The Redbreast(58)

need a recommendation from the hospital to be

able to apply for a travel permit.’

‘And now you’re afraid I’ll put a spoke in your

wheel?’

‘Your father is on the governing board.’

‘Yes, I could create problems for you.’ He

rubbed his chin. The intense stare had fixed itself

on to a point on her forehead.

‘Whatever happens, Christopher, you can’t stop

us. Uriah and I love each other. Do you

understand?’

‘Why should I do a favour for a soldier’s

whore?’

Helena’s mouth hung open. Even from someone

she despised, someone who was clearly acting in

passion, the word stung like a slap. But before she

managed to answer, Brockhard’s face had

crumpled as if he were the one to have been hit.

‘Forgive me, Helena. I . . . damn!’ He abruptly

turned his back on her. Helena wanted to get up

and leave, but she couldn’t find the words to

liberate herself. His voice was strained as he

added: ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you, Helena.’

‘Christopher . . .’

‘You don’t understand. I’m not saying this out of

arrogance, but I have qualities which in time I

know you would grow to appreciate. I may have

gone too far, but remember that I always acted with

your best interests at heart.’

She stared at his back. The doctor’s coat was a

size too big for his narrow, sloping shoulders. She

was reminded of the Christopher she had known as

a child. He’d had delicate black curls and a real

suit even though he was only twelve. One summer

she had even been in love with him. Hadn’t she?

He released a long, trembling breath. She took a

pace towards him, then changed her mind. Why

should she feel sympathy for this man? Yes, she

knew why. Because her own heart was

overflowing with happiness although she had done

little to come by it. Yet Christopher Brockhard,

who tried every day of his life to gain happiness,

would always be a lonely man.

‘Christopher, I have to go now.’

‘Yes, of course. You have to do what you have to

do, Helena.’

She stood up and walked to the door.

‘And I have to do what I have to do,’ he said.

30

Police HQ. 24 February 2000.

WRIGHT SWORE. HE HAD TRIED ALL THE KNOBS ON

THE overhead projector to focus the picture,

without any luck.

Someone coughed.

‘I think perhaps the picture itself is unclear,

Lieutenant. It’s not the projector, I mean.’

‘Well, at any rate, this is Andreas Hochner,’

Wright said, shielding his eyes with his hand so

that he could see those present. The room had no

windows, so when, as now, the lights were

switched off it was pitch black. According to what

Wright had been told, it was bug-proof too,

whatever that meant.

Besides himself, Andreas Wright, a lieutenant in

the Military Intelligence Service, there were only

three others present: Major Bård Ovesen from

Military Intelligence, Harry Hole, the new man

from POT, and Kurt Meirik, the head of POT. It

was Hole who had faxed him the name of the arms

dealer in Johannesburg. And had nagged him for

information every day since. There was no doubt

that a great number of people in POT seemed to

think that Military Intelligence was merely a

subsection of POT, but they obviously hadn’t read

the regulations, where it stated that they were

equally ranked organisations working in

partnership. But Wright had. So, in the end he had

explained to the new man that low priority cases

had to wait. Half an hour later Meirik had rung to

say that this case was top priority. Why couldn’t

they have said that at the outset?

The blurred black and white image on the screen

showed a man leaving a restaurant; it seemed to

have been taken from a car window. The man had

a broad, coarse face with dark eyes and a large,

ill-defined nose with a thick, black, droopy

moustache beneath.

‘Andreas Hochner, born in 1954 in Zimbabwe,

German parents,’ Wright read from the print-outs

he had brought with him. ‘Ex-mercenary in the

Congo and South Africa, probably involved with

arms smuggling since the mid-eighties. At nineteen

he was one of seven men accused of murdering a

black boy in Kinshasa, but was acquitted for lack

of evidence. Married and divorced twice. His

employer in Johannesburg is suspected of being

behind the smuggling of anti-air missiles to Syria

and the purchase of chemical weapons from Iraq.

Alleged to have supplied special rifles to Karadzic

during the Bosnian war and to have trained snipers

during the siege of Sarajevo. The last has not as yet

been confirmed.’

‘Please skip the details,’ Meirik said, glancing at