Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  Two hundred years ago it was a farm, and an outstretched white beach where the wintry northwester spat up the wrecks of sailing ships like driftwood. A hundred and thirty years ago it was the third biggest town in the Cape Colony. And fifty years ago it was one of the very few suburbs in South Africa where brown, black, and white could live undisturbed side by side under apartheid, before it decayed ever faster into poverty, with all the social evils that brought with it.

  The minibus taxi dropped Tyrone off in Victoria Road, where the neighbourhood was going through a systematic revival – new boutiques, décor, and old-fashioned furniture shops existed comfortably beside old businesses selling hardware and motor vehicle spares. Office buildings, warehouses, and old bakeries were being restored, and to the south more and more yuppies were buying the pretty old houses.

  But when Tyrone jogged north up Sussex Street, this sense of resurgence evaporated rapidly. The little houses here were dilapidated, squat and poor, despite the lovely old Cape architecture. Like the one on the corner of Wright Street, a corrugated-iron building bearing a weathered, insignificant sign, red letters on a blue background, indicating that it was the home of PC Technologies.

  The veranda was secured with heavy-duty, white-painted burglar bars, and the door to the street was protected by a security gate. Apparently to keep thieves out. But also to allow for time, should the SAPS appear with a search warrant. Because PC Technologies belonged to Vincent Carolus, a specialist in the handling, cleaning, and fixing of new, second-hand and stolen computer and related equipment.

  Carolus grew up in Begonia Street, Mitchells Plain, only three houses from where Tyrone and Nadia lodged with Uncle Solly. Nobody knew how he acquired his first personal computer, but everyone knew that at fourteen he was already a technology wizard. He had been called ‘PC’ ever since.

  He was one of only five people at this present moment who knew what Tyrone’s true occupation was. The other four were also dealers in stolen goods.

  Tyrone stood gasping for breath at the steel door. He pressed the button under the video camera, hurriedly and perhaps a touch too hard.

  It took fourteen seconds before the electronic lock opened.

  29

  The owner of the big house in Ella Street wept unashamedly, uncontrollably. Mbali sat beside him. She held the man’s hand tightly, her face twisted with sympathy.

  ‘How am I going to tell my wife?’ the man kept asking.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mbali every time.

  They waited for him to calm down a little, then asked him the usual questions.

  In Cape English he told them that his daughter had been studying fashion design. She had so many plans. She was only twenty-four years old. ‘And now she’s gone.’

  Mbali comforted him again.

  They asked him whether anything was missing from the house. He said nothing that he had noticed.

  They asked whether his daughter had been to the Waterfront today.

  ‘No, she was home. She would have called if she . . . She did not go out much.’

  Griessel took out his cellphone, retrieved the photo of Knippies, and showed it to the man.

  ‘Do you know this person?’

  ‘Was it him?’ he asked, shock and horror in his voice.

  ‘No, sir, we don’t think it was him. Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, he is my tenant. Why are you showing me his photograph if it wasn’t him?’

  ‘We think the person who came into your house might have been looking for him. He rents a property from you?’

  ‘No. Yes . . . He lives out in the back. In the servants’ quarters. What has he done?’

  ‘Right here? At the house?’

  ‘Yes, behind the garage.’

  Cupido moved towards the door. ‘I’ll go and look.’

  Griessel nodded. ‘Does he work for you?’

  ‘No, we are renting it as a flat . . . What has he done? What is he mixed up in?’

  ‘Sir, please,’ said Griessel, ‘at this stage we know very little. And we are hoping you can help us.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I always thought . . . I never believed him.’

  ‘We want to know everything, but right now, can you please tell us his name?’

  ‘Tyrone Kleinbooi.’

  ‘Do you know where we can find him?’

  ‘I don’t know. He is . . . He says he’s a painter. He does contract work, all over. We . . . I hardly see him.’

  ‘OK. How long has he been renting from you?’

  ‘From the beginning of the year.’

  ‘Do you have a prior address for him?’

