by Deon Meyer
Seconds ticked away.
The technician sprayed and tried again. The bolt wouldn't budge. Sprayed again, all the bolts. For a long time. Coupled the socket spanner to the bolt, wrenched at it, determined.
Progress too slow.
'T minus six.'
Still he struggled with the bolts. Quinn's palms were sweating. Rayan was still in the cafe.
'Damn,' said the technician.
'Thirty seconds to make the call.'
He watched the man wrestle with the equipment. One bolt loosened. 'One down.' He removed it, hurriedly.
Rayan was still in the cafe.
Maybe he should put the team in the bakkie on standby, Quinn thought. There was more rust than they had bargained on.
Not yet. Keep that for a last resort.
'Two down.'
'Too slow.'
'Hang on, I'll get them ...'
'T minus five approaching. This is the point of no return. What's your call?'
He heard the technician grunt with effort. 'Three down, it's a go.'
'Roger. Speed it up.'
Rayan emerged from the cafe, plastic bag with milk hanging from his forearm, the newspaper in his hands, his eyes scanning the headlines.
Take your time, Baboo.
'Four down. It's out.'
Quinn saw the old dish handed down to the assistant. He put it on the ground and climbed up the second ladder with the new one. He got to the top and took the new screws carefully out of his pocket, passed them one by one to the technician. During the dress rehearsal they had dropped the screws twice, losing precious seconds.
Baboo Rayan reached the Elantra. He lowered the newspaper. Looked across the street, momentarily straight into the TV camera lens. He's a fool, thought Quinn, a moron going through the motions of observation, but seeing nothing. They had had a GPS transmitter on his car for a month, they had been observing him for nearly two weeks, right under his nose, and he was blissfully unaware. He looked, but saw nothing.
Rayan took out his keys and unlocked the door of the Elantra. He tossed the newspaper on the passenger seat and took the plastic bag off his arm ...'
'T minus four.' Behind schedule.
Rayan got into his car.
The assistant pressed the new foot piece against the wall. The technician pushed the first bolt in.
Rayan fiddled with the radio again.
The technician put in two more screws, one after the other. The fourth was the microphone, he had to work carefully, there were thin wires to be connected.
Began tightening the three screws.
The assistant let go and climbed down the ladder and folded it.
Rayan's Elantra began to move.
The assistant took the ladder back to the panel van.
'Microphone going in.'
The assistant came back for the old dish.
'T minus three.'
'Microphone in. Connecting now.'
The assistant packed the old dish away and came back for the toolbox. The technician was having trouble with the delicate wiring.
'Dammit,' he said.
'Connect the TV cable now. We can connect the microphone tomorrow.'
'I'll make it.'
'Do it.'
'Roger.'
The technician connected the TV cable.
The assistant came and stood at the foot of the first ladder, ready to take it.
'TV connected.'
Quinn checked the stopwatch. Rayan was at least a minute away from the corner.
'You have thirty seconds.' He decided to put the intercept team in the bakkie on standby. 'Intercept team, start your engine.'
'Roger.'
The technician was back to working on connecting the microphone wires.
'Twenty seconds.'
Quinn looked at the left-hand monitor. He would be able to see the Elantra come around the corner.
'Ten seconds.'
'Damn, damn, damn.'
'Nine, eight, seven, interceptor team, stand by ...'
'Roger.'
'Connected,' the technician said with great relief.
'Get the fuck out of there,' Quinn couldn't keep the tension out of his voice.
The technician slid down the ladder. The assistant grabbed the ladder. They ran to the panel van. Pushed the ladder in and slammed the door. Went around to the cab.
'Close the gate,' said Quinn sharply. The technician ran.
'Don't run!'
Walked. Closed the little gate. Walked back to the panel van, got in.
They were out of time.
The van drove off.
Ten seconds later Rayan turned the corner.
Quinn gulped and leaned back in his chair. He wiped his palms on his trousers.
'Intercept team, stand down. Gentlemen, that was magnificent. Please test the microphone.'
The voice of the female operator in number 16A was heard for the first time. 'Microphone is a go.'
'Well done,' said Quinn. 'Very well done.'
He switched off his headset microphone. So that he could exhale loudly.
12
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 9 September 2009
Jessica invited me to dinner. She is such an enigma, with her looks she could have been a model.
Highlight of the day: the tango. I struggled with it. Then Mr Soderstrom said the tango is four legs, two bodies, one heart. 'Most dances,' he quoted someone, 'are for people who are falling in love. The tango is a dance for those who have survived it, and are still a little angry about having their hearts so badly treated.' Then I understood.
10 September 2009. Thursday.
They stood staring at the TV screen with grim faces. Rajkumar was the only one sitting. Quinn and Masilo stood.
They watched the video footage of the members of the Supreme Committee arriving within minutes of each other - Suleiman Dolly the last one - and entering the front door of 15 Chamberlain Street.
Via the EAM in the satellite dish support they heard the men talking. The sound was hollow and fuzzy. Rajkumar's team would use programming to refine it later. But it was still good enough to hear the extremists greeting each other, light-heartedly enquiring about each other's health inside the house.
