Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  He deleted it.

  The third was from Emma Graber of the British Consulate.

  ‘Captain, I would really appreciate it if you could give me a call.’ She provided her personal cell number, and concluded: ‘It’s really urgent.’

  Fuck you, he thought, and deleted it.

  The fourth was from Janina Mentz again. ‘We’re reasonably sure now why the Brits got our government’s cooperation so easily. This could help you. Call me.’

  He deleted it, not without a measure of satisfaction. Because all of them – along with the arrival of Criminal Intelligence, and the calls from the national and the DPCI commissioners, meant only one thing: the bastards of the SSA had made no progress with the investigation. They were all desperate now.

  The fifth voicemail was from Bellville SAPS commander. ‘Benny, hier’s nou ’n ding. Something’s come up. Call me, please.’

  He called.

  ‘We had a strange phone call at the charge office, Benny,’ the colonel said. ‘A guy who said the shooting at the train station was Flats gangsters. And the girl in the hospital is a target, she knows the big guns, she has information that could be very damaging to them. And there’s a contract out on her: now I want to know, does that match with the thing you are investigating?’

  It took Griessel a while to realise what was going on. ‘Yes, Colonel.’

  ‘So there is a real risk?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel. Will you be able to allocate people for protection?’

  ‘I have already sent two uniforms.’

  Griessel shook his head. Two uniforms, against the Cobras. ‘They might not be enough, Colonel. These guys are dangerous.’

  The colonel sighed. ‘I don’t really have more people, Benny. And my overtime budget . . . You know how it is.’

  Griessel pondered the dilemma. There was no one at the Hawks who could help. Not with CI on the way, not with SSA eavesdropping, not with the danger that each of them that they coopted could lose their job and career. But he knew what would convince the colonel.

  ‘I understand, Colonel. It’s just . . . if the media finds out you knew about the risk . . .’

  The station commander sighed deeply. ‘Yes, I know. Let me see if I can spare two more.’

  Griessel suspected that even four constables would not be enough.

  They had to hope that things would work out so that more comprehensive protection of Nadia Kleinbooi would not be necessary.

  The sixth message was from Jeanette Louw of Body Armour. ‘Captain, I would love to know how the investigation is going. Remember your promise.’

  What could he tell her now?

  And technically speaking, it was SSA’s problem now.

  He deleted her message.

  The seventh message was from Ulinda Radebe. ‘Benny, we’re back. Where are you? We have five photographs and names. Five potentials. Call me.’

  He ran back to Nyathi’s office to discuss this development.

  ‘We can’t involve them too, Benny,’ said the Giraffe. ‘Ulinda has four kids. Vusi takes care of his mother. Given the choice, I’m sure they’ll both insist on taking the risk, but I’m not going to do that. Let me handle it. I’ll get the names and the photographs, I’ll tell them we’ve been taken off the case.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Then he ran to the car park, where the others were waiting for him.

  They drove to Sea Point – Mbali, Cupido, Bones, and Griessel – to Dave Fiedler, the most respected freelance operator in the business.

  On the way, Benny tested his theory on his colleagues. He said the key to the hunt lay in the rucksack that Tyrone Kleinbooi had with him this morning at the Waterfront. The deleted video showed Tyrone had it on his back when he was apprehended by the security men. But when he ran away after the shooting, he was without it. The Cobra team member had a similar rucksack in his hand when he followed Tyrone.

  And he was sure Tyrone’s phone was in that rucksack, and that cellphone was their only way to catch the murderers.

  Cupido asked him why he was so certain the cellphone was in the rucksack.

  Because the Cobras, said Griessel, did not track down Nadia in Stellenbosch through her address details on the university account in Tyrone’s room in Schotsche Kloof. That account showed her flat address. But Nadia had told him and Mbali how she had been in class the whole morning. And then someone had called from Tyrone’s phone, and said he had picked it up on the pavement in the city, and made an appointment to meet her on campus. That was where they had kidnapped her.

