The Soldier who Said No Read online

  !Xau took a few steps, holding on to De Villiers’s arm.

  ‘Why do white men smell so bad?’ he asked with no trace of shame or humour in his voice.

  De Villiers sniffed at his shirt. There was no trace of deodorant or aftershave. ‘I don’t smell bad,’ he said. ‘It’s you who smells bad.’

  ‘No, it is you.’

  ‘What do I smell like?’ De Villiers had to ask.

  ‘Like the rancid fat of an eland,’ !Xau said without hesitation.

  ‘We have to go,’ De Villiers said, at a loss for a suitable response. He had expected something kinder, like sweat, or work. ‘I need water. And you can be glad I smell bad,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I’d have walked right past you and you would still be hanging in the tree.’

  ‘He-he-he.’

  ‘Where are your things?’ De Villiers asked.

  ‘I have a knife,’ !Xau said. He dug in the back pocket of his trousers and produced a black-handled clasp knife.

  The knife was a Best, a tin-handled folding knife sold in trading stores all across the rural areas of South Africa in the sixties. This one had seen years of use, its blade reduced to little more than an awl. Countless schoolboys had chanted the praises of the Best. Baas Ek Sny Treurig. BEST. And in reverse: Tog Sny Ek Blik.

  De Villiers remembered when he had his own Best as a boy, a cheap knife, and how jealous he had been of a friend who had a Joseph Rodgers. Try as he might, he could not recall what had become of his Best.

  ‘The water is near,’ !Xau said, interrupting his thoughts.

  De Villiers nodded. He knew where the river was, but that was where the greatest danger lay. He again took time to study his map. His pursuers would still be far away. South of south-east along the Cuito River looked like the quickest and shortest route, skirting the towns of Rito, Maué and Mavengue, then directly south from Mavengue to Rundu. But it was a dangerous route, landmined and heavily patrolled by all sides by foot patrols and helicopter. There were civilians in and around the towns, eking out a living from subsistence agriculture, farming with goats and a few head of cattle. There was a dirt road all the way from Cuito Cuanavale in the north to Dirico in the south, but that road was closed to all but military traffic, and the military vehicles that used it were heavily fortified against the giant antitank mines, which could blow a troop carrier twenty metres into the air. Angolan forces fought South African forces daily for control of the route, and soon a major battle would be fought at Cuito Cuanavale. Everyone expected that. In the meantime the combatants tested each other’s strength and support systems in regular skirmishes in and around the smaller towns on the main access and supply routes.

  De Villiers tapped his finger on a point on the map. The direct route to Rundu would also require a river crossing at Calai, a small town on the Angolan side of the Cubango River, within a sniper’s range from Rundu. Under normal circumstances, De Villiers might have taken the direct route, entitled to expect protection and even air cover for his retreat, but now he had to factor in the presence of the platoon pursuing him.

  ‘How long were you in the tree?’ he asked.

  ‘From the time the sun was there.’ !Xau pointed directly at the sun. Twenty-four hours. ‘Why did you come back for me?’ he asked.

  ‘I didn’t come back for you. I came for food and water,’ De Villiers said. It wasn’t the whole truth. He had come back to find Verster.

  !Xau smiled politely behind his hand. They set off at a brisk pace towards the river and followed its course south. There were tracks in the soft sand where the Pumas had landed, but no sign of Verster and no sign that anyone had been killed near the spot where they had emerged from the river.

  The land was flat and the river ran away from oceans on either side of the continent, southwards instead of east or west, into the Okavango Delta, that vast inland lake which filled up every year at the beginning of the rainy season. But this was the dry season.

