by Deon Meyer
'I understand.'
'We want her flat searched, we need microphones in every room. Today. And only your task team listening in. And we want to know exactly what she looks at on her computer, what material she requests here, digitally, or hard copy. And we want to listen to her cellphone conversations.'
'Visual monitoring and tracking?'
'No. Keep the focus on Becker. And speaking of him: we want you to trace the two Shabangu henchmen that Becker worked with ...' Masilo consulted his notes. 'According to the transcripts Becker told Shabangu, I have one of them here. He says his name is Enoch Mangope, the one with the white eye. He says he works for you. And the other one's name is Kenosi, that's all we have. Find them, Quinn, we want to know exactly what Becker said to them. Any questions?'
'No.'
'The next order is for Rohn in Walvis Bay. He will have to exploit his resource ...'
'It might be too soon.'
'We don't have a choice. Seven days to go, Quinn. We don't have more time.'
'I'll tell him.'
'That is all, thanks.'
Quinn stood up and walked to the door, where he stopped. 'Why "Miss Jenny"?'
'It was the Director's idea. Apparently someone who spied on the Americans. A long time ago.'
Quinn frowned.
'You'll figure it out,' said Masilo.
Mountain Street in Newlands was rich in trees, big houses, high walls.
The operators who were watching Shaheed Latif Osman, did it from a vacant bedroom on the top floor of number twelve, with the permission of the mostly absentee owner. It wasn't the ideal vantage point, because Osman's house was diagonally opposite, down the street, so that they could see the entrance, part of the driveway, the garage, a piece of lawn and the front door, just. But it was all they could get.
Just after nine they saw the white Toyota Yaris stop in front of the entrance. The operator swivelled the powerful binoculars on the tripod and focused on it.
He saw Becker get out and walk to the gate, where the intercom was mounted on a shiny steel stand. Becker pressed a button. Waited.
Bent down to talk into the intercom. Straightened up again, looked through the gate.
The operator swung the binoculars at the front door. Seconds ticked by. Then it opened. Shaheed Latif Osman came out wearing his Muslim robe, walked to the gate. With an attitude.
He said something to Becker, stopped in front of the gate, but did not open it.
Becker talked back.
Osman shook his head.
Becker spoke again.
Osman said something, his body language aggressive.
Becker spoke.
Osman made a gesture with his arm that said Becker should go.
Becker said something again.
Osman turned and walked back to the front door. On the threshold he turned, called out something, went in and shut the door.
Swivelled the binoculars back to Becker. The man stood still a moment more, then walked to his car.
The operator swore he could see a smile.
The search team unlocked the door to Milla's flat at 14.03. They were skilled and experienced. First they took digital photos of every room, of every cupboard and drawer. Then they began to search.
The one who found the diaries phoned Quinn. 'There are twenty-four of them. They date back to 1986, it's going to take a long time.'
'Photograph the last... six months' pages. We can copy the rest bit by bit. From tomorrow on.'
Only once the search team had finished, at 15.32, every room arranged as the original photos depicted them, did the technicians arrive to plant the microphones.
At 15 Chamberlain Street in Upper Woodstock, the members of the Supreme Committee began to arrive.
The operator opposite immediately notified Quinn, and made certain all the equipment was working.
She sat listening, without much hope, to the concrete microphone in the base of the satellite dish.
To her surprise, at 15.59, she heard the voice of Shaheed Latif Osman, indignant: 'He said Shabangu told him I've got his money. Tweetybird or me.'
'Take it easy, Shaheed, your heart... Did you get the car's number?' the Sheikh, Suleiman Dolly, asked.
'I did.'
'Let's go and talk down below.'
He phoned her after six.
She was sitting in front of the laptop in her bedroom, thinking of working on the book.
She didn't recognise the number. 'Milla,' she said, careful.
'The chips at Fisherman's Choice are always golden brown, crisp and very hot and fresh, the hake just melt-in-your-mouth. And it's a lovely evening.'
'What would a Free Stater know about hake that melts-in-your-mouth?' 'Absolutely nothing, I had hoped my winged words, my poetic touch would be irresistible.'
'It's very evocative ...'
'We Free Staters don't know such big words. Is that a "yes"?'
'Where is Fisherman's Choice?'
On Quinn's computer screen the photos of the pages of Milla Strachan's diary were displayed.
He read the entries for the past week first.
He saw she had already met Becker, for the first time, on Friday evening at a dance.
Becker had orchestrated it.
He saw traces of Milla's conscience, saw how events pulled her along. He went back TO the beginning, read the entries for the past six months. She was still a housewife then. Lonely. Lost.
He followed the tracks of her words, to freedom, to the PIA, he read about her struggle over her child, her intimate thoughts, her slow emancipation.
Against his will he liked her. And he became all the more convinced of her innocence. She was a chance piece of flotsam washed along by the flood of Operation Shawwal.
Then his phone rang. 'Becker has just phoned Miss Jenny. They are going to eat out again.'
