Crowbar closed the door behind him and stood surveying the flat. He wore blue jeans, a white, collared shirt and a tan canvas jacket, none of which disguised his obvious military bearing. ‘Nice set-up you’ve got here, broer,’ he said. And then, glancing at Clay’s weapon: ‘Expecting company?’
Clay slid his Beretta back into his waistband. ‘Jesus Christ, Koevoet. You scared the kak out of me. I thought it was BOSS coming to get me.’
Crowbar walked to the fridge, opened it, grabbed two beers. ‘Power’s off,’ he said, popping off the tops against the windowsill, handing one to Clay. ‘They’re warm.’
‘This is Africa, bru.’
‘Ja, ja. TIA.’
‘What the hell are you doing here, Koevoet?’
‘I thought you’d be glad to see me.’
Clay raised his bottle. ‘Jesus, Koevoet, I am. I am. It’s just you’re the last person I would have expected to walk through that door, that’s all. I almost put a slug through you.’
Crowbar smiled, drank, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You always were a jumpy one, Straker. I guess I should have called ahead.’
Clay smiled. ‘It’s good to see you.’
Crowbar frowned, finished his beer. ‘It’s taken me a while to find you.’
A fizz ran through Clay’s legs, echoed in his ankles. ‘How long?’
Crowbar waved this away. ‘Doesn’t matter, Straker. Not now.’
Clay drank, his mind spinning. How long had Koevoet been here, looking for him? And why? He was the one who’d told him, all those months ago back at 1-Mil, to leave South Africa, run as far away as he could.
‘But I did find you, Straker. You should be more careful.’
‘Why are you here?’
Crowbar reached into his jacket, produced a manila envelope, and threw it onto the table. ‘This is for you.’
Clay opened the envelope and slid the contents out onto the table. A British passport, a birth certificate, and his military ID card. The passport was out of date, the picture unrecognisably young, the face innocent, smiling – a younger version of him. Clay leafed through the passport, examined the birth certificate. Now, finally, he could get out.
‘Dankie, Koevoet,’ he said. ‘Jesus. It couldn’t have been easy getting these.’
‘It wasn’t.’
When Clay looked up, Crowbar had a gun in his hand.
Clay wasn’t surprised. He’d rarely seen Crowbar without a weapon. But why had he drawn it now? ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
‘Nothing, Straker.’ Crowbar levelled the gun at Clay’s chest.
‘What are you doing?’
‘This isn’t easy, Straker.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Reach back and lay that Z88 on the floor for me, bru. Nice and steady.’
‘What the fok?’
‘Just do it, Straker.’
Clay did as his Liutenant asked. By now, his insides were tumbling.
‘Kick it over.’
Clay sent the gun skidding across the floor. Crowbar stooped and picked it up, stashed his own gun in his jacket pocket, and levelled the Z88 at Clay’s chest.
‘What the hell is going on, Koevoet?’ said Clay, scared now, angry. ‘What the fok are you doing?’
Crowbar scuffed the floor with his boot, took a deep breath. ‘I was ordered to come here and find you, Straker.’
‘Since when does the army send field officers to track down deserters?’
‘It wasn’t the army.’
‘Who then?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Crowbar. ‘What matters is that some very powerful people thought it important enough to send someone like me all the way here to find you.’
‘Talk sense, for Christ’s sake, Koevoet.’
Crowbar shook his head. ‘What did you do, seun? I told you to leave, to get out. Instead you go and get yourself mixed up in something you don’t even understand.’
‘I understand enough.’
Crowbar shook his head again. ‘No, Straker, you don’t.’
‘You came all this way to tell me that?’
‘No, seun, I didn’t.’
‘For what then?’
Crowbar frowned. ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet?’
‘You’re here to take me back.’
‘No, Straker. I’m sorry. I’m here to kill you.’