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Overview
Lemmer’s first rule is “Don’t get involved.” A highly skilled bodyguard with a violent, criminal past, he has settled into a quiet life in Loxton, South Africa. But when a wealthy farmer asks him to help save a pair of rare black rhinos by smuggling them out of Zimbabwe, Lemmer can’t say no. Now he’s on a small airplane, zipping across the border with a military-grade shotgun at his feet—sensing that he’s about to regret breaking his own rule.
Weaving together Lemmer’s story with a missing person investigation and the machinations of a top intelligence agency, Trackers is “a sprawling, invigorating and socially committed crime novel” (The Independent).
“Deon Meyer is one of the unsung masters.” —Michael Connelly, New York Times–bestselling author of the Harry Bosch novels
“Meyer’s ambition matches his execution in this brilliantly complex stand-alone thriller set in his native South Africa.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review
“[Meyer is] the king of South African crime fiction.” —Booklist, starred review
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780802195135 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 400 |
| Sales rank: | 830,205 |
| File size: | 4 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
BOOK 1: MILLA (Conspiracy)
July to September 2009
... some days leave no tracks.
They pass as though they never existed, immediately forgotten in the haze of my routine. Other days' tracks are visible for a week or so, until the winds of memory cover them in the pale sand of new experiences.
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan, 27 September 2009
The US Department of the Treasury today moved to designate two South African individuals, Farhad Ahmed Dockrat and Junaid Ismail Dockrat, and a related entity for financing and facilitating al-Qaeda, pursuant to Executive Order 13224. This action freezes any assets the designees have under US jurisdiction and prohibits transactions between US persons and the designees.
Press release, US Department of Treasury, 26 January 2007 (Verbatim)
1
31 July 2009. Friday.
Ismail Mohammed runs down the steep slope of Heiliger Lane. The coat-tails of his white jalabiya robe with its trendy open mandarin collar flick up high with every stride. His arms wave wildly, in mortal fear, and for balance. The crocheted kufi falls off his head onto the cobbles at the crossroad, as he fixes his eyes on the relative safety of the city below.
Behind him the door of the one-storey building next to the Bo-Kaap's Schotschekloof mosque bursts open for the second time. Six men, also in traditional Islamic garb, rush out onto the street all looking immediately, instinctively downhill. One has a pistol in his hand. Hurriedly, he takes aim at the figure of Ismail Mohammed, already sixty metres away, and fires off two wild shots, before the last, older man knocks his arm up, bellowing: 'No! Go. Catch him.'
The three younger men set off after Ismail. The grizzled heads stand watching, eyes anxious at the lead they have to make up.
'You should have let him shoot, Sheikh,' says one.
'No, Shaheed. He was eavesdropping.'
'Exactly. And then he ran. That says enough.'
'It doesn't tell us who he's working for.'
'Him? Ismail? You surely don't think ...'
'You never can tell.'
'No. He's too ... clumsy. For the locals maybe. NIA.'
'I hope you are right.' The Sheikh watches the pursuers sprinting across the Chiappini Street crossing, weighing up the implications. A siren sounds up from below in Buitengracht.
'Come,' he says calmly. 'Everything has changed.'
He walks ahead, quickly, to the Volvo.
From the belly of the city another siren begins to wail.
She knew the significance of the footsteps, five o' clock on a Friday afternoon, so hurried and purposeful. She felt the paralysis of prescience, the burden. With great effort she raised up her defences against it.
Barend came in, a whirlwind of shampoo and too much deodorant. She didn't look at him, knowing he would be freshly turned out for the evening, his hair a new, dubious experiment. He sat down at the breakfast counter. 'So, how are you, Ma? What's cooking?' So jovial.
'Dinner,' said Milla, resigned.
'Oh. I'm not eating here.'
She knew that. Christo probably wouldn't either.
'Ma, you're not going to use your car tonight, are you.' In the tone of voice he had perfected, that astonishing blend of pre-emptive hurt and barely disguised blame.
