by Deon Meyer
Date of entry: 7 October 2009
Life is a four-letter word, without dimensions. You live. Or not. Like a switch, on or off. The dimension comes from what we do with it. That makes the difference between living, and a life.
I told Jessica I wanted to do things, to experience. I wanted to live. I thought my new beginning, my new job, my dance classes and plans for a book constituted life. And then I compared it with the life of one Lukas Becker and I knew then that my switch was not yet on.
2 October 2009. Friday.
When Baboo Rayan's Elantra disappeared around the corner of Chamberlain Street, the Telkom bakkie stopped at number 15 - right opposite the front door.
Two technicians got out, one with a small toolbox in his hand, the other with a larger bag and a roll of telephone cord. They went in through the gate and walked purposefully up to the front door.
One technician began unrolling the telephone cord while he examined the wall of the house speculatively as though he intended to install something there. The other crouched down at the front door, his back to the street so that passers-by could not see what he was doing. He opened the toolbox and took out the fibre optic scope. It was a long, thin tube, called a snake cam at the PIA. He slowly pushed the end of the fibre optic scope under the front door, his eyes on the colour screen in the box.
Then he moved the point of the scope back and forth to see as much of the interior as possible.
'Shit,' said Rajhev Rajkumar.
He and Quinn sat watching the monitor in the Ops Room. It showed an enlarged image of what the snake cam recorded in Upper Woodstock.
'These guys are paranoid,' said Quinn. The living room of 15 Chamberlain was a model of security - contact alarms at the doors and windows, motion sensors in two corners - and a CCTV camera in another corner.
'You can't blame them,' said Rajkumar.
'That's enough,' said Quinn over the radio to the technicians. 'Let's get out of there.'
Rajkumar got up with difficulty. 'Well, there goes the mike op .. .You know, I've never seen this ...'
'The security?'
'That too. But this streak of bad luck. Never seen it this long, so much of it. Fluke. The good news is, it will have to change, sooner or later.'
At the Arthur Murray Friday social, Milla Strachan saw Lukas Becker walking across the dance floor towards her.
She was seated at a table with other students, old and young, waiting for the music to begin, making the usual chitchat 'Where are you from?', 'How long have you been dancing?' The lights dimmed, only the dance floor left brightly lit, and the movement caught her eye, so that she looked up and saw him.
Her first, instinctive, impulse was to wave at him, since she knew him. Then she placed him, the circumstances dawned on her and her heart shuddered.
The music began. A foxtrot.
'Shall we dance, Miss Strachan?' Mr Soderstrom, her instructor's voice beside her. She sat dumbstruck for a second. Then she stood up.
The 'bus stop' was designed to allow the Arthur Murray students to dance with multiple partners. The women lined up, the men came past and took the first woman for a circuit, then came back for the next one.
Milla was intensely aware of Becker. Aware of his presence, his dancing ability, his gallantry. And of everything she knew about him. She tried not to look at him.
The timing of the first bus stop ensured that she didn't dance with him. Twenty minutes later, halfway through the second, she was at the front of the row. He approached her, that photo smile on his face, fine perspiration below the hairline of his brush cut, a small bow and then they were dancing and he said, 'I'm Lukas.'
'Milla,' but it came out too quietly. She was weak with nerves, and struggled with the dance.
'Millie?' He was a head taller than her, looking down at her.
'Milla.'
'Milla,' he repeated it, as if he wanted to remember it.
She smelled him. She realised she wasn't dancing well. 'I'm still learning,' she said, apologetic and shy.
'Me too.'
That was the sum total of their first conversation.
'And now, an American line dance,' said the announcer.
Milla hadn't learned it yet. She remained sitting. The music began to play. 'Cotton Eye Joe', country music. She saw Lukas Becker standing in one of the rows with his back to her.
She watched him, saw he was a bit rusty, made a couple of errors. And then it was as if he began to remember, and he danced with more abandon, with pleasure, carefree, near exuberance.