'Come. The agenda this morning is short.' It was probably Suleiman Dolly's voice coming over the system, and the three observers pricked up their ears. Hope burgeoned.
'That's understandable, Sheikh,' said another Committee member.
'Why haven't we had any news yet? We've run out of time,' said another.
'We must just have faith,' said Dolly.
'Allahu Akbar.'
'Come, let us go,' said Dolly.
Quinn looked at Masilo.
'Does that mean what I think it means?' asked Rajkumar. 'Hang on,' said Masilo.
Over the loudspeakers came the sound of feet shuffling. 'They are moving,' said Raj and looked at the blueprints of number 15, which were spread out in front of the big TV screen. The question was, where to? And how well the EAM would work. The loudspeakers fell silent
'Shit,' said Raj. 'They're going down to the basement.' Quinn adjusted the volume. There was a hissing, very faint echoes of a man's voice, but indecipherable.
'Would you be able to filter that?' asked Quinn. Rajkumar shook his head, very disappointed. 'Probably not.' They stood and listened to the speakers, till the last shred of hope evaporated.
'Come on, Raj,' said Masilo, encouragingly. 'We all knew the chances were going to be slim. They are not stupid.'
'I know. But fuck knows, we need a break. I mean, we deserve it. Just a bit of luck.'
'All things come to those who wait,' said Tau Masilo. Rajkumar completed the saying in his usual, pessimistic manner. 'They come, but often come too late.'
11 September 2009. Friday.
Janina Mentz was on her way to the office of the Minister of Safety and Security, three blocks away, for their eleven o'clock appointment
.
She walked erect, full of confidence, in the rain. She had prepared well. In her briefcase was The Report. But that was just the final planting of the seed. First she had to do the spadework, the much more important preparation of the seedbed. She had planned the process, visualised it: the Minister, a jovial man with shaven head and an easy smile, would receive her cordially and ask her to take tea with him. She would accept with thanks. She would sit down, take her time opening the combination locks of the briefcase, take out the file, but keep it on her lap.
He would ask how things were with her, and the Agency. She would say things were going particularly well, thank you, Mr Minister. And thank you for making time on such short notice, but I wanted to bring this to your attention as quickly as possible. Especially in the light of recent events.
She would wait for his reaction, for the raising of an eyebrow and freezing of his smile. Then she would say, choosing her words carefully, that it was a sensitive issue. Too ... awkward to discuss at the weekly Security Meeting.
She would let that sink in. The Minister was a clever man. He would draw the necessary conclusions. Perhaps she would help things along a little by emphasising that only the PIA had access to this information (with a nod in the direction of the file). That it was consequently safe.
And then she would tell the Minister that it had to do with arms dealing.
She would depend on the baggage connected to the last term, baggage that the ruling party and the candidate for the new intelligence superstructure could not shake off. And on the latest controversy, so timeously unleashed by the Opposition. That ought to make the Minister's heart rate speed up. Janina Mentz was depending on it.
Again she would delay, before she made the next, complex revelation.
Sir, there are Muslim extremists involved. And all indications that they are planning an act of terrorism in Cape Town. Using imported weapons ...
That would give him something to ruminate over.
We are going to focus all possible resources on this, because we are so aware of what a difficult position this could place the President.
The Minister would understand what the 'difficult position' meant. Given the arms sales to Iran and Libya.
And then she would slowly raise the file from her lap and place it solemnly on his desk. As if she bore a great weight.
Should you want to discuss this case in any way once you have studied the detail, I am at your service twenty-four hours a day.
Before the Parliament Street crossing Janina Mentz lifted her briefcase to look at her wristwatch. A little too early. She slowed her pace, holding the umbrella tightly while the cold front raged around her.
13
12 September 2009. Saturday.
'You do realise, we are all rejects,' said Jessica the Goddess as she poured more red wine, her words fuzzy from the alcohol. 'All those questions you answered during the interviews, all the psycho-babble like "are you an ambitious person?", it's all bullshit. All they wanted to know was, are you a reject. They like that. A lost cause, an outsider. Damaged goods, well isolated.'
Milla was hardly sober either. Her nod was a bit too effusive.
'I mean, look at us. The rest of the Agency is a model of affirmative action, a perfect reflection of the Rainbow Nation, but we are all white, all over forty, and all fucked up. Theunie was fired from a daily in Jo'burg because he plagiarised a column. Twice. That's why his third wife divorced him. Mac used to be the arts editor at a Johannesburg daily, until they caught him with the mail boy. In the mail room. And you're the runaway housewife. And then there's me. Want one?' and she held out the pack of long thin cigarettes to Milla.
'Thank you.'
Jessica lit her cigarette first, concentrating. Then she raised her glass in a toast. 'To the Scandal Squad.'
Milla did the same, clinking her glass against Jessica's. 'You had a scandal?'
'Oh, yes.'
It was the wine that gave Milla the courage. 'What did you do?'
'You haven't heard?'
'No.'
'Strange.' The Goddess smiled through her perfect teeth. 'Mine being the more interesting, I would have thought Mac would have at least hinted ...'
'Oh, no,' said Milla.
