The White Lioness Page 53

  Sikosi Tsiki had seen him from where he was hidden behind some bushes, and thought it was a security officer checking the area around the stadium. He was not surprised; he had expected something like this. What worried him was that they might use dogs to patrol the area. But the guy scrambling up the slope was on his own. Sikosi Tsiki crouched down low, a pistol with a silencer ready. When the man turned back without even going as far as the top, he knew nothing could go wrong. Nelson Mandela had just a couple of hours to live.

  Crowds were already flocking into the stadium. Scheepers and Borstlap fought their way through the teeming mass of bodies. All around drums were beating, people were singing and dancing. Scheepers was terrified by the thought that they might fail. They just had to find the guy Jan Kleyn had hired to kill Nelson Mandela.

  An hour later, thirty minutes before the meeting was due to begin with Mandela’s arrival at the stadium, Scheepers was in a panic. Borstlap tried to calm him down.

  “We haven’t found the guy,” said Borstlap. “We have very little time left to continue the search now. We have to ask ourselves what we might have missed.”

  He looked round. His eyes focused on the hill outside the stadium.

  “I was there already,” said Scheeper.

  “What did you see?” asked Borstlap.

  “Nothing,” said Scheepers.

  Borstlap nodded, lost in thought. He was beginning to think they would not find the assassin until it was too late.

  They were pushed backwards and forwards by the massive crowds.

  “I just don’t get it,” said Borstlap.

  “It was too far away,” said Scheepers.

  Borstlap looked at him questioningly.

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “Too far away?”

  “Nobody could hit a target from that distance,” said Scheepers angrily.

  It was a while before Borstlap realized Scheepers was still talking about the hilltop outside the stadium. Then he suddenly became serious.

  “Tell me exactly what you did,” he said, pointing to the hilltop.

  “I climbed up part way. Then I turned back.”

  “You didn’t actually go to the summit of Signal Hill?”

  “It’s too far away, I told you!”

  “It’s not too far away at all,” said Borstlap. “There are rifles that can shoot over a kilometer. And hit the target. That’s only 800 meters away at most.”

  Scheepers stared at him in bewilderment. Just then an enormous cheer went up from the dancing crowd, followed by intense drumming. Nelson Mandela had arrived in the stadium. Scheepers caught a glimpse of his grayish-white hair, his smiling face, and his waving hand.

  “Come on!” yelled Borstlap. “If he’s here at all, he has to be somewhere on that hillside.”

  Through his powerful telescopic sights Sikosi Tsiki could see Nelson Mandela in close-up. He had removed the sights from the rifle and followed him from the moment he stepped out of his car at the stadium entrance. Sikosi Tsiki could see he had only a few bodyguards. There did not seem to be any noticeable alert or unrest around the white-haired man.

  He remounted the sights on the rifle, checked the loading mechanism, and sat down in the position he had carefully selected. He had rigged up a stand made of light metal. It was his own invention, and would give his arms the support he needed.

  He glanced up at the sky. The sun was not going to cause him any unexpected problems. No shadows, no reflections, no glare. The hilltop was deserted. He was all alone with his gun and a few birds hopping around on the ground.

  Five minutes to go. The cheering in the stadium hit him at full volume, even though he was over half a kilometer away.

  Nobody would hear the shot, he thought.

  He had two spare cartridges. They were lying on a handkerchief in front of him. But he did not expect to have to use them. He would save them as a souvenir. Maybe one day he would turn them into an amulet? That would bring him good luck for the rest of his life.

  He avoided thinking about the money awaiting him. He had to carry out his mission first.

  He raised his rifle, put his eye to the telescopic sight and watched Nelson Mandela coming to the podium. He had made up his mind to shoot at the first opportunity. There was no reason to delay. He put down the gun and tried to relax his shoulders, taking deep breaths at the same time. He felt his pulse. It was normal. Everything was normal. Then he raised the rifle again, placed the butt against his right cheek and closed his left eye. Nelson Mandela was standing just below the podium. He was partly shielded by other people. Then he broke away from the group and strode toward the microphone. He raised his arms over his head like a victor. His smile was very wide.

  Sikosi Tsiki pulled the trigger.

  But a fraction of a second before the bullet shot out of the barrel of the rifle at tremendous speed, he felt a thump on his shoulder. He couldn’t stop his finger on the trigger. The shot rang out. But the thump had nudged him nearly five centimeters. That meant the bullet did not even hit the stadium, but landed on a parked car on a street a long way away.

  Sikosi Tsiki turned around.

  There were two men, breathing heavily and staring at him.

  Both had pistols in their hands.

  “Put down your gun,” said Borstlap. “Slowly, carefully.”

