by Deon Meyer
But she couldn't, she would lose him.
The evil that lay just beneath the surface of her world reached out now and touched her. She tried to force it back. She offered to lend him the money. She tried to argue, tried to convince him that there would be other farms, it was only money, it wasn't worth it. But he just shook his head and reassured her and touched her gently saying, don't worry. He knew what he was doing.
Finally, just before they had to go back, he put both hands on her shoulders and said: 'Milla, I'm going to play this hand. I can't walk away from this. That is not who I am.'
They walked down Lion's Head in silence, her heart heavy.
When they stopped in front of her flat she said: 'Stay with me tonight.'
Half an hour after they went in through the gate, Quinn saw Milla Strachan's bedroom light go on.
He stood up. 'Looks like he's going to stay. I'm on my way.' 'Sleep well,' said the female operator.
'If he moves, call me.'
'I will.'
They lay in her bed just before midnight, his arms around her. She thought through everything. She compared Lukas Becker to her ex-husband, thought about her struggle to direct her life, to gain control of her destiny.
'Are you still awake?' she whispered at last. 'I am.'
'I understand who you are. And I don't want you any other way.'
9 October 2009. Friday.
She slept fitfully, so terribly aware of him lying next to her.
Some time after four she woke when he moved, she heard him get up quietly and go to the bathroom. Then to the kitchen.
He spent some time there.
She heard him come back, get dressed. She felt the light kiss on her cheek. Silence, a rustle beside the bed, before she heard his soft footsteps leave the room.
The front door opened, and shut.
She lay there for another second, then leaped up and ran to the window. She wanted to see him. She pulled the curtain aside, her eyes on the security gate below.
He emerged from it, rucksack over his shoulders, and walked purposefully down the quiet street without looking back. His pace accelerated, he disappeared around the corner. She stood there until emotion overwhelmed her. She had to lie down again.
She saw the letter on her bedside cupboard.
Her name was written on the white envelope. She opened it.
Dear Milla
My head tells me it's too early to say I love you, but my heart speaks another language. There is a cellphone number below, in case of an emergency.
Lukas
She read it three times. Then, knowing she would not be able to sleep, she sat down at her writing table and reached for her diary. She began to write.
The female operator saw Becker emerge from the security gate. Her drowsiness vanished. She grabbed the radio, spoke urgently to the three teams: 'Becker is on the move, he's out of the gate, walking in a westerly direction towards Highlands Avenue.'
Silence.
'Are you there?'
It took a while before someone answered, a voice still croaky with sleep, with a rushed 'We see him.'
'He's beyond my field of vision, tell me where he's going.'
'He's coming down Highlands, towards the city.'
'Don't lose him.'
'He'll see us. It's as quiet as the grave, nobody's moving, just him.'
'No, he mustn't see you.'
'Now he's running. He's fucking running.'
At 05.19 the female operator phoned Quinn.
She could hear by the sounds that he was fumbling with the phone. 'Just hold on,' he said in a muted tone. She heard his breathing, then: 'Any news?'
'We lost him.' Businesslike. She knew there was no way to soften it. A long silence, then the barely audible sigh. 'Where?'
'In the Company Gardens. There were too many exits. They're still looking, but I don't think they'll find him.'
'Did he see us?'
'We think so, sir. That was part of the problem.'
Quinn took it all in. 'I'm coming.'
Masilo presented the mitigating circumstances; the hour of the night, the silent streets, the fact that he was on foot and must have realised he was being followed.
Mentz was remarkably calm through it all. 'Does it really matter? Now the CIA knows we know about him?'
'Probably not. What bothers me, is why he was still so eager to shake off our tails.'
'The Americans have their own agenda.'
'Which I cannot fathom. I went through all the transcripts and reports again and, in my mind, there is only one scenario that fits.'
'And that is?'
The Advocate referred to his notes. 'Their records show that Becker flew from Baghdad to London on 12 September, and the same evening to Johannesburg, where he landed on the morning of 13 September. The SAPS file says his hired car was hijacked just before nine o'clock that same morning in Sandton. He phoned Bull Shabangu for the first time on 18 September, and asked for his money. That was the only subject of all their conversations. And we have a recording from 6 October, when Osman told Suleiman Dolly in Chamberlain Street that "Shabangu told him I've got his money. Tweetybird or me." Now, let's assume the hijacking was genuine. And let us examine the manner of his contact with Shabangu and Osman. There is only one conclusion we can draw. There was something in that hijacked car. Something that Becker and the CIA want back very badly. And it's not money.'
Mentz nodded, slowly.
A knock on Masilo's door.
'Come in ...'
Quinn opened it and put his head through. He saw Mentz. 'Morning, ma'am.'
'Morning, Quinn.'
'Shall I come back later?'
'No,' Masilo said. 'Any news?'
'It's Miss Jenny. She is opening a bunch of reports and documents on the system.'
'Which ones?'
'Shabangu, the Supreme Committee, PAGAD, Tweetybird, organised crime. She seems to be following a trail.'
Mentz was the first to respond. 'That's good news,' she said. 'She's doing it for him. For Becker. That means he will contact her again.'