  ‘He used to live somewhere in Mitchells Plain. I don’t have the address.’

  ‘Do you have any information about his family?’

  ‘I don’t know if he . . . I . . . I don’t know. We advertised the fl at, last year in November. And he came to see us. He was very well mannered, looked like a good boy. He told us this story, about him being an orphan. Him and his sister, they were . . . they lived in Mitchells Plain, with old people who brought them up, and then they died. And he said his sister was going to university to become a doctor, and he was a painter, and most of the work was in and around the city, so he wanted to rent. He had the deposit, he paid on time, every month. My wife . . .’ He began to sob again, they could see him struggling to bring himself under control. ‘My wife really liked him. He would come and talk to her. Just talk. Like he wanted . . . like he would to a mother . . .’

  ‘Sir, do you know at which university the sister is studying?’

  ‘Stellenbosch. That’s what he said. But I . . . I thought it was a little too sad to be true, being orphans, you know. And her studying medicine. I thought he just told us all that to get the flat, because there were other people who wanted it too. But my wife said we must help the less fortunate, and that he’s a good boy . . .’

  He began to cry again, then said, ‘How am I going to tell my wife?’ ‘That’s heavy encryption, my bru,’ said PC Carolus. He was two years older than Tyrone, but short and swish – always decked out in modern labels. Even the big black-rimmed glasses were fashionable.

  ‘How heavy?’ asked Tyrone in the dusky room. They were both staring at the computer screen where PC had opened the memory card.

  ‘AES heavy. 128-bit heavy.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘AES is Advanced Encryption Standard. That’s way heavy.’

  ‘But you can do anything.’

  ‘No, not that. Maybe if I had months.’

  ‘So what is it?’

  ‘It’s an encrypted ZIP file,Tyrone.’

  ‘Like I know what that means.’

  ‘It’s like . . . a ZIP file is like a box. Something is stuffed into the box, but you don’t know what the contents are until you open the box. And this box can’t be opened because there’s a lock on it. A heavy lock, that’s the 128-bit encryption. And you can only open it if you have the key. And I’m assuming you don’t have the key?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘I rest my case.’

  ‘So what do you think is in there?’

  ‘Tyrone, wiet jy what’s in a box if you just look at the box?’

  ‘Well, if it says fragile on it, then you know . . .’

  ‘But here’s fokkol written on the box. It can be anything – a few porn movies, a shit-house full of documents, pirated software . . . anything digital. You understand?’

  ‘OK. But you can copy it?’

  ‘Now let me get this straight. You come in here, it looks like you’ve been beaten up real good, you walking funny, and with all due respect, you look kwaai jumpy to me. But you say nothing and you know I won’t ask. Now I scheme you want to pull a digital scam. You, who don’t even know what a ZIP file is?’

  ‘It’s not a scam, PC, it’s an ace in the hole.’

  PC shook his head. ‘Wiet jy wat jy doen? Do you really know what you’re doing?’

&n
bsp; ‘Ek wiet, ja.’

  ‘And you’re not going to tell me?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘OK, cool, my bru’, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Ja, you can copy it. Anybody can copy a ZIP file. You just can’t open it if you don’t have the decryption key.’

  ‘OK, and you can substitute it, so no one can see the difference?’

  ‘If you decrypt it, yes, you will mos see it’s not the same stuff in the box.’

  ‘I understand that, but sê nou you make a box that looks just like this box. And when the guy looks he just sees a box, but he doesn’t know there’s other stuff in the box. Can you do that?’

  ‘Of course. If you make the file the same size, and you make the file name the same, and you push it through 7-ZIP for AES encryption, nobody will know the difference. But if they try to decrypt it, then you’re in your moer.’

  Tyrone thought for a moment.

  ‘Maybe if you tell me what you want to do, I can help you,’ said PC Carolus.

  Tyrone hesitated, weighed up the possibilities. He said, ‘Here’s the deal. There’s a guy who wants this card with a sore heart. But he owes me. And if I give him the card, he can take it and run. And I don’t get what I want.’

