinet reshuffle. And some of the top cats within the ruling party would lose their jobs. It was a harsh one, and Neil had been told that the president had to go.” Marcus stopped.

   “And?” Mabaleka said.

   “Of course I could not kill the president. He was one of people who know knew about the drug scandals. But I had to agree to the mission to keep my cover intact, which was already blown at the moment, but I didn’t know then. Neil was growing suspicious of my allegiance, so this was a test for me. Neil knew that I was a former sharpshooter, so he told me that he had been chosen to take the president out to test my loyalty.”

   “What did you do then?” Smit asked.

    “What could I do? The situation was now risky. I had two choices now; kill the president, or blow my cover. I chose none of the options. I would accept Phase One, but I would not go with the assassination attempt. I would have to notify someone else out there, someone I could trust to make sure the president was safe.”

   “You did that?” Smit asked.

   “No I did not; I did not trust anyone out there. The situation was a catch 22. I knew I would not assassinate the president, but I did not have a second plan. How would Neil react when he realised that I had not made the kill? It would certainly rouse suspicions about my allegiance with him. The only thing I could do would be to disappear after this episode, only to reappear when the incriminating evidence had been leaked out.”  

 Smit stared at him. “Ok. But your fingerprints were found on the rifle that shot the president.”

 Marcus nodded. “That is the genius of Neil. A week ago, we met at a warehouse, and he gave me three rifles, and asked me to select the one I wanted to use. The Winchester was my perfect choice, as always. I spent the day testing the weapon; you know familiarising myself with it.”

 Smit nodded. “And you had contact with the rifle, and left your prints on the rifle?”

 Marcus agreed. “It was folly on my part, but it never crossed my mind that Neil didn’t trust me at that time. The Winchester was put back in its case, and Neil took it with him, and said I would collect it a day before the hit. And when I collected the rifle, I made sure I dusted it when I did the final assembling.”

 Mabaleka shook his head. “Then how did your fingerprints turn up on the weapon?”

 Marcus smiled. “Simple. Neil gave me a different Winchester. There were two sharpshooters in the morning today, and both had Winchesters, but the sniper who murdered the president used the Winchester with my fingerprints on them.”

 Smit and Mabaleka stared at each other in disbelief.

****

 

  “What?” Smit stared in wonder.

   “Precisely.” Marcus said. “Since Neil knew that I would not shoot the president, he had organised another sniper, and he made sure that I would fall for it.”

   “Why?” Mabaleka asked.

   “He had to make sure that he had somewhere to lean on. I was working for the government, and had vital evidence that he wanted. By having me fall for the kill, he could then come and bargain for my freedom by having me give up all the evidence I had against him.” Marcus told them.

   “So there were two guys up there today?” asked Smit.

   “True. The same guys who tried to kill me in this room about an hour ago. He came here to plant evidence that would further incriminate me. And I’m sure he brought another rifle here or something.”

   “You found anything?” asked Mabaleka. Marcus moved around the room, and began a quick search. A minute later, he kicked a silver case from under the bed. He smiled at the detectives. “That there, is another weapon that could be used as evidence that I killed the president. All immaculately planted for you guys.”

 Smit was quiet. “Tell me how you can prove that you were not involved in all of this. The evidence points directly at you.”

   “That is the hardest part. Proving is not going to be easy, but Gary, the other undercover partner I was working with, the one who was killed by Neil; we made sure we recorded every conversation that took place. Stored everything in the five years we worked together. Everything is in a database that is hard to find. The plot to kill the president is on record, the drug meetings, the killings; visuals, audio, it’s all there. And if it gets to the public, then I will be cleared, and Neil will go down – hard.”

 Marcus stopped in his tracks. The negotiator was speaking outside again. Marcus shouted back a reply. “I need two more trucks, with fuel!”

 Then he stared at the two detectives. “I need to buy time; to sort out the evidence together before these guys can be busted.”

   “How much time?” Smit asked suddenly. Mabaleka looked at him. He could not believe that Smit was buying the story. “You think this guy just made all of this up?” he asked Mabaleka.

   “Forty-eight hours, if I can have two days without any hounds on my ass, I can have all the proof I want to prosecute Neil and expose to the country the biggest scandal it has ever seen to date.” replied Marcus.

   “I can see why these guys would be hell bent on making sure that the information doesn’t reach anyone.” put up Smit. Mabaleka stared at him.

   “I need to come up with a plan, and now.” Marcus said.

 Smit and Mabaleka took turns to look at each other, and then they nodded. Smit turned and faced Marcus. “We are on your side, detective.. What do you need us to do?”

   “I need you to arrest me, Smit.” Marcus told them.

****

 

 Outside, three trucks were lined up carefully close to the reception entrance. At the rooftops of the two adjacent buildings, sharpshooters were scattered, their scopes aimed at the kill zone; the reception entrance. Their orders had been simple; they were not to take down the assailant. They could only shoot to subdue and not to terminate their target.

 Down by the door, Moses picked up the hailer through. “Listen, Marcus, I have the trucks arranged for you. All three of them, with full tanks.”

 Marcus replied. “Get the trucks back. I have decided to give myself up. It’s over. Tell your men that I am not armed, and will allow the detectives here with me to cuff me.”

 Moses heaved a sigh of relief. The negotiator sent the word to the other teams on the ground. “Blue Team, Green Team, suspect has given up. I repeat, suspect has given himself up. He is coming out on his own accord. He is not armed. Shooter Team, do not fire. I repeat, hold your fire. And get the trucks out! Get the trucks out!”