  The map covered an area of about a million square kilometres, from Kuvango in central South Angola, cutting through the Etosha Pan down to Otjiwarongo in South West Africa, and from the Kuvango-Otjiwarongo line to the Zambian border and the Okavango in the east. The map gave De Villiers the idea of changing his plan. The route south was too dangerous and he was uncertain of the welcome he would receive at the base at Rundu. What would his chances be if he took a roundabout route, east first and then south, to Botswana, instead of South West Africa, and from there to Pretoria, where he could report what he had witnessed? Surely 32 Battalion would not expect such a circuitous route? The map indicated that there was a game reserve on the eastern bank of the Cuito River, Coutada Pública do Luengué, which De Villiers translated as Public Game Reserve of Luengué. South of the reserve was a second public game reserve, the Coutada Pública do Mucusso. The Mucusso covered the area between the Luiana and the Cubango Rivers. There were game parks on the other side of the border too. He considered that a trek through the game parks would have a greater chance of success than the direct route to Rundu with all its foot patrols, landmines and air sorties. The map showed no roads in the game reserves.

  After weighing the pros and cons of the various options, De Villiers resolved to go south along the Cuito for another day before making a final decision. If the route south proved too risky, he would proceed in a wide arc towards the east first, for a week at least, and then south to Dirico and along the Caprivi to Rundu.

  The attraction of another day’s trek south was twofold: the map showed a large afforested area immediately south of Rito. There would be food and water there.

  De Villiers eyed his companion a few feet away. At rest, the Bushman sat in a squat, elbows on his knees.

  Auckland

  Wednesday 26 December 2007 11

  Detective Inspector Henderson and Detective Sergeant Kupenga sat uneasily in the waiting room of the Prime Minister’s Mt Eden residence. They were not nearly as nervous as their boss, the Deputy Commissioner of Police, who sat opposite them. They had been summoned by the Prime Minister’s private secretary for a briefing. They had not been told on what subject. Their political head, the Minister of Police, was not there to front for them.

  It was Boxing Day and the Prime Minister was in a foul mood. Word had reached her that members of her party were canvassing support to roll her for Phil Goff, an insipid little man who didn’t have the gall to object when she had given Winston Peters the prestigious Foreign Affairs portfolio Goff had held prior to the last elections. She wanted to go on her annual holiday, but dared not turn her back for fear of being knifed by her own. Now she knew how Julius Caesar must have felt: the surprise, the anger, the disappointment. She thought of Phil Goff. He had no idea what would be in store for him if he were to succeed her as leader of the Party. He was too soft, too trusting. National would eat him for breakfast, turning his best efforts into gaffes, one after the other. And every time he’d come up with a new idea, they’d ask him why Labour hadn’t thought of it while it was in power.

  The Prime Minister went on the attack as soon as the three policemen were ushered into her office. She didn’t invite them to sit and they stood in front of her desk like naughty schoolboys in the headmistress’s office.

  An Israeli security woman in mufti stood in the corner holding an Uzi across her chest.

  ‘I want to know why someone has tried to kill me.’

  Henderson decided not to speak unless absolutely required.

  The Deputy Commissioner took a soft line. ‘The investigations are ongoing, Prime Minister. We’re following up several leads. The main offenders are on bail and we are monitoring their actions very closely.’

  ‘Don’t give me all that bollocks,’ she said. ‘It would be obvious to a blind man that there’s no evidence suggesting terrorist activities. These yobs were just playing soldiers in the bush, hunting pig in the valleys and getting drunk around the cabins every weekend. How is that terrorism?’

  The change of subject shouldn’t have caught Hend
erson by surprise, but did.

  ‘And what about the man who tried to kill me?’ the Prime Minister asked. ‘How is that investigation going?’

  The Deputy Commissioner fudged the issue. ‘Our information is that the arrow is from the Tokelauan Islands. It is used for ceremonial purposes only. It’s a warning, not something that could be used for an assassination.’

  The Prime Minister looked at Henderson and Kupenga. Neither was prepared to meet her eye. ‘Bollocks,’ she said a second time. ‘It was a poisoned arrow, I’ve been told. There’s no antidote for the poison.’

  The Deputy Commissioner shifted his weight to his other foot and inclined his head towards Henderson. ‘Perhaps DI Henderson could fill you in on the details of that investigation,’ he said.

  The Prime Minister looked up at Henderson, whose reddening face betrayed his discomfort.

  ‘Well?’