  ‘I still don’t get it,’ said Bones. ‘How are we going to catch them based on that information?’

  ‘Because Nadia says as far as she can remember, the Cobras used Tyrone’s phone to talk to him. All afternoon.’

  ‘So Tyrone has another phone as well.’

  ‘I think Tyrone has two other phones. Three in total. Or at least one other phone and two SIM cards.’

  ‘How do you figure that out, Benna?’ asked Cupido, his technology mentor, who was frequently sceptical of his apprentice’s ability to grasp all the nuances.

  ‘There is the phone that was in the rucksack. Let us call it Phone One. That is the one the Cobras have now.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘There is the phone that he used around one o’clock to call Nadia on her iPhone. The number was on Nadia’s register. Phone Two.’

  ‘Check.’

  ‘But tonight, while we were with Nadia at the hospital, he called her again, from another number, but definitely a cell number. Phone Three.’

  ‘Check. That pickpocket is a canny coloured.’

  ‘But now we know Tyrone wants to continue to negotiate with the Cobras. And how is he going to contact them?’

  ‘By calling the phone that was in his backpack,’ said Mbali. ‘Phone One. Because the Cobras still have it.’

  ‘We hope,’ said Griessel.

  ‘So we try and plot Tyrone’s phone?’ asked Bones.

  ‘We try and plot all three phones,’ said Griessel. ‘So we can find him and the Cobras.’

  Cupido was driving, but he took a moment to look at Griessel with amused pride. ‘Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ said Griessel, pleased with himself.

  ‘Then we and Dave Fiedler will have to get a move on. Before the pickpocket completes his payback.’

  Tyrone put the three phones in a row on the guest room dressing table. He made doubly sure they were all off. He propped Number Three in his recharger, because tomorrow it was the one that had to be fully loaded.

  He hung up his jacket, trousers, and shirt in the cupboard. He laid out clean underwear for the next morning. He placed the pistol beside the bed.

  He gulped down another two Panados, pulled the duvet back, and slid into the bed.

  Jirre, that was good.

  One day, when all these troubles were over, he would like to ask the aunty here what kind of mattress this was.

  He would surely be able to afford one, with two point four million stashed away.

  Then he thought about Nadia, and he prayed that the cops would take his call seriously. He had used his best Flats Afrikaans, had used all the slang of the gangs, he had dropped a few names of known mob bosses, he had said there was a contract out for any gang member who walked into the hospital and shot her.

  It wasn’t easy, because when you said it, then you saw it, here in your head.

  And that’s the last thing he wanted to see. Because it was his fault.

  But he mustn’t think about that now. Let him go over his plan. Bit by bit, step by step. He had picked the turf that he knew.

  Work the places you know,Ty.

  And everything was geared so that, when all was said and done, he could get to his sister quickly.

  Just in case. Because he wasn’t going to crook anyone, he would keep his part of the bargain
.

  But you never knew. And he was a pickpocket with a pistol now.

  Outside the rain suddenly slashed against the window, rattling and raging.

  And he thought, at least his plan was reasonably weatherproof. Unless it rained so much that the trains stopped running.

  When they turned out of Buitengracht into Helen Suzman Boulevard, Griessel’s ZTE phone rang.

  He answered.

  ‘Benny,’ said Zola Nyathi. ‘I think we can be fairly sure there are five Cobras. The photographs don’t show much of their faces, probably because they were aware of the cameras, had their heads down and were all wearing some sort of disguise – hats, caps, glasses, bandanas, or scarves. But they are all mid-thirties, probably. Military types. Which isn’t conclusive, of course. But then there are the names. I’m not sure about the pronunciation: Hector Malot, Raoul de Soissons, Jean-Baptiste Chassignet, Xavier Forneret, and Sacha Guitry. I’ll SMS them all to you. But Vusi had an idea, while they were waiting for their flight back. He googled the names. And that’s why I’m sure they are all part of a team. All the names belong to famous French authors. Famous deceased French authors.’