 Minutes later, the trio appeared out of the B&B slowly. A helicopter which was hovering above flooded them with light. Marcus was looking down, wearing dark glasses, and his hands were cuffed behind his back. Mabaleka and Smit walked behind him, their hands in the air. The state security men pounced on Marcus, just as the TV crews tried to get a picture of him, and they bundled him into a grey sedan, which sped away with an entourage of five other vehicles with police sirens screaming with flashing blue and white lights.

 Just a few kilometres away, Neil watched the ensuing spectacle from his TV set with a smile. He lit another cigar, and poured himself another glass of Scotch whisky and sank deep into the hotel couch. The deal was still going according to plan. All was not lost.

 It was all over for Marcus though.

****

 

 Detective Smit walked up to the negotiator. “You must be Moses. Thanks for bailing us out there. You have any idea where they might be taking him?” he asked.

 The man turned to him and smiled. “None of your goddamn business, detective. Look, you have done your part, and the secret service thanks you for it. But from here onwards, we are taking over. Is your partner ok?” the man said, looking at Mabaleka, who was staring at the ground, and holding his stomach.

   “He will be ok.” Smit said, “He is claustrophobic.” Smit left Moses, and went over to Nonhle and asked where their squad car was parked.

   “It’s parked ten metres away or so from here. Some policeman moved and parked it there an hour ago. Mine is parked there too. I’m glad this drama is over.”

 Smit smiled, starting to walk away. “You said ten metres from here?”

 She nodded, and followed him. “Yes. Are you ok, Detective Smit?”

    “No, I’m not fucking ok.” replied Smit.

****

 

 The grey sedan that had had bundled Marcus sped smoothly over the tarred road, flashing police vehicles beside it clearing the road in front and around it. The man inside the back seat was quiet. He stared at the reflection of the driver, and could only see the cold harsh eyes. Anytime soon, the truth would be found out.

   “Thought you could escape killing the president?” a voice asked him.

 The man remained silent. Things were now in motion.

****

 

 Mabaleka accepted the bottle of water that a male nurse gave him, he looked briefly up, and then he saw Smit wave at him from the gate of the B&B. He moved towards Smit and the squad car and got in and closed the door. Smit looked up at him. “Well that was easy detective. Where to now?” he asked.

 Marcus looked up at him and smiled. “Get me to the nearest internet café, Detective Smit.” He said.

****

 

 

Inside the flashing grey sedan, Mabaleka stared at the driver again. They would only realise their blunder once they started processing him. And by that time, Smit and Marcus would be well away from their radar. Mabaleka still did not know why he was doing this, but he had believed Marcus’ story. Marcus had come up with the ingenious escape plan. He had charmed them at first, and they had believed that he was a cop. It was Mabaleka who had heard Marcus refer to his gun as a ‘weapon’, and that had prompted him to believe that there was a chance that Marcus was a detective. How many criminals used the word ‘weapon’? The man on the street would have called it a gun, or pistol. But not a weapon. The plan had been simple; when Marcus had asked the detectives to arrest him, he had meant every word, but the only trick had been that they would arrest ‘Marcus’ who would be Mabaleka dressed up as him, and use that camouflage to get away from the hostage situation. Marcus had stripped and exchanged his clothes for Mabaleka’s police uniform, and Mabaleka had put on Marcus’ clothes. Then Mabaleka had donned the glasses as a precaution to hide his face. They had handcuffed Mabaleka, and then the trio had walked out, Marcus and Smit beside a handcuffed Mabaleka. The plan had been flawless, and Marcus had told them that with the media frenzy swirling all over the place, the figure of the assassin would be preferred first, which meant that the people would not really look at the face, but would just be glad that someone was being arrested for the crime. Reverse Psychology, Marcus had called it. And he had been right. Mabaleka had been whisked from Smit and Marcus, and shoved into the sedan without a question, allowing Marcus to dissolve into the crowd. It had been easy.

 

But for Mabaleka, though he knew he would be fine, he still had a few questions to answer.

****

 

Smit and Marcus drove to an internet café ten minutes away from the hostage scene, and Marcus clicked to a site. A familiar homepage appeared.

   “You Tube?” Smit asked, perplexed. “The information is on You Tube?”

 Marcus smiled. “That’s the genius of it. Who would think of searching here? I have audio and video recordings here, all amounting to more than 20 Gigs of data in FLV format. The forty-eight hours I was talking about I will be spent downloading and collating all the information onto an external hard drive. I know these guys have been tracking all my emails and calls. But this was the best server I could use. I spent hours and hours uploading the information. The information was there for them to find, but they would never think of searching in a public domain like this one. And they would never in a million years think that someone would be this dumb. Reverse Psychology.”

 Smit smiled, “Ingenious, I have to admit. And the documents?”

   “All stored on free internet storage sites, also the last place they thought I could hide the information. That too, I have to download. And by the next two days, Neil will be behind bars. I need you to contact that reporter, and she must break this story in two days time. You can do that for me?”

 Smit smiled. “No problem.”

   “And Mabaleka?” Marcus asked.

   “They will realise their mistake and grill him, but he will be ok. We will be in trouble, including me, but who gives a fuck? At the end of the day, we are helping solve the murder of the president. And knowing how those guys work, they will not inform the public that they got the wrong man, so that gives us more time to build on the evidence.”

 Marcus stood up. “They will hunt for me, and you, unfortunately.”

   “Who gives a shit?” replied Smit. “I don’t.”

 Marcus smiled. “Well, the information is all there. We have to stay low, find a safe place to download all of this info. You got any idea?”

 Smit grinned. “My cousin, Gerhad. He loves this technology gizmo stuff. I’m sure he has everything you might need, top of the range computer with internet and all.”

   “Well, let’s get to him and start downloading then. And I want to update my status on Facebook as well! It’s been a while.” Marcus said with a wide smile.

 

- END of PART ONE-

(October 2009)

Mbonisi P. Ncube©