'Well, then, let me share,' said Jessica, and drew deeply on her cigarette. 'I was the parliamentary correspondent for the Times. And then I went and fucked a very senior government official... Don't ask, because I won't tell. Had an affair, for two years. Until his wife walked in on us. Big scene. Hysterics, lots of throwing of small household objects, the most charming death threats. She had me fired. He organised the Agency job. Was a great fuck he was. Speaking of which, when last did you?'
'Me?'
'You.'
'Have a great fuck?' The word surprised Milla as if she didn't know it still inhabited her somewhere.
'Yes.'
'I don't know ...'
'How can you not know?'
'I don't think I've ever had a really great fuck.'
'Never?'
'OK, maybe not never ... the first time was pretty good.'
'With your husband?'
'My ex-husband.'
'You've slept with one man?'
'Well, you know ... I got pregnant, then we had to get married ...'
'Jesus Christ.'
'I know ...'
'Why didn't you have an affair, for God's sake?'
'It.. .Well... I don't think ... I don't know ...'
'Never lived dangerously?'
'No ...'
'And now? You've been single for what, two months already ...'
'I've ...'
'You've been wasting time.' 'I suppose ...'
'Want me to introduce you to someone?' 'No!'
She examined Milla speculatively. 'I love lost causes. We have a lot of work ahead of us.' Milla laughed.
'I'll have to introduce you to the pleasures of the cougar.' 'The cougar?'
'I am, dear Milla, a self-confessed, unabashed ... no, proud, cougar. A ravisher of younger men. Early twenties. Lean, mean, hungry, NSA.' 'NSA?'
'No strings attached. Perfect solution. Hard young bodies, stamina, so very enthusiastic. And a shared dislike of commitment. Love them and leave them.'
'Aaa ...'
'I'm going to set you up ...' 'No, Jess. No, no, no ...'
Operation Shawwal
Transcription: Audio surveillance, M. Strachan. No 14 Daven Court, Davenport Street, Vredehoek
Date and Time: 7 October. 23.32
MS: Christo was handsome. You know how it is, at that age, if a good- looking young man with confidence picks you out from all the rest, and your friends 'ooh' and 'aah'. I had issues with my self-image, I was just so - relieved that he showed interest in me. So .. . grateful ... He was so ... He seemed to be worldly wise, so easy with himself. I don't know if I was ever in love with him. Maybe I'm lying to myself... I was drunk that night. It was Rag Week. Everyone was drunk. That's no excuse, I would have slept with him some time or other, I was ready for it, I wanted to know what it felt like ...
13 September 2009. Sunday.
It was after ten before Milla woke from her drunken slumber.
Fragments of the previous evening milled in her head. Jessica's sensual, drink-befuddled voice: We are all rejects. You're the runaway housewife. You've slept with one man? Never lived dangerously?
Lord, had she really taken part in that conversation? She had, and more. She had told her story, late in the night, the whole truth, in drunken melancholy, and Jessica had held her hand and wept along with her. It was all coming back, and mortification descended on her in waves.
And the worry: how on earth had she got home? She couldn't remember.
She jumped up and looked out of the window and saw her Renault Clio parked there, a small relief, because suddenly the headache began to pound. She climbed back into bed, pulled the covers over her head. She had driven home in her drunken state, she could have caused an accident... She c
ould have been locked up, how Christo would have enjoyed that. How could she do that to her son? 'Was that your drunken mother in the newspaper? The one who ran away?' She couldn't do that sort of thing.
She lay there feeling guilty until she could stand it no longer, got up gingerly, put on her dressing gown and slippers, and shuffled off to the kitchen to get the coffee machine going.
And then thought, well, last night she had lived a little. Of all that she had lost, she had regained at least a little piece.
Transcription: Audio surveillance, J.L. Shabangu (aka 'Inkunzi') and A.
Hendricks, telephone conversation
Date and Time: 13 September 2009. 20.32
S: I have a message for Inkabi.
H: What is the message?
S: The export deal...
H: Yes.
S: The guy who wants to buy the goods, you know? He is in Cape Town. He is an Inkosi...
H: I don't understand Inkosi.
S: Inkosi is a big man. A chief. You know . . . of a . . . company. How can I say? We are in the same business, this buyer and I. . . But his business is in Cape Town...
H: OK.
S: We have heard that his name is Tweety the Bird.
H: Tweety the Bird.
S: That is what we have heard. So we think you can help to find him.
H: OK.
S: And we think the goods are going to travel at the end of the month. Any time from the 24th.
H: Do you know more about the transport and the route?
S: We think it will be by truck, but the route is not certain. That is why you must find this Tweety the Bird. He will know the route. You must make him tell us.
H: OK.
S: I will give you a number. The number will change next Sunday, and then I will call you again. H: What is the number?
14
14 September 2009. Monday.
At 6.46 when Quinn was having breakfast with his wife and two teenage sons in their house in Nansen Street, Claremont, he received an SMS. He glanced at the screen of his cellphone, excused himself from the kitchen table, went into the bedroom and phoned Advocate Tau Masilo.
'Osman is at the airport, on his way to Walvis Bay,' he said when Masilo answered.
'What time does his flight leave?' 'Probably within the hour.'