Angel in the Shadows Page 30

  ‘Did you get what I dragged you back to South Africa for?’ Dingane asked.

  Paul showed him the USB stick on which Thaba Zhulongu, according to his widow, had painstakingly gathered all sorts of documents. These proved without a shadow of a doubt that AtlasNet had bribed the future President of South Africa with weapons and money to the tune of at least one hundred million dollars in exchange for mining concessions of uranium and thorium, without restrictions.

  ‘You know,’ said Dingane, ‘not so long ago the ANC informed us that there was not enough money to provide medicine for the six million HIV and AIDS patients in this country. Now that I know how much money Nkoane pocketed, I hold him personally responsible for the deaths of three hundred thousand people to whom he denied antiretroviral treatment.’

  ‘Why don’t you worry about getting back on your feet first?’ Paul said.

  ‘Deal,’ Dingane said. ‘If you get the hell out of here with that USB stick!’

  ‘I know when I’ve worn out my welcome,’ Paul said, as he grabbed Dingane’s left hand and gave it a firm squeeze to say goodbye.

  He then took a taxi to Lanseria Airport, just north-west of Johannesburg. After the incident that afternoon in the high-rise flat, it seemed a lot safer to make his way back from a small private airport.

  He chose a flight to Gaborone, the capital of Botswana, where he would change planes for Amsterdam.

  Through the airplane window, he saw the last lights in the night-time landscape being extinguished. Myth would have it that death was always good for one thing: it freed the soul from the body. And that soul went to a world where flowers bloomed in an abundance of beautiful shapes and colours, and where friends, family and the ancestors who had gone before you were waiting to lovingly receive you in their arms. Paul still had this inner longing to believe in these comforting stories.

  But they were invented by the living, those who’d never experienced death from the other side.

  12

  The exhaustion that had almost proved fatal in the ventilation system of Gundono’s compound seemed to disappear when she saw Aninda standing at the entrance to the Waringin Shelter. Farah hugged her, and held her for a long time.

  ‘I so wanted to help you,’ the young woman muttered.

  ‘I know,’ Farah whispered, and wiped the tears from Aninda’s face.

  ‘Satria is waiting for you,’ Aninda said. ‘She’d like to see you right away.’

  ‘I’ll go to her,’ Farah said with a reassuring smile. ‘Why don’t you get some sleep?’

  When she entered the courtyard, the old woman, barefoot and dressed in black, was standing under the weeping fig in the light of a dented oil lamp. Old as she was, when she moved she looked like an ageless dancer who seemed to shrug off gravity with slow, yet nimble moves. She concluded her sequence with a lengthy, static pose, which bore a strong resemblance to a flower opening.

  She greeted Farah with the Pesilat salutation.

  ‘Kamu sudah berhasil,’ she said. ‘You did it.’ ‘Sometimes it takes an outsider to do something that nobody else is capable of. Breaking into the compound was just the beginning. I’ve waited up for you to prepare you for the next battle.’

  ‘But how did you know I –’

  ‘Some things you just know,’ the woman replied. ‘You don’t have to understand. Knowing is enough.’

  ‘But what’s the next challenge?’

  ‘An impossible challenge. At first sight anyway. Appearances can be deceiving. But show me what your father taught you.’

  ‘How do you know my father –’

  ‘My dear child, if you insist on asking all these questions, we won’t get anywhere.’

  ‘My father taught me to be hard.’

  ‘Hard?’

  ‘Like a rock. “Take up your position,” he’d say. And then I’d take up my position. Sometimes with my arm held out, at other times with my leg put forward. And then I had to block his kicks and punches. It was incredibly painful, but I didn’t want to disappoint him.’

  ‘What techniques did he teach you?’

  ‘All kinds of kicks and punches, and he taught me keep moving forward, intercepting, attacking. Never stop attacking. Retreat equals surrender.’

  ‘Show me how you attack,’ Satria said.