The PIA team following Shaheed Latif Osman, sitting a block away from the Coronation Street mosque, beside the school grounds of the Zonnebloem School for Girls, lulled by Osman's strict routine and the knowledge that there was a GPS sensor on his car.
'Fuck,' the one with the binoculars said suddenly.
'What?' asked the driver.
'Start the car ...'
'What do you see?'
'There's a guy ... shit, call Quinn, someone just hijacked Osman. Go!'
'Keep your distance,' said Quinn. 'We'll track him with the GPS.'
He watched the flickering arrow icon on the Cape Town map, saw that Osman's car was driving in the direction of Woodstock.
'Did you see what the guy looked like?'
'He's white. Dark hair, that's all I could see.'
'I'm going to send a photo to your cellphone. See if you recognise him.' Quinn nodded at the operator beside him to get going.
'Roger.'
'It will take a little time, we have to reduce it first...'
'Roger.'
Quinn watched the progress of the car on the screen. They seemed to be on the way to Chamberlain Street. Why?
But the icon moved north along Melbourne Street, past the possible routes, into Victoria.
Where were they going?
Quinn spoke into the microphone. 'The photo has been sent, let us know when you receive it.'
On the screen Osman was travelling along Plein Street, then turned left into Albert.
To the Nl?
'It might be this guy, I'm not sure,' the passenger in the tracking vehicle said.
To get onto the Nl, the logical route was from Albert to Church Street in Woodstock, but the GPS showed Osman turning in the opposite direction.
Then left in Treaty. Inexplicable.
'Hang back,' said Quinn to the tails. 'It's circular, they will have to come out the other s
ide.'
The icon stopped.
Quinn stared at the screen, frowning.
'Is it an industrial area?' he asked.
'Arse end of the world ...'
Osman's car was still stationary.
Then Quinn realised what Becker was up to, because he was certain it was Becker. He didn't curse, it wasn't his way. He just said, into the cellphone, 'Go! Now, go to Osman's car. Hurry.'
63
Quinn's verbal report to Masilo was businesslike, he hid his disappointment.
He said Osman and Becker had stopped in Treaty Street, right beside the railway line. The surveillance team was just in time to see Becker forcibly dragging Osman across four rows of railway track, the two men on foot passing through previously prepared gaps in the high fences. Becker seemed to have a rucksack, another carry bag over his shoulder, and a weapon in his right hand.
They ran after them, but he had too much of a lead. At a distance of a hundred metres, past factories and warehouses, they saw Becker shove Osman into a car on the other side, at the Eastern end of Strand Street. It was a blue Volkswagen Citi Golf of indeterminate model. It was too far off to see the registration.
The Golf pulled away with screeching tyres and drove west, since
Strand ran into a dead end to the east. Becker could easily reach the N1 via Lower Church Street.
This, Quinn said in his calm way, is a well-trained man, a man who planned intelligently, who knew that he and/or Osman were being followed, who suspected Osman's car was being monitored. A man who wanted to shake off the trackers, and knew how.
Milla Strachan was proofreading for Oom Theunie, a review of South Africa's weapons transactions with Iran, Libya and Venezuela. She looked up when both men came in with Mrs Killian, recognising one of them. It was Nobody's Perfect, Advocate Masilo, the one wearing braces. She realised they were focused on her.
'Milla,' Mrs Killian said.
She felt the sudden claustrophobia, the tightening in her gut. 'Yes?' she said, alarm in her voice.
'They want to talk to you.'
'Would you come with me, please,' said the other man, the one wearing the black polo-neck sweater.
'Why?'
'Nothing to worry about,' said Mrs Killian.
'We just want to talk,' said Polo Neck.
At Janina Mentz's insistence, as Deputy Director at the time, the Presidential Intelligence Agency's interrogation room was pleasant. There were three stuffed beige chairs, bolted to the floor. They formed an intimate communication ring, a hospitable triangle. The floor was covered with wall-to-wall carpet, unpatterned, unobtrusive. The microphone was hidden behind the soft fluorescent light in the ceiling, and the CCTV camera placed in the room alongside - the observation room, as it was called - its lens directed through the oneway window at the three chairs.
Milla sat in one of them.
Masilo, Mentz and Quinn were in the observation room.
'Let her simmer,' Mentz said. 'For an hour or two, before you talk to her. Quinn, send some people to her flat in the meantime. Bring back everything that could be of value, let them go through it with a fine-tooth comb. And it must be obvious they were there.
Let them mess it up a bit. Tau, you break the bad news to her. And then let her go.'
Milla sat in the chair, her thoughts racing, panic inside, a chorus that kept echoing in her head, they know, they know, they know ... until the questions took over: how long had they known? How did they know? What did they know? What did they want from her? What were they going to do with her? What was going on? This morning she had feverishly read the reports, about Shabangu, PAGAD, searching for reasons why the PIA was interested in Lukas. She had only seen spectres, ghostly possibilities that evaporated when you looked too sharply at them. What had Lukas done to them?