  ‘So you want insurance.’

  ‘Just so.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  In the little room where Tyrone Kleinbooi lived, the cupboard doors and drawers were pulled open. The floor was strewn with clothing, most of it black, dark grey, or dark blue. Cleaning products and cloths, a few bits of cutlery, and some documents were spread in front of the sink.

  ‘Even if the pickpocket was in a big hurry, I don’t think it was him who did this. It was the Cobra. And he was looking for something,’ said Cupido. ‘But look at this first.’ He led Griessel to the bathroom.

  In the corner of the small room lay a thin black sweater. Cupido picked it up with his rubber gloves and held it up for Griessel to see. It had a long, blood-clotted tear across the back. ‘That’s a lot of blood,’ said Cupido, ‘looks like he was badly cut. And look there by the shower and the basin. Blood washed off. The pickpocket was here. In the last hour or two.’

  ‘Shooter followed him?’

  ‘Must be. And no fresh blood. The pickpocket escaped, I think. Maybe he saw the Cobra coming.’

  ‘His sister is a student,Vaughn, we must . . .’

  ‘Look, there on the floor, in there. Those invoices from Stellenbosch. For a Nadia Kleinbooi.’

  They walked back out to the room. Cupido had to pick up the documents, because Griessel was not wearing gloves.

  ‘There’s an address. West Side 21, Market Street, Stellenbosch 7613.’

  Griessel looked up from the document in concern. ‘Vaughn, the shooter could have seen this too.’

  ‘Fok,’ said Cupido.

  And right on cue, Mbali appeared in the doorway, like their conscience.

  Tyrone sat at one of the little tables in Shireen’s Kitchen. The aroma of the peri-peri chips Gatsby made him realise suddenly how terribly hungry he was. He gobbled his food in a hurry, washing it down with Coke. Before he was finished, his mouth still stuffed with bread and chips, the Nokia rang, an ancient tune as ringtone. It was the first call that he had received on it, and he didn’t immediately realise it was his phone. He gulped the food down, took the phone out of his pocket.

  Nadia’s number.

  ‘Hello,’ he said as he rose to his feet, not wanting the man behind the counter to overhear. He walked out into the cacophony of Victoria Street where the hooters of the minibus taxis shrilled and bellowed back and forth like migrating herds.

  ‘Nadia tells me you don’t have a car.’The same accented voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you have the wallet you stole?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you have money.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I want you to take a taxi. Do you know the Fisantekraal Airfield?’

  The pronunciation was so odd that he couldn’t decipher the words.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘Fisantekraal Airfield.’

  ‘No, I’m not going.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I’m not going there. If you want the card, I will tell you where we will meet.’

  ‘You want me to kill your sister?’

  ‘No, I want my sister alive. But you want the card. Let me tell you where I will meet you,’ he said, and he wondered whether the man could hear how wildly his heart was beating.

  30

  It was while he was walking away from the Company Gardens an hour ago that Tyrone had begun to understand the whole thing.

  He realised that there was something on the memory card that this guy wanted so badly that he, cool like a swimming pool, strolled in at the V&A and blew away five mall cops, in cold blood, with not even a blink of those chilly eyes. The man had shadowed him all the way to Schotsche Kloof, then had gone and kidnapped Nadia in Stellenbosch. Broad daylight. Capital crimes. Serious, serious stuff.

  You didn’t do that for a memory card with your holiday snaps on it. You did that for something with more value than Tyrone could imagine. And you wanted it back with a vengeance.

  He realised it was a fact he could use. Leverage. And that was what he needed. Because he had to get Nadia out of this mess, clean and quick.

  And that was when he grew angry. What sort of cunt involved innocent women? If you want the card, motherfucker, you come after me. But nobody messes with my sister. He had never tolerated that, not since he was five years old. And he was going to keep it that way.

  Tyrone wanted to hurt the bastard. He wanted to punish him. Get revenge.

  Then he thought, steady now, don’t get ahead of yourself. Just get Nadia back first, keep her safe.