Reinhard Rohn lay on the bed. Ansie, Head of Administration at Consolidated Fisheries, rested her head on his stomach. She was smoking a cigarette, the ashtray on the rounding of her body.
He said: 'I hear one of my old friends was here with you not long ago.'
'Who?'
'Shaheed Osman. From Cape Town.'
'You know Osman?'
'More of a business acquaintance, to be honest. I happened to mention to him over the phone yesterday that I was in Walvis Bay, and he said he came and did business here a month or so ago. With you guys.'
'Small world,' she said.
'I didn't even know he imported fish.'
'He doesn't.' 'Oh?'
'What work does the Osman you know do?'
'Imports.' Deliberately vague.
'That's not what he said to us. He said he's a broker. A speculator.'
'In fish?'
'No. In boats. He bought one of our vessels.'
59
At the Cape Town Waterfront, where a thousand lights swam in reflection in the still waters beside quay number four, Milla listened to Lukas Becker. She listened to his voice, the tone and inflection - relaxed, peaceful, soft. There was a hint of self-denial, as if he and his life only had worth via her interest. And something else, a sense of being in tune that resonated in her, a warmth, for her, for them.
Tell me about the archaeological digs, she asked him, as though she knew nothing about them.
He said they were among the most exciting experiences of his life.
Why?
I would bore you.
You won't.
He ate a little more first. Then he said, have you ever walked across the Free State plains and wondered what it looked like, 100,000 years ago? Have you ever walked in the veld and seen something shiny, picked it up and rolled it around in your fingers? A piece of ostrich eggshell, rubbed smooth, with a tiny hole through it, and wondered, who wore this around their neck? What was it like, to live like that? When the springbuck in their thousands trekked across the savannah, when people made fires at night to keep the lions away, where now there are only sheep and cattle and ci
vilisation. Have you ever wondered why this world, this Africa, speaks to our hearts, we, who are from Europe? I used to wonder, ever since I was young, about seventeen or eighteen. Where does the love for this landscape originate? Why do we want to own it? Why do Africans, and especially the Afrikaner, have such a strong connection, such a deep longing for land. For a farm, specifically. Where does that come from? My father had it and so do I. And I went looking for answers and I realised, increasingly, that it is a new thing. Ten, maybe 12,000 years old. Before that people were drifters, nomadic hunter-gatherers who populated the whole planet while following their food sources. Everything belonged to us, the whole earth. For 200,000 years, if you just look at Homo sapiens. For two and a half million years, if you include Homo habilis. The world was our home, the crossing of horizons, the freedom, the movement, was in our genes, it drove us. And then, between eighteen and fourteen thousand years ago, the Kebaran of the Levant made way for the Natufians' first sowing of grasses ...
The Kebaran? (She asked in a whisper, a little apologetic, because she didn't want him to stop talking.)
He walked her as far as the security gate.
She wanted to invite him in.
He said: 'Milla, I want to see you again tomorrow night.'
She said: 'That would be lovely.'
They stood together a moment in silence. Then he said, 'Goodnight, Milla.'
7 October 2009. Wednesday.
Rajkumar knew it wasn't his technology that made the breakthrough. It was the old-fashioned methods of Masilo and Quinn's man, the middle- aged and practically forgotten operator, Reinhard Rohn. He tried to make up for that, with information quickly collected that morning: 'We got all of this from their systems. It's called a stern trawler fishing vessel, and it's not a boat, it's a ship. Length of forty-four meters, breadth of ten meters, draft of five meters. Quarters for some fifteen crew, it can carry almost one thousand tonnes of cargo. But the real problem is, it's equipped to stay at sea for up to forty-five days. And Osman's people took commission of the ship on 21 September, so they've been out there for about three weeks. They could be anywhere in the world,' Rajkumar said. Then, quickly, because Mentz was glaring at him, 'I know that's not what you want to hear ...'
'You are missing the point.'
'Ma'am, there was no reason to look at ships they have sold ...'
'No, Raj, that's not the point either. You are asking, "where?", when what you should be asking, is "why?".'
'Oh ...'
'Why do they need a ship this big? What do they want to transport? Let us assume Tau is right, the target is the American soccer team, or the Cape Town Stadium, or both. They don't need a thousand tonnes of weapons and explosives ...'
'People,' the Advocate said. 'They're bringing in people.'
'Exactly,' said Mentz.
Raj brushed his hair back over his shoulder, angry at himself.
'They're bringing in a hit squad,' said Mentz. 'Probably al-Qaeda trained. The ship explains everything. It explains why they needed that much money. Why Macki was so deeply involved ...They might have used the diamonds as direct payment, Walvis Bay is a smuggling haven. It explains why they had such limited contact with the Ravens ... But the main issue is, we've been watching the Committee, but the Committee's role is basically over. They can just sit back now and wait for the hit squad to arrive ...'
'With respect,' Rajkumar said, 'that makes the question of "where" even more vital.'
'Absolutely right,' said Masilo.
'So how do we find it?'
Rajkumar was ready for the question. 'It's going to depend on how much they want to be found.'
'Why?'