  Farah assumed her starting pose, took a deep breath, stepped forward and lashed out with her right arm. Satria effortlessly grabbed her fist and took a step back, using Farah’s momentum to pull her along. At the same time, she pinned down her arm.

  ‘Let’s try that again,’ the old woman said, as she let go of Farah’s arm.

  Farah attacked even more forcefully this time, but again Satria managed to block her with seemingly great ease.

  ‘Again.’

  With an even sharper punch, followed immediately by a fierce kick, she initiated her third attack. She used her fists and elbows, her knees, legs and shins. She kicked and punched while always observing her father’s golden rule: one step, one blow. Each step accompanied by a blow, and each blow intended to hurt the other as much as possible.

  But Satria simply let her approach before stepping forward and intercepting each kick or punch with her open hand. She brushed them aside, one after the other, the way you swat away annoying flies. She seemed to intuit each and every move before Farah even made it. She was at least eighty, yet she fought like a twenty-year-old. She drove Farah back, little by little, and then locked her in a stranglehold.

  ‘You’ve got many skills, my girl,’ she said. ‘But you practise them from the wrong conviction.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your father trained you like a man. And that’s how you’ve been fighting your whole life. You’ve specialized in serak, one of the most powerful attack-oriented forms of Pencak Silat. But a true Pesilat is someone with both a noble mind and a noble character. A warrior with inner peace and mental balance.’

  She gave Farah a penetrating look. ‘If you want to become such a warrior, you’ll have to forget what your father taught you.’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘In that case, you’ll soon be dead.’

  Satria’s words took Farah’s breath away. She averted her head and looked towards a motionless silhouette under the weeping fig. He must have been there all along, in the camel-coloured linen suit he’d worn the last day she saw him. He was still wearing it after all these years, and probably always would in her memories. Now he took off his jacket and hung it on one of the tree’s branches, just as he did every morning in the walled garden of their house in Kabul.

  She thought about everything he’d taught her. Morning after morning.

  ‘Satu, dua, tiga …’

  It had occurred to her before that he’d chosen the spot on purpose, because she could see him quite clearly from her window. He knew how curious she was, how much she looked up to him, how many excuses she invented just to be near him. He must have known that one day she’d join him there, under the old apple tree. And when she was finally ready to show him what she’d learned by watching him from afar every day, he’d bowed to her.

  That bow seemed to say that he’d been right all along. From that moment on, father and daughter were forever bound by an unspoken agreement, by secret rituals. Now she’d have to forget that bond to save her life.

  He was still standing there. She looked at him. Normally she bowed to him. Not now. This time she just stood there, watching him silently.

  He lifted his suit jacket off the branch and put it back on. Then he slowly turned and walked away. His silhouette faded against the dark courtyard wall.

  She turned back to Satria.

  ‘I don’t want to die,’ she said. ‘Teach me.’

  13

  Thomas Meijer was buried in a coffin made to look like a shiny black Mercedes. Six men, who were almost dancing carried it on their shoulders to his grave. A line of high-spirited grieving Ghanaian women and men followed them, all dressed in black, brown and red. Radjen
and Esther watched the exuberant procession pass by on Zorgvlied Cemetery’s winding main path.

  To Ghanaians, the number of people who come to mourn for you indicates how important your life has been. In the case of the unassuming Meijer, Radjen estimated that there were as many as a hundred people present. Probably no more than a handful had actually known Meijer. It was Efrya’s circle of friends and acquaintances who’d gathered here today in the festive mood of mourning.

  Apparently nobody outside her circle wanted to be associated with a man who’d run down a child while driving one of the ministry’s vehicles.

  An exception to this was an indomitable-looking middle-aged white woman in a classic black suit at the end of the line. Radjen first thought she was from the funeral home, but she nodded to him and Esther the moment they joined her in the line. She seemed rather relieved to be flanked by two other white individuals, even if they were strangers.

  Radjen saw the look in Esther’s eyes and now understood why she’d been so set on attending this funeral. The woman, who obviously knew Meijer, hadn’t come to light during the investigation into his suspicious death.

