Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  ‘I don’t know where the station is.’

  ‘OK. You carry on straight down Durban Road. When you cross Church Street, you start looking for parking. There are always a few spots available. And then you call me again.’

  The man didn’t answer him. He waited, heart hammering in his chest. The man broke the silence, ‘OK.’

  Tyrone cut the connection. The security man gave him one last look, turned, and walked away. Tyrone looked up at the M11 bridge.

  Bobby had disappeared.

  Griessel battled to find the entrance to West Side in Stellenbosch’s Market Street where Nadia Kleinbooi lived. The apartment blocks were hidden behind an old Victorian house, the sliding gates had to be opened electronically with an access system. And when he parked outside and walked to the entrance, he saw there was no reference to a caretaker on the small keyboard beside the gate.

  It was good news, he thought. If they wanted to harm her, they would have had trouble getting in.

  He pressed twenty-one on the keyboard. Nadia’s fl at number. There was no answer.

  He pressed twenty in the hope of finding a neighbour home.

  Silence.

  He worked from twenty-two up.

  Eventually, at twenty-six, a man’s rough voice rasped over the intercom: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Captain Benny Griessel of the SAPS. I am looking for Nadia Kleinbooi from number twenty-one.’

  ‘I don’t know her.’

  ‘Can you open up, please.’

  ‘How do I know you are from the police?’

  ‘You can come to the gate and see.’

  Ten seconds later the gate began to roll open.

  Panic scorched like a veld fire through Tyrone. His eyes were glued to the concrete rail of the M11, visible just above the Shoprite banner that screamed U Save in red and yellow letters. Bobby’s silhouette was gone.

  Never trust a whitey. Now Uncle Solly’s warning thundered through him. Never trust a whitey, you steal from them, but never do business there, because when the chips are down, we coloureds are the first ones they sell out.

  But he didn’t have a choice, he hadn’t had time. He looked at the clock on the cellphone. 14.51.

  It would only take that guy four or five minutes to find parking in Durban Road. Another three minutes to walk to the end of Kruskal.

  He had seven minutes to track down Bobby van der Walt. And the memory card. Because it was in the pocket of Bobby’s faded, dirty blue overall jacket.

  34

  Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.

  But he panicked anyway, because he didn’t know what else to do. If he ran, it was nearly three hundred metres from here to where the Tienie Meyer Bypass dropped down to Modderdam and you got access to the M11. It was the shortcut route that he had made Bobby take – but you had to also climb over two high wire fences. Not difficult, but it took time. Which he did not have. It would take him at least four minutes to the Modderdam crossing, where he would have a view over the highway. If he didn’t see Bobby then, he was fucked, six ways till Sunday. Because then he would not have enough time to get back and stand here again.

  And the memory card was in Bobby’s pocket.

  Jirre.

  He dithered, this way and that, he tried to control his breathing and the lameness in his knees, he knew he must keep the panic off his face, because that damned security guard with the red beret was lurking around, getting kickbacks from every counterfeit-selling stall owner to keep the suspicious and the overly curious away.

  He had got Nadia into this mess. Now he had better get her out.

  14.54.

  He would just have to stand here and wait, there was no other choice.

  If the guy phoned, he would have to play for time.

  But that’s going to wreck the schedule, because the next train to Cape Town from Bellville D was only at 15.35, platform 11, and the trains were running late, and that meant twenty to, or quarter to four, and that gave that guy twenty minutes to find him and Nadia at the station and take them out with that silenced gun. If he could walk in at the Waterfront and shoot people left, right and centre, he wouldn’t be scared of Bellville Station.

  The blur of a lorry raced over the flyover, but Bobby was missing in action. Had the idiot stood too close to the road, and got run over, the memory card now in its glory?

  14.55.

  The cellphone in his hand rang.

  Deep breath.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have parked.’

  ‘OK. Find Wilshammer Street, you should be close to it. Then walk down Wilshammer Street . . .’ He had to think hard about compass directions, the sun came up on that side: ‘. . . towards the east, to the corner with Kruskal.’

  ‘The corner of what?’