'SOLAS. The International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea. Since 2006, it requires all vessels bigger than 300 tonnes to operate Long Range Identification and Tracking equipment, amongst other things. If they have their LRIT and AIS transmitters switched on, we can submit a Chapter Five request through the Minister - or any cabinet member - to the International LRIT Data Exchange, to get their current position.'
'And if they are not running the transmitters?'
'Then we'll have to find reports of ships that have disregarded the SOLAS regulations, which will take time. The only real solution is to talk to the Americans, ask them to look with their satellites.'
'I'm not going to talk to the Americans.'
'I know how you feel, ma'am,' said Tau Masilo, 'but we have no choice. We are running out of time. And they don't need a harbour to unload a terror squad. They can be transferred at sea, to a smaller vessel, somewhere - anywhere - off the coast. And we have a very long coast line.'
'Why is asking the Americans for help an issue?' Rajkumar asked, in all innocence.
'Because they are snakes,' said Mentz.
'Oh ...'
'We have no choice,' Masilo repeated.
Mentz looked at the Advocate in disapproval, but eventually she capitulated, 'Raj, prepare the Chapter Five request. I'll go talk to the Minister.'
'No,' the Minister said, greatly displeased.
'Sir ...' Mentz said.
'No, no, no. What do we say to the Americans? Someone is bringing a boat full of mad Muslims to blow up your soccer team, please give us a hand? Because we are too useless to stop a bunch of old bearded men? Have you any idea of the pressure at the moment, from the news vultures circling up there in the sky, over this World Cup, all those Afro-pessimists? They want us to fail. So they can say, look, Africa is still Africa, rotten with crime and corruption and stupid black people. Now you want us, nine months before the tournament, to tell the Americans your team is in danger and we are too stupid to handle it ourselves? The next thing would be Obama announcing they aren't coming any more. The risk is too high, no, Janina, no, no, no ...'
'Sir, no one has a greater distaste ...'
'Why didn't you just arrest the Muslims, Janina? When there was time?'
'Sir, you know ...'
'I know what you are telling me, I trusted you.'
'We don't have to tell the Americans anything, sir.'
'Nothing? We ask them to turn all their satellites to look at our waters and we tell them nothing?'
'Sir, we have a trump card.'
'What?'
'The CIA have just begun a process of infiltration. Of the PIA.'
'You're not serious.'
'I am.'
'Do you have proof?'
She put the photos on the desk. Lukas Becker, at Cape Town International Airport. 'He is a former South African with a military background. In 1994 he left for the USA ...'
'In 1994?' Indignant. 'One of those who didn't like our new, democratic South Africa?'
'Most likely. We are still busy investigating his ideology, but we are reasonably certain he was recruited by the CIA in the period 1994 to 1996, because from 1997 to 2004 he was deployed in all the CIA focal points: Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Iran and Turkey, under the cover of archaeological digs. From 2004 till earlier this year he was working full-time in Iraq, as an "employee" of Blackwater. He has at least one American bank account and two investment accounts, and his cash assets are over two million, conservatively estimated. And a month ago he was suddenly back in the country, and assassinated a major figure in the organised crime arena, coincidentally, one that we were investigating for his connection with the Supreme Committee.'
The Minister dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. 'CIA,' he said, with new understanding.
'He is currently making himself agreeable to one of our administrative workers.'
'And then they sit in the liaison meetings and pretend they are our friends.'
'Exactly, sir.'
'How do you want to use this, Janina?'
'Leverage, sir. I don't want to play the trump card before it is necessary.'
60
'Shall I make us some coffee?' Milla asked when they reached the security gate to her flat.
'Please,' he said.
She typed in the code and
opened the gate. Her heart thumped.
'Milla,' he said.
She turned to look at him.
'Will you tell me about yourself?'
The operator was a woman, thirty-four years old. She was one of Quinn's trusted, dependable people.
At 22.48, in her cubicle at the PIA, the surveillance team let her know Becker and Miss Jenny had just stopped in front of her flat. Audio surveillance could begin.
She hurried to the Ops Room, strongly aware of Quinn's orders: no recordings on the system. Just a digital audio file on a memory stick, for his attention, on his desk. And a handwritten note to indicate its importance.
She tuned to the correct channel, fired up the computer, put on the headphones.
She knew nothing of the man and woman whose voices she was hearing. She only knew their code names.
She was aware of the impressive sensitivity of the high-tech microphones, picking up every sound with great clarity - the soft footstep on the floor, the creak of a chair, the clink of mugs, the tinkle of teaspoons. And the voices. The woman telling the story of her life, the man asking gently probing questions. They talked about the pros and cons of a small-town upbringing. About parents. They moved to another room. She said: 'They were two Afrikaner-hippies, my mom and dad. Very eccentric, very different from other children's parents. I still don't know if it... what effect it had on me. There was a time when I was so ashamed of them ...' The sound of a car passing in the street.
The operator listened with an open mind: her only focus was registering information that could be relevant to Operation Shawwal. But what she heard was a man and woman talking about life, about childhood and growing up, about all the things that had shaped them.