'Where do you want to go?'
'To the city. Jacques is coming. He's got his licence.'
'Where in the city?'
'We haven't decided yet.'
'Barend, I have to know.' As gently as possible.
'Ja, Ma, I'll let you know later.' The first hint of annoyance breaking through.
'What time will you be home?'
'Ma, I'm eighteen. Pa was in the army when he was this old.'
'The army had rules.'
He sighed, irritated. 'OK, OK. So ... we'll leave at twelve.'
'That's what you said last week. You only got in after two. You're in Matric, the final exams ...'
'Jissis, Ma, why do you always go on about it? You don't want me to have any fun.'
'I want you to have fun. But within certain limits.'
He gave a derisory laugh, the one that meant he was a fool to put up with this. She forced herself not to react.
'I told you. We will leave at twelve.'
'Please don't drink.'
'Why do you worry about that?'
She wanted to say, I worry about the half-bottle of brandy I found in your cupboard, clumsily hidden behind your underpants, along with the pack of Marlboro's. 'It's my job to worry. You're my child.'
Silence, as if he accepted that. Relief washed over her. That was all he wanted. They had got this far without a skirmish. Then she heard the tap-tap of his jerking leg against the counter, saw how he lifted the lid off the sugar bowl and rolled it between his fingers. She knew he wasn't finished. He wanted money too.
'Ma, I can't let Jacques and them pay for me.'
He was so clever with his choice of words, with the sequence of favours asked, with his strategy and onslaught of accusation and blame. He spun his web with adult skill, she thought. He set his snares, and she stepped into them so easily in her eternal urge to avoid conflict. The humiliation could be heard in her voice. 'Is your pocket money finished?'
'Do you want me to be a parasite?'
The you and the aggression were the trigger, she saw the familiar battlefield ahead. Just give him the money, give him the purse and say take it. Everything. Just what he wanted.
She took a deep breath. 'I want you to manage on your pocket money. Eight hundred rand a month is ...'
'Do you know how much Jacques gets?'
'It doesn't matter, Barend. If you want more you should ...'
'Do you want me to lose all my friends? You don't want me to be fucking happy.' The swearword shook her, along with the clatter of the sugar bowl lid that he threw against the cupboard.
'Barend,' she said, shocked. He had exploded before, thrown his hands in the air, stormed out. He had used Jesus and God, he had mumbled the unmentionable, cowardly and just out of hearing. But not this time. Now his whole torso leaned over the counter, now his face was filled with disgust for her. 'You make me sick,' he said.
She cringed, experiencing the attack physically, so that she had to reach for support, stretch out her hand to the cupboard. She did not want to cry, but the tears came anyway, there in front of the stove with a wooden spoon in her hand and the odour of hot olive oil in her nose. She repeated her son's name, softly and soothingly.
With venom, with disgust, with the intent to cause bodily harm, with his father's voice and inflection and abuse of power, Barend slumped back on the stool and said, 'Jesus, you are pathetic. No wonder your husband fucks around.'
* * *
The member of the oversight committee, glass in hand, beckoned to Janina Mentz. She stood still and waited for him to navigate a path to her. 'Madam Director,' he greeted her. Then he leaned over conspiratorially, his mouth close to her ear: 'Did you hear?' They were in the middle of a banqueting hall, surrounded by four hundred people. She shook her head, expecting the usual, the latest minor scandal of the week.
'The Minister is considering an amalgamation.'
'Which Minister?'
'Your Minister.'
'An amalgamation?'
'A superstructure. You, the National Intelligence Agency, the Secret Service, everyone. A consolidation, a union. Complete integration.'
She looked at him, at his full-moon face, shiny with the glow of alcohol, looking for signs of humour. She found none.
'Come on,' she said. How sober was he?
'That's the rumour. The word on the street.'
'How many glasses have you had?' Light-hearted.
'Janina, I am deadly serious.'