  Henderson spoke quickly. ‘We’re following leads. We’re having the arrow analysed, but the exhibit is trapped in the backlog at the laboratory in Christchurch with the staff shortages at this time of year. We expect the results early in the New Year.’

  Henderson pondered how much he should tell the Prime Minister about how little progress they had made.

  ‘Is that it? Is that the sum total of the investigation?’

  ‘We’re following another lead, Prime Minister, but a vital witness is in hospital and we’ve thus far been unable to interview him.’

  ‘Is he a suspect?’ the Prime Minister asked, not beating about the bush.

  The Deputy Commissioner and Henderson exchanged a glance before the Commissioner answered. ‘We don’t know yet.’

  ‘I want this thing dealt with and I want it done quickly,’ the Prime Minister said.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am,’ the Deputy Commissioner nodded.

  The Prime Minister tapped on the desk as she considered the facts. ‘Why should we be the target of terrorists?’ she asked.

  The policeman spoke as if he had read her mind. ‘Terrorists don’t care about the good that you may have done. They’re interested only in their own agendas. And those could be quite bizarre.’

  ‘And why would anyone want to kill me, with a bow and arrow of all things?’ she asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ the Deputy Commissioner had to admit.

  ‘We don’t know yet,’ Henderson said next to him, stepping in despite himself.

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I have the Diplomatic Protection Squad in the house next door, yet I have someone shoot at me from the front gate, after we gave them a wake-up call just the other day when some vandals sprayed their signs on my wall.’

  The Prime Minister looked from the one to the other.

  ‘Am I going to have to spend the rest of my life hiding behind security people?’

  The Deputy Commissioner held his tongue. He had long advocated that the Prime Minister should be less complacent and more careful when she appeared in public.

  ‘You have work to do,’ the Prime Minister said suddenly, and turned her attention to a sheaf of papers on her desk.

  ‘You’d better get back to the hospital and speak to him. Do it today,’ the Deputy Commissioner ordered when the three policemen were outside next to their cars. ‘I want to know immediately what he says once you’ve spoken to him.’

  ‘Yes, Commissioner,’ Henderson said, acknowledging the order.

  Kupenga had not said a word the entire time. He was annoyed because his tribe had been described as a bunch of yobs.

  Henderson got into the passenger seat and Kupenga drove them to Brightside Hospital, a five-minute drive from the Prime Minister’s residence.

  After the policemen had left, the Prime Minister willed herself to think of positives should National indeed win the election next November. Out of habit, she held up a finger. One, they would have to find the money to plug the hole in the budget, and particularly in the ACC accounts. It wasn’t something Labour could do without committing political suicide. Two, National would be able to close the book on the outstanding Maori land claims, a process that had dragged on long after its sell-by date as far as the majority of voters were concerned. National, at least, could survive without the support of the Maori vote. And while they were at it, they could force the Foreshore and Seabed Bill through. It was high time that the moral high ground the Maori had claimed with regard to New Zealand’s coastal waters and seashore should be reoccupied by the majority. Ordinary New Zealanders, usually quite sensitive in matters of race, were now openly fractious. Enough is enough, they were saying. It’s time for the Maori to be satisfied with equal treatment. There should be no special programmes, no further reparations, and no more land reform.

  But she knew that Labour couldn’t do what needed to be done.

  Let National do it, she thought, then we’ll see the end of this and the next time Labour comes into power, we will be able to concentrate on the policies and practices that are the traditional Labour programmes, the projects that really matter to Labour.

  She calmed herself with a strong black coffee and spoke aloud in her deep voice. ‘Maybe New Zealand has got too small for me. Maybe it’s time to look to a bigger stage, perhaps something at the UN in Geneva or New York.’

  Henderson and Kupenga parked in front of the hospital and marched in. They walked straight past the reception desk to Room 6. There was an elderly man in a suit at the foot of the bed, a stocky man with broad hands. The man was speaking to De Villiers.

  ‘The catheter can come out now, but it’s going to be uncomfortable.’

  The surgeon came out of the room, followed by Sister Appollus.

  ‘He wants to know when he can go home, Doctor.’