She could recall his scent.
At the end of the line dance he caught her eye and smiled at her.
She looked away quickly.
56
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 2 October 2009
Should I report it? What would I say to Mrs Killian? You'll never believe who came waltzing into the Friday night social?
And then? Then they would send people around to talk to the Arthur Murray studio, like they talked to Christo before? No thank you.
Ten to one I will never see him again in my life.
3 October 2009. Saturday.
Crazy Mamma's Pizzeria and Restaurant in Walvis Bay is a cheerful place on a Saturday night, packed and noisy.
Reinhard Rohn walked in and saw the woman sitting at the long counter at the back of the restaurant. There wasn't a chair vacant near her, so at first he found a place at a table.
He ordered a beer and a pizza, keeping a careful eye on her. She didn't look any better than her photo, late forties, slightly overweight, the hairstyle not flattering.
But she was alone.
Later a chair beside her became available.
He stood up, took his second beer and the half-eaten pizza along.
'May I sit here?' he asked her.
'Be my guest.' Eyes summed him up, a reflex, without much interest. She had finished eating, was drinking something with Coke.
He sat down and ate.
She looked the other way.
'Good pizza,' he said.
At first she didn't realise he was talking to her. 'Oh ... Ja.'
'I usually eat pizza at La Dolce Vita, in Windhoek, in the Kaiser Krone Centre ...'
She shook her head to say she wasn't familiar with it, and evaluated him with more focus.
He pointed at the pizza in front of him. 'This is just as good.' 'You're from Windhoek?' she asked.
'Ja. Here on business. And you?'
'Been here nine years already.'
'Oh? What do you do?'
'I work for a fishing company. Head of Admin.'
4 October 2009. Sunday.
In the morning Milla Strachan sat at the small writing table in her bedroom, in front of her laptop. She had Microsoft Word open. She typed, a new title page:
At Forty
By Milla Strachan
She inserted a page break, then wrote: Chapter 1
And underneath, the first two sentences of her latest attempt, which she had pondered over for a long time - and still wasn't sure if it would work.
Hannelie, older and wiser, had often warned me: everything changes at forty. I didn't believe her.
The head of Admin for Consolidated Fisheries phoned Reinhard Rohn after eleven in the morning. He took the call in his room in the Protea Hotel.
'It's Ansie.'
'Good morning.'
'What are you doing?'
'I'm sitting here working. And you?'
'I'm lying here remembering.'
'And what do you remember?'
'Everything.'
'You're a naughty girl.'
'And when will this naughty girl see you again?'
'What's the naughty girl doing tonight?'
5 October 2009. Monday.
Janina Mentz's agenda for the day was peace. She walked into Advocate Tau Masilo's office, sat down opposite him with a sense of purpose and asked: 'What would you have done if you were in
my position?'
He betrayed no surprise. 'I would have done everything in my power to scuttle this terrorist act, even if it meant the amalgamation of the PIA. I would have had understanding of and appreciation for the work my people did.'
'Would you have considered searching for a solution that would prevent the terrorism and ensure our future?'
'Of course ...'
In a soft voice she played her trump card. 'The Minister announced this afternoon that the FIFA visit of October 12 would coincide with a massive security exercise, to test the readiness of the SAPS, the Metro police and certain elements of the Defence Force. He would request the public to be patient in this regard as there would be extensive roadblocks and the closing of certain routes could cause delays.'
Masilo tried to hide his relief. 'Thank you,' he said.
'For the record, Tau, I have great appreciation for the enthusiasm and dedication of our personnel. But if it does not produce the desired result, it is my duty and responsibility to say so. That is the most unpleasant part of my job, but I do it with the same vigour and dedication.'
Masilo sank slowly back in his chair.
'Tau, I need you. I rely heavily on you. We may differ in our opinions, but we must trust each other, in order to carry out our respective duties.'