  But how was he going to do that?

  You ask yourself, Ty, what is your exit strategy? Doesn’t matter where you steal, you’ve got to have an exit strategy. Just in case.

  And slowly he put together a rough plan, and with PC Carolus, he added the finishing touches. And now Tyrone stood on the pavement in Victoria Street, with buses and lorries, cars and taxis rushing and rumbling by, the tension gnawing at him, cellphone to his ear, as he waited for the man to answer. It took some time, and it sounded as though the man was holding his hand over the phone.

  Then the voice was back suddenly. ‘Where?’

  ‘Be in Bellville at ten to three. And then you call me on this phone.’

  ‘No. You will meet me next to the Fisantekraal Airfield at that time.’

  ‘No.’

  With as much firmness as he could muster.

  ‘I am now going to hurt your sister. I am going to shoot her through the left knee, and then the right one. She will be . . . un infirme . . . a cripple. Then I will shoot her in the elbows . . .’

  Tyrone’s body twitched, but he knew there was only one way to get himself and Nadia out of this alive.

  ‘If you touch my sister, if you hurt her in any way, I will burn this card. I am not stupid. I saw you kill five guys. I know you will kill us anyway when you get the card, so don’t try to fool me. But I swear I will give it to you if Nadia is there and she is not hurt. I will give it to you when you have let her go. But if you touch her, I will destroy this card.’

  Again the phone was muffl ed. Then, ‘You think you are very clever. It is a bad mistake. I warn you: if you are not alone, I will shoot your sister, and I will shoot you. If you don’t show up, I will kill her, and I will hunt you down, and I will kill you slowly. If the card is not there, or if it is damaged, I will kill you.’

  ‘OK.’

  Fear made his voice hoarse.

  ‘Where in Bellville?’

  ‘At the corner of Durban and Voortrekker Roads. Ten to three. Then call me. And bring a laptop or something. I want you to check the card. I don’t want any misunderstandings.’

  Griessel and Cupido switched their cellphones on when they we
re on the N1.

  The instruments beeped in a duet of text messages. Benny saw he had five voicemails, four from the same number: the Hawks’ Bellville office.

  He called, and listened. Nyathi’s voice:‘Benny, I need you to contact me very urgently. I need you to terminate the investigation of the Cobra case immediately and return to the office. You, Vaughn, and Mbali. Immediately.’

  He deleted the message and listened to the next three. All from the Giraffe, all to the same effect, but his voice growing increasingly urgent and impatient.

  The last one was from Alexa: ‘Benny, I left you some meals in the fridge – there’s something for every evening. Miss you already. I will phone tonight, when the function is over. Love you. Bye.’

  He felt guilt at the relief that washed over him. He could sleep at home. And his little rascal was safe, for the next few nights at least.

  He put the phone down. Cupido had also finished listening.

  ‘Nyathi?’ he asked.

  ‘Ja,’ said Cupido. ‘We have to go to the Kremlin. Mbali as well.’

  ‘Call her.’

  ‘Do you think The Flower is going to answer her cellphone while she’s driving?’

  Griessel slowed down and moved to the left lane. They would have to wait for her to pass and then try and get the message to her through the window. All a waste of time. They had to get to Stellenbosch. He was deeply concerned about Nadia Kleinbooi.

  The Metro train station at Woodstock had recently been refurbished. The concrete and steel building was painted the green and blue of the sea, but it was already looking shabby.

  Tyrone barely saw it. He waited on the platform for the train to Bellville, and thought about his scheme. He knew he could not make it work on his own. He needed an assistant.

  A pickpocket has no friends,Tyrone. You can’t trust anyone, that’s why. Nobody. So, if you want to be the life of the party, if you want to make friends and influence people, go and sell insurance.

  He would have to buy a friend. And that never comes cheap.

  He would have to exchange the four hundred British pounds for rands. And that was always a losing deal, because the Nigerian money-changers ripped you off. The exchange rate was thirteen rand to a pound. If you got eight, you were lucky.