  Henderson strained to hear, but some workmen on a scaffold outside the main entrance chose the exact moment to start their compressor.

  ‘Friday, after my rounds,’ the surgeon said.

  When Sister Appollus returned to Room 6, she found that Henderson and Kupenga had taken up positions on either side of De Villiers’s bed. The drips had been removed from his arm. A nurse stood at the foot of the bed, a bemused smile on her lips, watching Sister Appollus march into the room.

  Florette Appollus elbowed the nurse out of the way. ‘What,’ she said, ‘not you two again! Out! Out! Out!’ She pointed at the door.

  ‘We’re not leaving until we have spoken to him,’ Henderson said.

  ‘You’re leaving right now, or I’ll call the police.’

  ‘We are the police,’ Kupenga said.

  Sister Appollus trumped Kupenga’s card. ‘Then you should know better,’ she hissed. ‘Now get out before I call Security.’

  Henderson and Kupenga stood firm.

  ‘Nurse, get Security here.’ Sister Appollus knew who held the sword of authority on her watch.

  The nurse ran out of the room. A minute later the hospital’s security officers came storming in.

  ‘What’s the problem, Sister?’

  ‘Mr Te ’O, we need space to work with our patient, and these two gentlemen need help to find their way out.’

  The security men sized up Henderson and Kupenga. ‘Come with us,’ Te ’O said. Henderson strained to read the misaligned nameplate pinned to his chest pocket. Senior Security Officer Te ’O.

  ‘We’re police, Bro,’ Kupenga said, holding up his warrant card.

  The security man grinned. ‘I’ve always wanted to throw a policeman out on the footpath.’

  ‘Especially one who calls you Bro, eh Bro,’ the second security officer said. His nameplate read: Security Officer Leauanae.

  ‘Shall we do them one at a time, or one each?’ Te ’O asked. He cracked his knuckles.

  ‘Okay,’ Henderson said, ‘we’re leaving.’ And then to Sister Appollus, ‘But we’ll be back, sooner than you think.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Bro,’ Te ’O said as Henderson and Kupenga tried to squeeze through the door side by side.

  ‘Anytime,’ Leau
anae added. ‘We’ll be here. Can we show you the way to your car?’

  ‘Fuck you, Bro,’ Kupenga said, but Henderson kept his back straight and walked away, trying hard to keep his dignity intact.

  They thought they heard Te ’O and Leauanae laughing with Sister Appollus before they had got as far as the reception desk.

  Sister Appollus restored order, called a male nurse to remove the catheter and closed the door behind her when she left the room. De Villiers should have anticipated something when the door was shut for the first time during his stay in the hospital, but nothing his imagination could have produced would have prepared him for the nightmare of the next twenty-four hours.

  The male nurse – ‘Hello, I am Nurse William and I am going to relieve you of the catheter’ – started by exposing his patient’s lower abdomen.

  De Villiers immediately tensed. He let out a groan that went on for the duration of the procedure.

  ‘Uuuuhhhnnn!’

  ‘There,’ said Nurse William, holding the offending tube up as if it were a trophy. ‘Well done. That didn’t hurt, did it?’

  De Villiers was breathing in shallow gasps. How would he know? De Villiers thought, not irrationally. Of course it hurt.

  ‘Now let’s get rid of the drain,’ Nurse William said. For five days now the tube inserted next to the operation scar had drained blood from De Villiers’s abdominal cavity in an ever-reducing flow which appeared to have stopped the night before.

  De Villiers groaned.

  But the drain came out with hardly a sting and Nurse William finished by sticking a small piece of surgical tape over the wound.

  The next twenty-four hours De Villiers was in and out of the bathroom.

  During her morning rounds, Sister Appollus came to his rescue. She sent the nurses out and fetched a fresh towel from the bathroom.

  ‘You’ll have to start doing some exercises,’ she said. ‘Lift your bum so I can put the towel under you.’

  De Villiers obeyed automatically.

  ‘Now this is what you do,’ she said. ‘You tighten your pelvic muscles for a few seconds, as if to cut off your pee in midstream. Then you relax the muscles again. Can you do that?’