She knew he was informed, had always been reliable. She hid her concern out of habit. 'And does the rumour say when?'
'The announcement will come. Three, four weeks. But that's not the big news.'
'Oh.'
'The President wants Mo. As chief.'
She frowned at him.
'Mo Shaik,' he said.
She laughed, short and sceptical.
'Word on the street,' he said solemnly.
She smiled, wanted to ask about his source, but her cellphone rang inside her small black handbag. 'Excuse me,' she said, unclipping the handbag and taking out her phone. It was the Advocate, she saw.
'Tau?' she answered.
'Ismail Mohammed is in from the cold.'
Milla lay on her side in the dark, knees tucked up to her chest. Beyond weeping she made reluctant, painful discoveries. It seemed as though the grey glass, the tinted window between her and reality, was shattered, so that she saw her existence brilliantly exposed, and she could not look away.
When she could no longer stand it, she took refuge in questions, in retracing. How had she come to this? How had she lost consciousness, sunk so deep? When? How had this lie, this fantasy life, overtaken her? Every answer brought greater fear of the inevitable, the absolute knowledge of what she must do. And for that she did not have the courage. Not even the words. She, who had always had words, in her head, in her diary, for everything.
She lay like that until Christo came home, at half past twelve that night. He didn't try to be quiet. His unsteady footsteps were muffled on the carpet, he switched on the bathroom light, then came back and sat down heavily on the bed.
She lay motionless, with her back to him, her eyes closed, listening to him pulling off his shoes, tossing them aside, getting up to go to the bathroom, urinating, farting.
Shower, please. Wash your sins away.
Running water in the basin. Then the light went off, he came to bed, climbed in. Grunted, tired, content.
Just before he pulled the blankets over himself, she smelled him. The alcohol. Cigarette smoke, sweat. And the other, more primitive smell.
That's when she found the courage.
2
1 August 2009. Saturday.
Transcription:Debriefing of Ismail Mohammed by A.J.M. Williams. Safe House, Gardens, Cape Town
Date and Time:1 August 2009, 17.52
M: I want to enter the program, Williams. Like in now.
W: I understand, Ismail, but ...
M: No 'buts'. Those fuckers wanted to shoot me. They won't stop at trying.
W: Relax, Ismail. Once we've debriefed you ...
M: How long is that going to take?
W: The sooner you calm down and talk to me, the sooner it will be done.
M: And then you'll put me in witness protection?
W: You know we look after our people. Let's start at the beginning, Ismail. How did it happen?
M: I heard them talking ...
W: No, how did they find out you were working for us?
M: I don't know.
W: You must have some sort of idea.
M: I ... Maybe they followed me ...
W: To the drop?
M: Maybe. I was careful. With everything. For the drop I did three switch backs, got on other trains twice, but ...
W: But what?
M: No, I ... you know ... After the drop ... I thought ... I dunno ... Maybe I saw someone. But afterwards ...
W: One of them?
M: Could be. Maybe.
W: Why did they suspect you?
M: What do you mean?
W: Let's suppose they followed you. They must have had a reason. You must have done something. Asked too many questions? Wrong place at the wrong time?
M: It's your fault. If I could have reported via the cellphone, I would have been there still.
W: Cellphones are dangerous, Ismail, you know that.
M: They can't tap every phone in the Cape.
W: No, Ismail, only those that matter. What have the cellphones to do with this?
M: Every time I had to report, I had to leave. For the drop.
W: What happened after the drop?
M: My last drop was Monday, Tuesday, the shit started, there was a discreet silence between them. At first I thought it was some other tension. Maybe over the shipment. Then yesterday I saw, no, it was only when I was around that they got like that. Subtle, you know, very subtle, they tried to hide it, but it was there. Then I began to worry, I thought, better keep my ears open, something's wrong. And then this morning, Suleiman sat in council and said I must wait in the kitchen with Rayan ...
W: Suleiman Dolly. The 'Sheikh'.