  The procession came to a halt. Everyone made a semicircle around the grave. The bearers sunk to their knees, placed ropes through the handles of the coffin and slowly lowered it into the three-metre-deep grave. A group of women sang a song. Though Radjen couldn’t understand the words, he still found it deeply moving. As if he were listening to the rhythm of his own life, which raised its voice in lament and momentarily lifted his spirit out of its everyday grind.

  When the coffin bearers pulled up the ropes again, Efrya Meijer stepped forward and spoke some calm words of farewell to her husband. For a moment, it felt like the world held its breath. It was so quiet that in the pauses between Efrya’s words, Radjen imagined he could hear his blood rushing through his veins.

  As a farewell Efrya threw a handful of earth on the coffin. Then the sound of crying and wailing from the crowd swelled, and the others took turns throwing handfuls of earth on to the roof of the Mercedes as well.

  Crying, singing and sometimes dancing, the mourners slowly streamed away from the grave until only Efrya remained. She stood there so motionless that Radjen thought she might never move again. He walked up to her and shook her hand. It was different from the way he’d done this in her bedroom. That night, her hand had been helpless and warm. But now it felt cool to the touch and strong.

  ‘I’m very sorry about what happened, Efrya, and I wish you all the best,’ he said.

  She was standing right in front of him, but he was looking into the eyes of a woman who was somewhere else entirely. She gave him an understanding smile.

  ‘I’ve released his soul to the spirit world,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should do the same?’

  She let go of his hand and walked away from him. She was soon encircled by a group of women who escorted her along the tree-lined path in the direction of the exit.

  Radjen glanced into the grave and then looked at the leaden-grey sky, as a flock of geese flew past. He thought about what he’d read in Meijer’s case file: ‘Obedience is your greatest virtue. I always believed people got their just desserts if they’d been obedient.’

  Obedience as the greatest virtue. You spend your whole life being humble and compliant, and you end up in a coffin with fake wheels that takes you on a last ride to the hereafter, Radjen thought.

  The phone in his pocket started to vibrate.

  Laurens Kramer didn’t ask if he was disturbing him. He never did. If Kramer rang, you’d be better off picking up. Kramer never left a message nor did he call back again.

  ‘I’ve had a good look at Lombard’s telephone calls the evening of the hit-and-run, as you requested, Chief.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He didn’t call home that night. At least not from his apartment phone in The Hague, and not with his mobile phone.’

  ‘Any other ideas?

  ‘Perhaps using a talking drum or smoke signals, but not through any other channels I can check.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘What more can I say? I’m a digital detective, not a fortune teller who reads tea leaves.’

  ‘Okay, Kramer, thanks.’ He hung up and went over to Esther, who was now speaking to the woman in the suit. She introduced her to Radjen as Astrid van Woerkom.

  ‘I’m the coordinator of Haaglanden Facility Management, the governmental organization that dispatches all of the ministry’s drivers,’ said the woman, as she shook Radjen’s hand. ‘Please call me Astrid.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Astrid,’ Radjen said. ‘I think you’re the only representative from The Hague here.’

  ‘We were actually advised not to attend,’ Astrid said. ‘But I originally hired Thomas, and he was one of my most reliable drivers. Even if he did what the authorities have claimed, it didn’t seem right to let him leave our midst without paying my respects.’

  Radjen remembered how he’d stayed away from Marouan Diba’s farewell ceremony and said, ‘That’s kind of you.’

  Esther gave him a pointed look.

  ‘Astrid here was just telling me how she was immediately suspicious when Meijer informed her about the damage to his car.’

  ‘Usually I don’t make a fuss about damage claims,’ Astrid explained. ‘But I instantly knew something was wrong. Thomas was a very careful man, and throughout his time with us he never damaged any of our cars. I was completely confident that if he ever did, he’d report all the details at once. Now he tried to convince me that he’d taken a turn too widely and he’d hit something. He claimed he didn’t know where it had happened. It was one of the few times I’ve slammed my fist on the table, and the only time I’ve ever got angry at him. I told him he shouldn’t lie to me.’

