by Ian Patrick
‘A guy called Spikes.’
7 SATURDAY
09.10.
Ryder arrived for his meeting with Van Rensburg and was introduced to three of what he assumed were the Industrial Technician’s colleagues. Koos Van Rensurg looked like any other normal cop, thought Ryder. His colleagues all looked like hobbits. Threadbare jerseys, long unkempt beards, coffee breath, stained teeth, dirty shoes. But expert hackers and geniuses, all of them. Ryder had never heard the word ‘algorithm’ used so many times in one meeting.
It didn’t take long for the geeks to explain to the detective the various ways they could do this task for him. They explained what they needed to track the cell-phone whose number Themba had so freely provided. The number that Ryder had tested on Skype.
Ryder then received a quick outline lesson in cell-phone triangulation. There was also some discussion about how to secure the cell-phone service provider’s co-operation, about central switch tracking, and about the use of rogue towers. In addition, there was a separate and quite detailed lesson on the relevant legalities. This part of the discussion involved a few nods and winks and innuendoes among the hobbits, and Ryder saw that in this kind of surveillance there was not only a tightening legal framework but a concomitant growing expertise in how to circumvent the legalities.
Ryder was intrigued as the geeks rattled through the possibilities that were on offer for tracking cell-phones.
It was much simpler than inserting a bug in a phone, according to the geeks. Just a week ago Van Rensburg had prepared a phone for Ryder’s team, to be used in a tracking exercise. But that had been done by Van Rensburg himself, because he happened to be geekless on the day in question, with his guys all out on the road. So he decided on that occasion to use his own initiative and he provided Ryder’s team with a fairly outdated but usable bug, to be used not just as a homing device but as an eavesdropping device as well.
The geeks now offered their own views, and Van Rensburg took a back seat for a while.
‘There’s a process known as multilateration,’ said Geek One.
‘Multiliteration?’ asked Ryder.
‘Multilateration,’ said Geek Two.
‘Oh,’ said Ryder.
‘Yes,’ said Geek Three. ‘To put it simply, we measure the difference in the distance to a couple of cell towers at locations we know that broadcast signals at given times. We call this UTDOA, meaning Uplink Time Difference of Arrival.’
‘Or we can use something we call AOA or Angle of Arrival,’ said Geek One.
‘Or there’s EOTD,’ said Geek Three.
‘Enhanced Observed Time Difference,’ clarified Geek Two.
‘OK, thanks’ said Ryder. ‘I think I’ll skip on those. I think I get the broad picture...’
The geeks now explained to Ryder how they would set up a new trace for him, and they undertook to be in contact with ‘friends and connections’ in various service providers to try and find any information on the movements of and usage of this particular telephone number between Sunday evening and the present.
‘I suppose you won’t be able to do that until after the weekend?’ Ryder said to Geek One.
‘On the contrary,’ replied Geek Two.
‘The guys that we know in this business extend this kind of stuff into their weekend hobbies,’ added Geek Three. ‘They’re on this full time. Of course we could, if you prefer, go the formal route.’
Hobbit hobbies, thought Ryder. Maybe he could get his children into this. Who needs Playstation 5?
‘No, not at all. I’m in your hands,’ he replied.
In a separate request, based on little more than a hunch, Ryder specifically wanted to know of any details they might obtain about the use of the particular phone throughout Wednesday, when he knew that Mkhize and Thabethe had been in contact, according to the information provided to the detective by Mkhize’s mother.
‘No problemo,’ came the chorused response.
They asked Ryder a few more questions and then he had the sense that they wanted him to leave them to it. Doubtless because what they needed to do would not be observing strict protocols, thought Ryder.
As he walked away, Ryder thought back on Thabethe’s role in all of this. If the old gogo was to be believed - and everything Ryder had ever learned about human nature suggested to him that she was entirely trustworthy - Thabethe was interested in finding out more information about one Detective Jeremy Ryder.
Why?