He nodded. 'You're right.'
'Would you consider sitting at my table again?'
57
During her dance class at seven o'clock, something inside Milla broke loose.
Maybe it was because she was late and distracted, didn't have time to think, and just started dancing. Maybe it was that two months of dance classes, theory, practice, determination and desire, eventually came together, so that she moved without thinking, the music took control of her. And Mr Soderstrom, her instructor, had the insight not to say anything before the end, didn't make her do school steps, didn't give her pause to breath, or think.
Only once the hour was over, did he say: 'Miss Strachan, that was magnificent.'
Milla, with the bloom of exertion and pleasure on her cheeks, suddenly realised what she had achieved. 'It was,' she said. Emotion welled up in her, euphoria. 'Thank you,' she added, 'do I say that enough?'
She took off her dance shoes, said goodbye, picked up her handbag and walked out with an energetic bounce, the bag swinging gaily, down the steps, through the banking corridor, out, the evening quiet and lovely. She walked across the access road to her Renault.
Someone called her name.
She turned her head, her heart still light and full.
Lukas Becker walked across the tarmac towards her.
A laugh seemed to bubble up inside Milla, the knowledge that this meeting was meant to be and that it was good and right, and she said, 'Hello,' and waited.
'I was just on my way to Woollies, and I saw you go in ...'
She just stood there smiling.
'So I decided to ambush you, in the hope that you would come out thirsty, tired and vulnerable,' with enough caution and courage in his tone.
'You waited a whole hour for me?'
'Actually only the last ten minutes. There against the pillar.' Boyishly embarrassed. Then he laughed.
She laughed with him. 'I am very thirsty. And a little bit vulnerable.'
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 5 October 2009
Dear Jessica
You once asked me if I have ever lived dangerously. Tonight I did. A little. And it was good.
In the Thai restaurant in Main Street, just a block away from Arthur Murray, they sat on the balcony.
'What do you do?' he asked her.
'I allow stalkers to buy me mineral water and sushi.'
'Touche. What line of work are you in?'
'I'm a professional journalist. I work for the Government Department of Communication, for a newspaper called News This Week. If I resign tomorrow, the government will collapse. And you?'
'I've been overseas. For about thirteen years.'
'What were you doing over there?'
'The first seven years, archaeological digs. From 2005 I was in Iraq. Small boat training on the Euphrates. For the Iraqi government.'
'When did you come back?'
'About three weeks ago.'
'Why?'
'It's a long story.'
'Then we had better order sushi.'
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 5 October 2009
He was genuine. Honest. And so very at ease with himself, with me, with the waitress (he called her 'ousus', and the wine waiter 'ouboet'), he didn't try to impress anyone, he didn't try to be overly clever or serious, he talked easily about himself and he showed an easy interest in me. i like his voice.
I gave him my cellphone number.
'I came back to buy a farm.' 'In the Cape?'
'No. In the Free State. Between Philippolis and Springfontein.' 'Why there?'
'That's more or less where I come from - and it's a pretty farm. It's the landscape I love. The South West Free State, grass veld and hills, thorny thickets, a stream with willows ...' '
But what are you doing in the Cape?'
'You are an inquisitive woman.'
'That's what my father taught me: if a man is stalking you, find out as much about him as you can.'
'Your father is a smart man. I'm in the Cape to retrieve some money that someone ... borrowed from me. I need it to pay for the farm.'
'Is that why you went to work overseas? So you could buy a farm?'
'That was one of the reasons.'
58
6 October 2009. Tuesday.
Milla slid her identity card through the slot of the security door, listened to the click of the lock, and went in. She looked up at the CCTV camera in the corner, and felt a prickle of guilt.
If these people only knew...
For just a second she considered the possibility that someone might have seen them last night. Her heart began to race, it made her suddenly aware of the few people in the corridors, on their way to the office. She searched for signs of interest, or disapproval, from her colleagues as well.