  ‘Kruskal.’ He spelled it in English, slowly and clearly.

  ‘OK.’

  Again he wanted to ask if Nadia was there, if she was safe, but he didn’t. He wanted the guy to think he could see them.

  ‘Call me when you get there. But not from Nadia’s phone. You give her phone back to her, and you use your own phone from now on.’

  And he rang off.

  After two flights of stairs Griessel knocked on the door of 21 West Side. There was glass set into the apartment door. He kept an eye on it, but saw no movement, heard no sound from inside.

  Perhaps she was on campus. Safe.

  He knocked again, but he knew there was no one home.

  He turned away, looked out over Stellenbosch. The place that Vaughn Cupido called ‘Volvoville’. With the usual tirade: ‘Volvos, Benna? Why Volvos? Daai is the most boring cars in automotive history. And ugly. But the rich whiteys of Stellenbosch all drive Volvos. Explain that to me. Just goes to show, money can’t buy you style.’

  That Cupido, really. He didn’t drink – instead he spewed out insults. That was his safety valve. Maybe Griessel should try it too.

  He heard footsteps on the stairs to his right. A young man appeared, walking up. Big and athletic, broad shoulders in a fashionably weathered leather jacket. Griessel’s hand dropped to his service pistol. The young man looked at him, curious.

  ‘Middag,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Goeie middag.’ The Afrikaans greeting made Griessel relax. Black hair, dark brown, smiling eyes. Carla’s age. Must be a student.

  ‘Do you live on this floor?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ he said and walked past Griessel.

  ‘I’m looking for Nadia Kleinbooi.’ Griessel nodded towards the door of number twenty-one.

  The student stopped. ‘Oh.’ He looked at the flat, then back at Griessel. A frown appeared.

  ‘I’m from the police,’ said Griessel. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘The police?’ It was as though something fell into place. ‘Why are you looking for Nadia?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  The student came closer. The frown had disappeared, but now there was a different anxiety on his face. ‘Is it about the kidnapping?’

  ‘What kidnapping?’

  ‘On campus. The whole varsity knows about it.’ His voice became anxious. ‘Was it Nadia?’

  ‘I’m not aware of any kidnapping,’ said Griessel.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you genuinely from the police?’

  Just wing it, thought Tyrone, there was no other choice now. His eyes were glued to the M11 bridge, in the dwindling hope that Bobby van der Walt would appear. Just wing it. It makes no sense. Didn’t the bum know he was throwing away a hundred bucks? That’s what you get when you do business with dagga smokers.

  Tyrone stood on tiptoe to see if he could spot the Waterfront shooter and Nadia on over by the stalls.

  Nothing.

  Out of the corner of his eye a movement, someone rushing up to him from his right. He leaped in alarm.

  It was Bobby, he realised – eyes wide, gasping for breath, mouth agape. ‘Sorry, brother, sorry. Fokken traffic cop stopping there . . .’ a grubby finger point
ed in the direction of the fl yover ‘. . . and asked me if I was planning to jump. And I said: “Do I look like a jumper?” and the doos said: “Yes” . . .’ Bobby stood bent over with his hands on his knees, wheezing long breaths back into his lungs. ‘Can you believe it?’

  Tyrone wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. ‘Where’s the memory card?’ he asked.

  Bobby slapped the pocket of his overall jacket. ‘Right here.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tyrone, and he stood thinking.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ asked Bobby, starting to catch his breath. ‘That cop stood there and he says to me: “You look a lot like a jumper to me.” And I say: “Nooit, I’m just admiring the view.” And he says he doesn’t want to argue with me, and he doesn’t want a traffic jam. If I want to jump, I’d better jump, just don’t fall anyone moer toe down below. So I just ran. Sorry brother, what do we do now?’

  Tyrone didn’t hear him. His brain was working overtime. His plan had been that Bobby would wait on the flyover for his signal, and when the guy let Nadia go, then he would throw down the memory card. And the guy would have caught it. He might have believed that it was Tyrone up on the highway, he would have known he couldn’t get at him up there. His attention split between the flyover and Nadia. Bobby would have been out of harm’s way. Nadia would be free, he would have grabbed her arm just before the Sport Station, they would have run for the train . . .