  51

  Dave Fiedler handed Griessel’s SAPS identity card back to him. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me, china,’ he said in a rich baritone.

  He was chunky and hairy – short beard and moustache, hair growing out of his ears, hair out of his nose, hair that pushed out from under the collar of his grey pullover, like plants reaching for light.

  They were standing at the door of 2A Worcester Street in Sea Point, the double-storey where Fiedler lived and worked. The four of them only just fitted in under the small porch, with the rain falling in a thick, hissing curtain behind them.

  ‘We’re not kidding. Just get us out of the weather,’ said Cupido.

  Fiedler stood aside and waved them inside, his luxuriant eyebrows raised in disbelief.

  ‘I hope you have a warrant,’ he said when Griessel walked past him.

  ‘We don’t need a warrant, we need your help.’

  ‘No wonder it’s fucking raining,’ said Fiedler, and shut the door behind Bones.

  ‘I will not tolerate such language,’ said Mbali. ‘Have some respect. I’m a lady.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ said Fiedler, but so quietly that only Bones, right at the back, could hear him. He walked ahead, to a large room – probably once a sitting room before he had converted it into work space. To the left against the wall was a table with a coffee machine, mugs, sugar, and milk, beside a conference table with eight chairs. To the right was a long, low table with a couple of computers. There were film posters on the walls.

  The story was that Fiedler had emigrated here seven years ago from Israel, a former senior member of the Israeli army’s legendary Unit 8200. This unit not only produced, according to the rumours, the most sought-after technology alumni in the world, but had also developed much of the programming and apparatus that Fiedler now used to do digital detective work for private investigators, the security industry, and the public.

  Nobody knew why he addressed everyone that lived and breathed as ‘china’.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, and he pointed at the table. ‘There’s a fresh pot of coffee, so help yourselves. I hope you brought the doughnuts . . .’

  They didn’t get the joke. He shook his head.

  ‘What’s with the posters?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘Have you seen the movies?’

  Cupido read the titles: American Pie, Blue Thunder, EDtv, Enemy of the State, The Bourne Supremacy, Minority Report, Cape Fear, 1984, The Osterman Weekend, La Zona.

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘What do they have in common?’

  Cupido shook his head.

  ‘Surveillance flicks,’ said Fiedler. ‘And they all get it wrong . . . So the first thing I tell a new customer, if he wants movie tech, he should go watch a movie.’ He stood beside the table, clearly still not at ease. ‘This is very weird, but I’ll play along. What can I do for you?’

  Griessel took out his notebook, and tore the page out. ‘We want you to plot these three numbers.’ He slid the page across the conference table. ‘We want to know where the phones are, and we want to know which numbers called them today.’

  ‘For starters,’ said Cupido.

  Fiedler stared at Griessel with an expression that said he was waiting for the punch line of the joke.

  When it was not forthcoming, he said, ‘You’re from the Hawks, it said on your ID.’

  ‘You’d better believe it,’ said Cupido.

  ‘And you want me to plot three numbers for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Griessel.

  ‘And you can’t ever tell anybody that this happened,’ said Cupido. ‘If we hear even a whisper that you mentioned this, ever, we will make your life a misery.’

  Fiedler laughed, a short, deep guffaw. They didn’t react. ‘It’s the end of the world,’ he said. ‘God’s truth.’

  Mbali made a disapproving sound.

  ‘You’re gonna pay me?’ asked Fiedler.

  ‘You talk money, you talk to me,’ said Bones. ‘What is your rate?’

  ‘This is real. This is actually real,’ said Fiedler, pulling up a chair and sitting down. He looked at the numbers. ‘Where are the IMEIs?’ He pronounced it in the trade lingo, eye-me-eyes.

  ‘We don’t have them.’

  ‘I should have known. Then it’s going to take a while, china.’

  At ten thirty-five, Dave Fiedler spoke out, from behind one of his computers: ‘That second number has been static in Bellville since four o’clock.’