It could only be because Thabethe knew from Mkhize that Ryder was the detective hunting him down.
Time to see Mkhize.
10.15.
Mkhize took a call from Big Red himself. Another public phone. But Mkhize’s instinct told him this time that he had better take the call.
The big mlungu wanted to know how much stuff their mutual friend was interested in buying. When told that the deal was worth only twelve thousand rands the big man expressed some consternation. He had been expecting a much bigger deal than that, given the risk he was taking, he said, and appeared ready to back out of the deal.
Within seconds Mkhize took a snap decision and decided to join the deal. Thabethe would understand, he mused. Besides, there would be a better price for both of them if they bought the stuff in bigger quantities. Mkhize saw dollar signs ahead for himself.
The call ended with the agreement that Thabethe would be bringing along fifty thousand rands in cash. Big Red was taking no chances. He had not yet decided the time and place of the meeting. He said he would call again, and hung up.
Mkhize now had to let Thabethe know that the deal had just quadrupled. How would he take that? Thabethe never did joint deals. Always acted alone, thought Mkhize. How would he take the news that Mkhize had taken it upon himself to become his partner in a whoonga deal?
Should he break his rules on cell-phone use and call Thabethe now, or should he wait until he had to call him anyway with the details of the meeting with Big Red?
He decided to hold back. In the meantime he would amass the cash from every one of the secret hiding places he had in and around Nomivi’s Tavern.
11.35.
‘Jeremy?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Van Rensburg.’
‘Hullo, Koos. Don’t tell me you already have something for me?’
‘That’s right, Jeremy. My guys are damn good.’
‘I can see that, Koos. Are they actually SAPS employees, or freelancers? I didn’t have a chance to ask you when I was leaving.’
‘You thinking about the clothes they wear, Jeremy?’
‘Well, no, not really...’
‘Nee, man, they’re not cops, those ouens, Jeremy. No one could really think so, hey, to look at them? But they’re often in my area because we have an agreement with them. They’re private, and there’s a, like, informal agreement with me that when they work for me they don’t have to come in wearing smarts or anything.’
‘Oh. Yes. I see. Interesting, and if any smartass visiting SAPS Brigadier pops in during the week? And asks questions about who they are and about their interesting hairstyles and stuff…?’
‘No, man, Jeremy, you should see these guys, what they can do with hairpins. Amazing. They can look almost human if they want to, you know what I mean?’
‘Anyway, Koos...’
‘Anyway, Jeremy, but let me explain briefly how and why we work with these guys. There’s quite a bit of stuff we could never do on our own. Resources and people, you know? You remember when there was a lot of stuff going on about how we should work more with the Community Crime Prevention okes, and different towns and cities in the country were doing their own thing with community surveillance?’
‘Yep. I remember the debates.’
‘Some SAPS stations in some towns were just doing small stuff - dealing with car guards and community marshalls, and stuff like that. But others got involved big time with the big business and community guys who were the hell in with crime statistics, and who wanted to put t
heir own money in to improve things. So pretty soon there were a whole lot of new professional security and surveillance companies paid not by SAPS but by businesses and communities. Many of them using the really good retired cops and paying them much more than they ever got in the SAPS.’
‘So I heard.’
‘Ja, well, no. It all happened so fast that there was no way they could regulate it properly. You couldn’t tell who was who in the zoo, you know? What was the role of the National Intelligence Agency, and what was the role of the local SAPS Station Commander, and stuff like that. So it meant that the law was not clear, and the okes were just running in and spying on anyone without getting proper warrants and stuff, you know? So the private security industry was all over the place. They tried to set up proper co-operative partnerships with individual police stations and business guys in towns, but what was really needed was a country-wide agreement between private security firms and SAPS. Instead there grew up a whole gemors where some things were out-sourced because it was easier to get around the law on some things but not others. There was a lot of stuff centred in one office. They called it the ‘interception centre’ there in Jo’burg.’
‘Sandton.’