  What the hell was he to do now?

  His cellphone rang.

  Bobby stood waiting, his eyes wide and impossibly blue.

  Tyrone looked at the phone. It wasn’t Nadia’s number, but it was a familiar one. His own. His phone that had been in the rucksack, at the Waterfront.

  He answered.

  ‘What makes you think it was Nadia?’ Griessel asked the young man in the leather jacket.

  ‘They said on Twitter it was a coloured girl,’ he said, but his attitude had changed. He was suspicious now.

  ‘The girl who was abducted?’

  ‘Ja. If you’re from the police, how come you don’t know about this?’

  Griessel barely heard him. ‘Do you have a cellphone?’

  ‘Of course I have a cellphone.’

  ‘Could you please make a call for me?’

  ‘Don’t you have your own phones?’ He took a step back.

  Griessel took his wallet out of his jacket pocket, and showed him his SAPS identity card. ‘Meneer, please, will you make a phone call. My phone is out of order.’

  The student’s body language was antagonistic now. He studied the identity card, then said, ‘Sorry, but it looks fake to me.’ He started to move away, towards the stairs.

  Griessel sighed, opened his wallet and put it away. ‘I am going to ask you one more time to make a call.’

  ‘Now you’re getting weird.’

  Griessel unclipped his service pistol from the holster, and pointed it at the young man.

  ‘What is your name?’

  The student froze, raised his hands. Waxen. ‘Johan.’

  ‘Take out your phone, Johan.’

  The student stood there with his hands in the air.

  ‘Drop your hands, take out your phone and call the police station.’

  The mouth opened and shut twice, then he realised what Griessel had said. ‘You want me to phone the police?’

  ‘That’s right. Stellenbosch Station.’

  With visible relief he said, ‘I don’t know the number. Can I google it?’

  ‘I’m at the corner of Wilshammer and Kruskal,’ said the man over the phone.

  Tyrone stared down the long passage, over Charl Malan Street and the alley between the stalls, but there were too many people, he couldn’t see Nadia or the man. And first he had to give Bobby new instructions, a new plan, cobbled together with a slim chance of success, but he was out of time, he had no more choices.

  ‘Wait there,’ he said. ‘Stand in the middle, between the stalls, so that I can see you. So that I can see that Nadia is OK.’

  Silence.

  ‘We are standing in the middle.’

  ‘OK,’ said Tyrone. ‘I will call you back.’

  ‘Merde,’ said the man.

  Tyrone didn’t know what that meant. He rang off and told Bobby, ‘Listen carefully.’

  35

  The student phoned the number of the Stellenbosch SAPS.

  ‘Tell them you want to talk to Brigadier Piet Mentoor,’ Griessel said.

  The student followed instructions with a voice of new-found authority.

  ‘Now tell him to hold for Captain Benny Griessel of the Hawks.’

  The student looked at Griessel with apologetic respect and whispered a low ‘Fokkit’. Then the brigadier must have come on the line, because he said his piece and passed the phone to Griessel.

  ‘Brigadier?’ said Griessel.

  ‘Benny, to what do I owe this privilege?’

  ‘I hear there was an alleged abduction this morning, Brigadier, on campus.’

  ‘You okes are wide-awake, nè. It’s a strange one, Benny.’

  ‘How so, Brigadier?’

  ‘Only one eyewitness who swears high and low that a coloured girl was forced into a car in Ryneveld Street, a Nissan X-Trail. Then he followed the vehicle. In Andringa Street the Nissan stopped, two white men jumped out, shot up the tyres of the car pursuing them, grabbed their cellphones, and raced away. There were five witnesses who saw that happen. But not one of them saw the girl in the Nissan. So we are at least sure of cellphone robbery.’

  Griessel tried to make sense out of it. ‘What time did this happen, Brigadier?’

  ‘Must have been just after one, when the classes stopped for lunch. What’s your guys’ interest in the case, Benny?’