  They sat around the conference table. They were familiar with the art of waiting. Each was busy with his own thoughts.

  ‘Where in Bellville?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘Boston. Frans Conradie Drive, about halfway between Duminy and Washington. Google Earth shows a place called Brights Electrical.’

  ‘He’s still there now?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘Yep.’

  Griessel stood up. ‘Static. Completely static at the same place?’

  ‘Yep. Phone’s on, but no calls or texts. Last call was made at fifteen fifty-two.’

  Griessel walked to the computer screen. ‘How accurate is the plotting, the position of the phone?’

  ‘About fifteen metres. But because it’s been static, I’d say closer to ten.’

  Cupido also came close. They looked at the screen, where Fiedler had Google Streetview open.

  ‘Those are flats there beside Brights,’ said Cupido. ‘On both sides.’

  ‘Could it be in those fl ats?’ Griessel asked Fiedler, and pointed at the screen.

  ‘Yes. Probably the one on the right.’

  ‘And it’s near the hospital,’ said Griessel. ‘Let’s go.’

  They walked quickly to the door. Griessel stopped. ‘And the other phones?’

  ‘I’ll tell you in ten . . .’

  ‘Call me on this number,’ said Griessel and scribbled it down hurriedly on a page in his notebook, tore it out and passed it across to Fiedler.

  They drove up the N1 with the siren on and the blue light balanced on the dashboard, from where it frequently slid off into Griessel’s lap.

  Just beyond the N7, Fiedler phoned. ‘What you call Phone One has been off for the past two and a half hours, china. Plotting says it was all over the place today. Smack in the city, then the Waterfront, then all the way to Stellenbosch, then Bellville . . .’

  ‘What was the last location?’

  ‘The R304.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s the road that runs from Stellenbosch all the way to Malmesbury. Before it was switched off, the phone was about three kilometres from the R312 crossing. That’s the one running from Wellington to Durbanville.’

  Griessel knew the area. ‘But there’s nothing there.’

  ‘That’s right, china.’

  ‘Do you have the call registry yet?’

&
nbsp; ‘Nope. But it’s coming.’

  ‘And Phone Three?’

  ‘Phone Three was on for just eleven minutes, about three hours ago. It made one call. From Somerset Road in the vicinity of the Cape Quarter mall.’

  That was when Tyrone phoned Nadia in the hospital.

  ‘That’s it? Just the one call?’

  ‘Just the one. And then it was switched off.’

  Cupido switched the siren and light off when they turned out of Mike Pienaar Drive into Frans Conradie.

  Griessel said they would have to use the old trick to get into the fl ats without a warrant: tell the residents there was a very dangerous, heavily armed murderer in the area. He might be hiding in one of the fl ats at that very moment, they just wanted to secure everything.

  ‘Then we focus on the flats that don’t want to let us in.’

  Bones grinned. ‘You old salts,’ he said, but with respect.

  They paired off and went to knock softly on all the doors of the Darina apartment block in 12th Avenue, Boston. White and brown faces opened doors warily. The team displayed their identity cards, apologised for the inconvenience, and spun their tale.

  Everyone allowed them in, wide-eyed, standing frightened at the door while their humble one- and two-bedroom spaces were searched, for Tyrone Kleinbooi.

  Less than a quarter of an hour later they were back on the pavement in front of the building.

  ‘Maybe it’s that block over there.’ Mbali pointed at the flats on the other side of the big, red Brights facade.

  There too, and in the rooms above the Boston Superette, they found nothing except shocked and anxious residents.

  They called Dave Fiedler, who went through his computers again and said the phone was still there, right where they were.

  It was Cupido, ever bold and impulsive, who looked at the long row of rubbish bins in front of the Brights steel gate and said: ‘He dumped the phone.’

  None of them was keen to brave the minimal shelter of the facade’s narrow overhang, where the cold rain splashed down, to rummage in the contents of the filthy rubbish bins.