M: Yes.
W: And Rayan ...?
M: Baboo Rayan. A dogsbody, a driver. Just like me. We worked together. Anyway, Rayan never said a word to me, which is really strange. And then they called Rayan in too, for the very first time, I mean, he's a dogsbody like me, we don't get called in. So I thought, let me listen at the door, because this means trouble. So I went down the passage and stood there and heard the Sheikh ... Suleiman ... when he said, 'We can't take any risks, the stakes are too high.'
W: The stakes are too high.
M: That's right. Then the Sheikh said to Rayan: 'Tell the council how Ismail disappears'.
W: Go on.
M: There's no going on. That's when they caught me.
W: How?
M: The Imam caught me at the door. He was supposed to be inside. They were all supposed to be inside.
W: So you ran.
M: I ran, yes, and the fuckers shot at me, I'm telling you, these people are ruthless. Intense.
W: OK. Let's go back to Monday. At the drop you talked about 'lots of sudden activity' ...
M: The last two weeks, yes. Something's brewing.
W: Why do you say that?
M: The Committee used to meet once a week, for months. Now suddenly, it's three, four times. What does that tell you?
W: But you don't know why.
M: Must be the shipment.
W: Tell me again about the phone call. Suleiman and Macki.
M: Last Friday. Macki phoned the Sheikh. The Sheikh stood up and went into the passage so that I couldn't hear everything.
W: How did you know it was Macki?
M: Because the Sheikh said, 'Hello, Sayyid'.
W: Sayyid Khalid bin Alawi Macki?
M: That's him. The Sheikh asked Macki as he was walking away, 'Any news on the shipment?' And then he said, 'September', like he was confirming it.
W: Is that all?
M: That's all I heard of their conversation. Then the Sheikh came back and told the others, 'Bad news'.
W: Bad news. Do you know what that means?
M: How would I know? It could be because the shipment is small. Or the timing is wrong. It could be anything.
W: And then?
M: Then they left, the Sheikh and the two Supreme Committee members. They went off to the basement. Then you must know, it's top secret.
W: Would you say the shipment is coming in September? Is that the conclusion you came to?
M: Best guess.
W: Is that a 'yes'?
M: That is what I think.
W: And the shipment. Have you any idea what it is?
M: You know, if it is Macki, it's diamonds.
W: What does the Committee want with diamonds, Ismail?
M: Only the Supreme Committee knows that.
W: And no one else talked about it?
M: Of course they talked about it, on the lower levels. But that is dicey intel, you know that.
W: Where there's smoke ... What did the lower levels say?
M: They said it was weapons. For local action.
W: What do you mean?
M: That was the rumour. They wanted to bring in weapons. For an attack, here. For the first time. But I don't believe that.
W: A Muslim attack? In South Africa?
M:Ja. Here. Cape Town. The fairest Cape.
3
2 August 2009. Sunday.
On the sixth floor of the Wale Street Chambers, in the director's office of the PIA, the Presidential Intelligence Agency, Janina Mentz studied the transcript with focused attention. When she had finished, she took off her glasses and placed them on the desk. She raised her hands to rub her eyes.
She hadn't slept well, the news of the previous evening gnawed at her, the amalgamation rumour. Strange enough to be true. Or partially true.
And what would become of her?
She was seen as an Mbeki appointment. The former president had created the PIA. Although Mentz had not picked sides in the leadership struggle, although she and her people did excellent work, the stigma clung. On top of that she was new, only three months as director, no proven record with which to negotiate for a new position. And she was white.
How much of the rumour was true? Mo Shaik as head of the superstructure? Mo, brother of Shabir, the convicted, corrupt Shabir, former friend of the new president.
Anything was possible.
So many years of service. So much struggling and striving, so much hard work to get here. Only to lose it all?
No.
Janina Mentz lowered her hands and put on her glasses.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Trackers"
by .
Copyright © 2010 Deon Meyer.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
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