  He hesitated. ‘Brigadier, it might be connected to the thing in Franschhoek. Sunday.’

  ‘Bliksem. Any idea who the girl might be?’

  He would have to lie. ‘No, Brigadier. I gather there was more than one person in the car that was following the X-Trail?’

  ‘Yes, the one who saw the kidnapping, and his friend. Students, both of them. Trouble is, the friend didn’t see anything. They only got a part of the registration. We are following up on that. And there’s one other thing. The bloody students picked up both of the bullet casings in the road. That’s after the tyres were shot out . . .’

  Griessel knew what was to come. ‘Forty-five calibre?’

  ‘That’s right . . .’

  ‘With a snake engraved on them.’

  ‘Hell, Benny . . .’ The brigadier didn’t complete his sentence. Griessel guessed he was putting two and two together.

  ‘Brigadier, are the eyewitnesses absolutely certain there were two gunmen?’

  ‘Yes, Benny. And probably another chap who stayed behind the steering wheel.’

  ‘Three in total?’ He couldn’t believe it.

  ‘That’s what most of them say.’

  ‘And both the gunmen fired off shots?’

  ‘Each one blew one of the front tyres.’

  ‘The snake engraving – was it on both the casings?’

  ‘Both of them. They are here with the detectives, totally contaminated, of course. You can come and have a look.’

  ‘Fok,’ said Griessel.

  ‘OK,’ said Tyrone over the cellphone. ‘Look towards the south. There

  is a big banner that says Shoprite, U Save. Do you see it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Waterfront murderer.

  ‘I want you to walk towards it. Slowly.’

  ‘D’accord.’

  ‘Please speak English.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And stay on the line.’

  Tyrone moved to his right, just in front of A. Gul Cash & Carry, so that he could use the corner of the opposite side of the shopping centre as cover. The guy knew exactly what he looked like, and he didn’t want to be spotted now. But his greater concern was that Nadia would see him, and run to him. Or do something else that could spook the gu
nman.

  There were people blocking his view. He had to twist from side to side to see. He focused on Charl Malan Street, just in front of the flamboyant entrance to Bellstar Junction.

  Still nothing.

  At least Bobby van der Walt was still standing, ten metres away, right in front of the Hello Mobile cellphone shop, his eyes on Tyrone, his forehead furrowed in concentration.

  Then he saw Nadia, and it was like a sudden pain in his chest. Her head hung low and she looked scared and forlorn – she was looking at the ground like someone who had lost all hope. The big bag she always carried over her shoulder to class seemed too heavy for her now. Then the stream of people opened up for a second, and Tyrone saw the man beside her. He had a hoodie over his head now, and he held her right arm tightly, his other hand hidden under his grey hoodie jacket. But from the angle of the elbow and forearm, it looked as if he was holding a firearm.

  Must be a hands-free kit, thought Tyrone. That’s why he’s not holding a phone.

  ‘Stop!’ said Tyrone over the phone.

  Hoodie and Nadia halted.

  Hoodie turned his head slowly. He was checking out everything.

  He looked like a whitey. He didn’t look exactly like the guy from this morning. Maybe it was just the hoodie. But Tyrone’s unease deepened.

  ‘Now cross the road. Slowly.’

  He lost them again in the press of the crowd. He zigzagged, he stooped, he stretched up to see over shoulders, careful not to show too much of himself, and also not to make Bobby think it was some kind of sign.

  He caught sight of them again. ‘Keep walking until you are exactly below the Shoprite sign.’

  And he gave Bobby the signal: his index finger, held up in the air, to show Bobby he must get ready, the hand-over was near. ‘But after that don’t look at me again, Bobby,’ he had explained urgently earlier. ‘That’s crucial, understand?’

  To his annoyance, Bobby now gave a thumbs-up, acknowledging the signal.

  Tyrone nodded vehemently.

  Bobby turned away.

  The bum had remembered.

  Maybe this would work after all.

  Hoodie and Nadia had crossed the road. He steered her past the steel railing, to right under the Shoprite sign.

  ‘OK. Stop, I can see you clearly. Did you bring a laptop?’