‘There’s it, Jeremy. That one, and there was the National Communications Centre, where they had moerse technology and expertise and experience and those guys could tap into any citizen’s private life, you know? Cell-phone and house-phone conversations, texts and emails could all be intercepted by the guys.’
‘Who did they report to?’
‘Ag. They worked for SAPS, the intelligence agencies, the National Prosecuting Authority, the State Security Agency, both domestic and foreign. Even the military crime intelligence guys, and it was all supposed to be done in terms of RICA.’
‘RICA?’
‘Wait for it, Jeremy. Only you Engelse can come up with this wording. Regulation of Interception of Communications and Provision of Communication-related Information Act. Act 70 of 2002, as I remember. Only came properly on board a couple of years later. But since then the law has tightened up big time. So now we often need judges signing off on the work, and this is based on heavy evidence before the judge will be persuaded to issue what they call an ‘interception direction.’ But we still manage to get around some of this stuff by using the kind of guys I work with. The okes you met this morning. Don’t tell anyone, hey Jeremy? We try our best, but sometimes we need to bend the law a bit, you know?’
‘Don’t worry about me, Koos. I think your guys are amazing. If they can get me what I’m looking for...’
‘Let me tell you what we’ve found.’
Van Rensburg laid it all out. They had tracked phone number one, as they called it, along the R74 on Sunday, and traced it to the Blythedale bush where it stayed still for about five hours until around midnight. Then it went on the move, slowly, as if on foot, for a few hours and then made its way a bit faster, probably in a car, before midday to Durban. It was switched on and off a few times during the day, but there was a call on Monday night at 21.30 to a second cell-phone. The hobbits then traced that cell-phone number. Phone number two. No name yet, but they were working at it. In the meantime they noticed that number two called number one on Wednesday at 10.15 and again on Thursday at exactly 13.00. But it was the Wednesday call from number two to number one that was particularly interesting, because two hours later number one then called a third cell-phone. Phone number three was an interesting one, Van Rensburg said.
‘Why is that, Koos? What’s special about phone number three?’
‘We were able to get some good help from the service provider, Jeremy. In the weeks leading up to Sunday, phone number three was something of a favourite with phone number one, and vice-versa. The relationship between phone number one and phone number two only started for the very first time on Monday night. No contact at all between those two phones before then.’
‘Could that be, Koos, because, for example, someone stole number one, or found number one, and started calling an old friend? Number two?’
‘Could be. Sounds just like that. But then why would he also phone number three, who was an old favourite, if he didn’t know him?’
‘Testing, maybe? Maybe number three was listed on the device as a favourite of his?’
‘Could be. That’s what we think. But there’s something else.’
‘Hit me, Koos.’
‘Number one had number three as a favourite, but he also had another favourite. Let’s call it number four. So, numbers one, three and four were calling each other a helluva lot in the weeks leading up to Sunday. Then from Monday there were no calls between one and either three or four until the Wednesday midday call to number three. And here’s the thing.’
‘What, Koos?’
‘Just before number one called number three, on Wednesday at, let’s see, that was at 12.23, just before that he called number four at 12.22. But it looks like there was no communication with number four. Just dialled, connected, and nothing. Maybe left a message. Maybe hung up when it went to voice-mail.’
‘So maybe number one was testing the favourites, found number four not answering, and found number three willing to talk? At, what did you say, 12.23 Wednesday?’
‘Daarsy, Jeremy.’
Ryder was scribbling notes. Then, at the detective’s request, Van Rensburg agreed to get the geeks onto finding further information on numbers one, three and four, and, separately, tracking number two’s recent movements. And he agreed to Ryder’s request that he call it in as each piece of the information came together, rather than waiting for the full picture to be available.
‘Sure thing. But there might be a bit of a pause during the Sharks game against the Bulls, Jeremy. Hope that’s OK?’
‘Definitely OK, Koos. I appreciate what you guys are doing, believe me. My wife’s recording the game for me, so whatever you do don’t tell me the score when you call. We want to watch the recording tomorrow.’