They greeted her with the usual rituals.
'Good morning,' said Mac, his nose pressed to his computer screen. Oom Theunie looked up from cleaning his pipe and smiled at her. 'Carmen. You look particularly lovely this morning.'
And Jessica was late. Like every morning.
Milla gradually relaxed.
Maybe the profile was all they wanted. Maybe Lukas Becker had been forgotten already.
Quinn didn't recognise her in the photo because the light was poor: Becker and the woman on the restaurant balcony at night.
It was only once he had read the report of the surveillance team, the registration details of the white Renault Megane, that he saw the name. Milla Strachan. It sounded familiar.
He had to think hard to place the name: at the top of a few recent PIA reports, if he remembered correctly.
He looked it up on the computer, saw it was indeed the same name as the new woman on the Report Squad. Coincidence, he thought? It wasn't a common name, he had better make sure. Wouldn't that be something, wouldn't that let the fox into the hen house?
He called up the PIA personnel record of Milla Strachan, and the car and colour and registration number were identical. He looked at the head-and-shoulders picture, compared it to the woman on the balcony of the restaurant.
It was her.
He asked the database to display the reports that she had worked on.
Lukas Becker's was the most recent.
Quinn didn't say anything, just blew through his teeth, a hiss of astonishment, and a kind of amazement at fate, which just would not leave Operation Shawwal alone.
'Quinn called in the surveillance team and interrogated them thoroughly,' Tau Masilo said to Mentz. 'They say Becker waited for her, outside the shopping centre. There was a gymnasium and a dance studio, she could have been at either of
the two. When she came out at 20.00, he began talking to her. Then they walked to the restaurant where they ate and talked until 22.40. After that he went back to the guest house. There weren't enough men to follow her.'
Janina Mentz sat and stared at the opposite wall for such a long time that Masilo said: 'Ma'am ... ?'
She got up swiftly, angrily, walked around her desk and sat down at her computer, did something with the mouse. She looked intently at the screen. Masilo saw a blush slowly spread across her face.
She looked at him. 'CIA,' she said, as though the word were a curse.
Masilo, trying to keep up, admitted defeat. 'I don't understand.'
'Did you read his profile? He works for the damn CIA.'
Masilo recalled Becker's conversations with Inkunzi Shabangu, how he had been looking for his money after a hijacking. 'I'm not sure I agree.'
'Put it all together, Tau. What do Becker and America have in common?'
He tried to remember what was in the reports, but she answered the question herself. 'Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Iran, Turkey. And now Iraq. Doesn't that tell you something?'
'CIA hotspots ...'
She shook her head, picked up the photograph, the one of Becker and Milla on the balcony. 'Look at her, Tau. Look at the way she looks at him.' The Deputy Director sank slowly back into his chair. 'I am very, very disappointed in her.'
Masilo and Quinn were behind the closed door of the Advocate's office.
'Did you discuss the Strachan event with anyone?' the Advocate asked.
'Only the surveillance team.'
'Is there a dossier? Anything on the system?'
'Not yet.'
Masilo nodded in relief. 'Keep it that way. Quinn, this is a very sensitive issue. There is a strong possibility that he targeted her. That he isn't who we think he is.'
Quinn considered that. 'I would be surprised ...'
'We can't afford to make a mistake. The damage to the Operation, the damage to the Agency's reputation ...'
He looked at Quinn, made sure it all sank in.
'The Director's orders are most specific. Nothing on the system. Keep everything in your drawer. Strachan's name is not to be mentioned anywhere. From now on she will be known to us as "Miss Jenny". That is how all those involved will refer to her, that is the name that will be on all instructions to other departments. From now on we drastically limit the number of people who know - the Director, me, you, and a small task team that you will put together immediately. A few operators you trust, Quinn, three or four people with good judgement. Hand-picked. They must do the monitoring, write the reports. Manually.'