  Sikosi Tsiki did as he was told. He had no choice. The two white men would not hesitate to shoot, he could see that.

  What had gone wrong? Who were they?

  “Place your hands on your head,” said Borstlap, handing Scheepers a pair of handcuffs. He stepped forward and locked them around Sikosi Tsiki’s wrists.

  “Get up,” said Scheepers.

  Sikosi Tsiki stood up.

  “Take him down to the car,” said Scheepers. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Borstlap led Sikosi Tsiki away.

  Scheepers stood listening to the cheering from the stadium. He could hear Nelson Mandela’s unmistakable voice over the loudspeakers. The sound seemed to come from very far away.

  He was soaked in sweat. He could still feel traces of the horror he had felt when it seemed they wouldn’t find the man they were looking for. The sense of relief had still not hit him.

  It struck him that what had just happened was a historic moment. But it was a historic moment that nobody would ever know about. If they had not managed to get up the hill in time, if the stone he had thrown at the man in desperation had missed, another historic moment would have taken place. And that one would have been more than just a footnote in the pages of history. It could have sparked off a bloodbath.

  I am an Afrikaner myself, he thought. I ought to be able to understand these crazy people. Even if I don’t want it that way, they are my enemies today. Maybe they haven’t really understood deep down that the future of South Africa will force them to reassess everything they’ve been used to. Many of them will never manage that. They would rather see the country destroyed in an explosion of blood and fire. But they will not succeed.

  He gazed out over the sea. As he did so, he wondered what he was going to say to President de Klerk. Henrik Wervey was also expecting a report. In addition he had an important visit to make to a house in Bezuidenhout Park. He was looking forward to meeting the two women again.

  What would happen to Sikosi Tsiki, he had no idea. That was Inspector Borstlap’s problem. He put the rifle and the cartridges back into their case. He left the metal frame where it was.

  Suddenly he thought of the white lioness lying on the river bank in the moonlight.

  He would suggest to Judith they should pay another visit to the safari park soon.

  Maybe the lioness would still be there.

  He was deep in thought as he descended the hillside.

  He had realized something that had not been clear to him before. At last he realized what the white lioness in the moonlight had meant to him.

  First and foremost he was not an Afrikaner, a white man.

  He was an
African.

  Epilogue

  Parts of this story are set in South Africa, a country which has long been poised on the brink of chaos. The potential social upheaval and the internal human trauma have reached a point where many fail to see any possible outcome beyond an inevitable apocalyptic catastrophe. On the other hand, one cannot deny hopeful signs: the racist-controlled South African empire will collapse in the foreseeable future. At this writing, June 1993, a preliminary date has been fixed for the first free elections in South Africa: April 27, 1994. In Nelson Mandela’s words: “a watershed has finally been reached. In the long term, the outcome can already be predicted, albeit with the natural reservations that apply to all political prophesies: the establishment of a democratic society based on the rule of law.”

  In the short term the outcome is less certain. The understandable impatience of the black majority and the active resistance of the white minority is leading to increased violence. No one can state with certainty that civil war is inevitable. Nor can anyone state that it can be avoided. It could be that uncertainty is the only certainty.

  Many individuals have contributed—sometimes without realizing—to the South African sections of the novel. Had it not been for Iwor Wilkins and Hans Strydom’s essential work in exposing the realities behind the Afrikaner secret society the Broederbond, its secrets would have been concealed from me as well. Reading Graham Leach’s writings on Boer culture was also a veritable adventure. And to round things off, Thomas Mofololo’s stories cast light on African customs, not least with regard to the spirit world.

  There are many others whose personal testimony and experiences have been significant. I thank them all, without naming individuals.

  This is a novel. That means the names of characters and places, and also the timing, are not always authentic.

  The conclusions, and indeed the story as a whole, are my own responsibility. No one apart from myself, named or unnamed, should be blamed for any shortcomings.

  Maputo, Mozambique, June 1993

  Henning Mankell.

  1

  boere: descendants of one of the first waves of immigration to South Africa by homeless Dutch Huguenots in the 1680s.

  © 1993 by Henning Mankell.

  English translation by Laurie Thompson © 1998 by Laurie Thompson.

  All rights reserved.

  Originally published in Swedish as Den vita lejoninnan by Ordfront Förlag, Stockholm

  Published by The New Press, New York

  Distributed by W. W. Norton, New York

  The New Press was established in 1990 as a not-for-profit alternative to the large, commercial publishing houses currently dominating the book publishing industry. The New Press operates in the public interest rather than for private gain, and is committed to publishing, in innovative ways, works of educational, cultural, and community value that might not be considered sufficiently profitable.

  eISBN : 978-1-595-58611-7