  ‘And then?’ Esther asked.

  ‘Then he told me what had happened.’

  ‘Also that Lombard was in the car at the time?’

  Astrid van Woerkom nodded.

  ‘What did you do then?’ Esther asked.

  ‘I conferred with my boss, the Secretary-General.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ Radjen wanted to know.

  ‘There was the possibility that a minister was involved. I felt that I first had to report this internally to the person ultimately in charge.’

  ‘How did the Secretary-General respond?’ Esther asked.

  ‘He said he’d look into it, and, due to the seriousness of the matter and the possible involvement of a minister, he suggested I keep it to myself.’

  ‘Didn’t you think of your civic duty at the time?’ Radjen asked.

  Astrid peered at him. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘But you must understand that I …’ She looked the other way as if she were ashamed of what she was about to say. ‘There’s a strict hierarchy at Haaglanden. My drivers and I, we’re at the very bottom of the ladder. All of our drivers are supposed to keep their mouths shut about what happens in the back seat of their vehicles. WikiLeaks would be considered child’s play if the chauffeurs working for us revealed what they knew. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. That’s what we advise our drivers. Ultimately, I’m the person responsible for them. I don’t want to be a whistle-blower.’

  Radjen was silent. He felt as if his heart had turned to glass, and Astrid van Woerkom had shattered it with her honesty. He’d been successfully fighting crime for years now, but in his private life he’d long buried the most basic of feelings, pretending certain things hadn’t happened, in the same way that the ministers’ drivers habitually turned a blind eye.

  ‘How was contact between Meijer and Lombard?’ Esther asked.

  ‘In general, Lombard wasn’t particularly friendly to his drivers.’ Astrid said. ‘And Thomas wasn’t exactly the life of the party.’

  With a slight head movement in Esther’s direction, Radjen indicated that he wanted to leave. He noticed that his chest was beginning to fill with a sickening kind of heaviness. He craved a cigarette.

  W
ith a subtle arm gesture, Esther invited Astrid to accompany them to the exit.

  ‘How many drivers does Lombard use?’ she inquired.

  ‘I usually schedule three.’ Astrid said. ‘But I’d say that Meijer drove the most shifts over the past year and a half.’

  ‘How is it possible that the contact between Lombard and Meijer was so distant that even Lombard’s wife didn’t really know who Meijer was?’ Esther asked.

  Astrid van Woerkom’s answer was almost casual, but Radjen felt as though a slight shockwave went through his body.

  ‘What makes you think that? I saw them together not that long ago.’ In the ensuing silence, the gravel crunched under their feet.

  Then Radjen asked, ‘When was that?’

  ‘About ten days ago.’

  ‘And where exactly?’

  ‘Downstairs, at Economic Affairs, I mean. In the car park used by the drivers. They didn’t notice me. They were talking to each other. She pulled something out of her bag and gave it to him.’

  ‘Did you see what it was?’ Esther asked.

  ‘No. My view was obscured by one of the vehicles. Then Thomas got into his car. He was supposed to pick up Lombard from Parliament and drive him to Groningen.’

  ‘And you’re absolutely sure they didn’t see you?’ Esther asked emphatically.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Astrid said with complete resolve.

  They’d reached the arch by the cemetery entrance, where Astrid removed her business card from her handbag and handed it to Esther. ‘I’m late and I have to hightail it back to The Hague. If you have any more questions, you know where to find me.’

  She shook hands with them, wished them success with their investigation and strode back to her car.

  Outside the cemetery, there was an enormous chaos of double-parked and honking cars filled with exuberant Ghanaians. The next funeral procession was already approaching from a distance. The dreariness of the day was reflected in the jet-black hearse in the lead.

  ‘What kind of coffin would you want to be buried in?’ Esther asked, as they walked back to their car, smoking cigarettes.