‘OK Jeremy.’
Ryder was able to piece all of this new information together with what he already knew, but he hadn’t himself shared all he knew with Van Rensburg. His own late-night Skype call to phone number one was something he wanted to keep entirely to himself for now. But by the end of the conversation he was able to sketch out for himself a likely scenario. Or was he being too optimistic? Maybe it was more realistic to think of a possible scenario. What would Nadine say? Don’t get to theories too soon, Jeremy. Let the facts take us to the theory, not the other way around. Maybe.
Whatever way he approached this, there was one thing that was certain. Spikes Mkhize was near the centre of this thing. Or not too far from it. Maybe number two.
And he had a funny feeling that Thabethe himself was even nearer the centre. Maybe dead centre. Maybe number one.
12.05.
Thabethe had not been able to contain himself. He used a public phone again, and this time Mkhize answered promptly, not knowing whether or not the caller might be Big Red.
Thabethe’s first reaction to Mkhize’s news was an extremely angry one. Mkhize putting in three times the amount of money for a seventy-five per cent share of the deal? It was not what Thabethe had had in mind at all. But on the other hand, if Mkhize’s thinking was right and it meant greater leverage on the price, then it might be worth doing. And Mkhize had by now proven his loyalty.
The call ended in agreement. Made even more acceptable to Thabethe by Mkhize undertaking to deliver thirty-eight thousand rands in cash to him later today, in good time for tomorrow’s deal. They settled on a meeting at 3.15 exactly, across the road from KFC.
With that undertaking, Mkhize proved to Thabethe that he was definitely the only person on the planet that Thabethe could trust.
12.10.
‘Jeremy?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Van Rensburg.’
‘Hullo, Koos.’
‘Jeremy, I got something else for you, quickly.’
‘Shoot, Koos.’
‘Remember I said that phone numbers three and four were favourites with phone number one?’
‘Yup.’
‘And I told you that number one called number three at 12.23 on Wednesday and had a little chat?’
‘Yup.’
‘Well, number three himself also made two very interesting calls on Wednesday, both calls to one number. Firstly, just before nine o’clock in the morning on Wednesday. Then again just after he had finished speaking to phone number one at 12.25. Want to know who number three called?’
‘Hit me, Koos.’
‘He called a number at SAPS Durban North. On both occasions he spoke to a guy called Constable Maishe Manaka.’
13.10.
Big Red left the build-up of traffic on Margaret Mncadi and turned across the railway tracks into the entrance to Wilson’s Wharf. He eased his red Lamborghini LP700-4 Aventador into a parking space right in front of the Royal Natal Yacht Club, and unloaded his enormous body from the car. He looked all around him as he emerged. He turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees on the spot, primarily because the left eye couldn’t do the rotation without some help.
Satisfied that no-one was paying particular attention to him, he set off, aiming for the end of the pier. He carried a small bundle, half the size of a shoe-box, wrapped in rags.
His huge, muscular biceps rippled out of the sleeves of the tight T-shirt, proudly displaying the two intertwined snakes on the right forearm. It was a tattoo that was replicated in a duplicate copy on the left upper arm. His rippling six-pack signified a combination of long steroid use and exhaustive gym training with weights. A truly impressive physique. Which earned him fear and respect. Usually.
The suntan he normally sported had faded after nearly a week in hospital, and his skin was more of a dull grey rather than the customary pink burn for which he was well known. His face was severely bruised and swollen under the mop of red hair, the effect of a big cop’s fist smashing into his face only a week ago, coupled with a head-butt that he hadn’t seen coming. In his own view, he had been taken off guard and smashed to the ground by someone he could normally very easily take apart with his bare hands in a straight hand-to-hand combat situation. The element of surprise had worked against him on the day in question. The cop had been lucky. Next time he would make sure. He wouldn’t be taken again. Next time they met he would take the cop down for good.