She still had no answers. She thought about what they would ask her, thought about possible answers, and gradually realised she had only done one thing wrong. She had not reported her contact with Lukas. Why not? Because no one had said she must. Was it such a great sin? Truly? Because it was not a crime, what could they do to her, what was the worst? Fire her?
Eventually she calmed down, and resistance grew in her: let them confront her, let them question her, let them discharge her, she didn't give a damn, she had committed no crime. Eventually Milla stood up and, resolute, went to the door, tried to pull it open, only to find it was locked. The sparks of anger leaped higher, who did they think they were? They couldn't do this, she had rights, she was no imbecile, no fool who would reveal state secrets. She was neither a criminal nor a child.
She sat down again, and heard the door open behind her. She looked around and saw it was Mr Perfect, Mr Nobody, Masilo in his braces. 'You don't have the right to lock me in here,' she said and stood up from the chair.
He smiled at her, locked the door behind him. 'Calm down,' he said, smoothly, as though they knew each other.
'Unlock the door,' she said.
He went to a chair opposite her. She smelled the aftershave, just a hint. 'That I cannot do.' He sat down. 'Please, Milla, let us talk, I am sure you realise there is much to talk about.'
She stood beside the chair. 'No, I don't think so.' 'Oh?'
'I have done nothing wrong.'
'Even more reason to sit and have a chat with me.'
She knew he was trying to manipulate her, but her choices were limited. She sat down reluctantly, and crossed her arms.
He said nothing, just smiled benevolently.
Until she could stand the silence no longer: 'What's going on?'
'You know very well.'
'I have no idea.'
'Lukas Becker.'
'I've done nothing wrong.'
'Then why your reaction. Earlier on?'
'How would you feel if someone did that to you? Out of the blue?' 'But I don't have secrets, Milla.'
'Everyone has secrets.'
He laughed softly. Then his expression turned serious. 'Milla, you're a pawn. A tool. He's using you, and I am sure you are completely unaware of it.'
'Lukas?'
'That's right.'
'Oh, please!'
'There is a lot about him that you don't know.'
'I wrote his profile. He ... He doesn't even know where I work.' Masilo laughed, long and heartily. 'You are very naive.'
'Why?'
'Milla, your Lukas Becker works for the CIA.'
It was her turn to laugh, uneasily. 'You're paranoid.'
'I must be honest with you, I was also sceptical at first. Until we let the Americans know we knew about him. The same day, only hours later, he suddenly disappeared. New accommodation, new car, new cellphone number ...'
'And now you think ...'
He didn't give her a chance. 'Did you know he's a murderer?' 'Rubbish!'
'The Julius Shabangu you so loyally read up on for him this morning. Who do you think eliminated him?'
'It wasn't him.'
'How do you know, Milla? Because he said so? Is that the evidence you have? Because we have a whole lot more.'
'No ...'
'Milla, Milla, you trust so easily. You know he was in Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Iran and Turkey. But do you know why? Think a little about the places in conflict with America. What about his bank accounts? Doesn't that make you just a little suspicious? How does a man accumulate millions of rands in just six, seven years? Doing archaeological digs for universities? Look at the strange coincidence that he turned up at your dance school. Twice. Look at how he took you somewhere else every time, somewhere in the open, away from the microphones ...'
'Microphones .. . ?' She didn't immediately grasp the full portent.
'Milla, we're not asleep ...'
'You have no right.'
'We have. This is national security at stake, it is international...'
'You have no right.' There was a new note in her voice, anger and shame combined, and she half rose from her chair.
'We have your diaries too.'
It sank down slowly inside her, like a depth charge. Then it exploded. Milla Strachan sprang from the armchair, and leaped right at him.
64
'Thanks for returning my call, Janina,' said Burzynski, the Bureau Chief of the CIA.
'Of course, Bruno. As a matter of fact, we were just talking about you.'
'All good, I hope. Janina, I have a report from Langley, and I'm happy to say we are making progress. Let me briefly attempt to explain what they've tried to do. Step one was to make absolutely sure The Madeleine is not running LRIT and AIS, and I can confirm that it definitely isn't. The last record of a signal from this ship was received on 22 September at 23.30, from waypoint S13 34.973 W5 48.366, which is about one thousand five hundred miles west-northwest of Walvis Bay, in the Atlantic Ocean. Then it just stopped transmitting.
Went off the radar completely. We've checked with the SOLAS authorities, and they say they duly notified the owners of the vessel, but got no response ...'
'It's a dummy corporation. All the registration details are bogus.'
'So we gathered. Step two was to plot all LRIT-silent vessels of the right size against possible matches for satellite imagery, and we identified sixteen potential candidates, of which fourteen have already been vetted through hi-res visual material - we've found some pretty interesting specimens, some smugglers in the Andaman and South China Sea, one ship being held by Somali pirates, but the majority are experiencing equipment problems, and are all accounted for. The last two are a bit of a problem. Adverse weather conditions, bad visibility from space ...'
'Where are they?'
'North Atlantic, I'll have to check. Grand Banks, something like that. The weather should clear within the next twelve hours, and we'll be ready.'
'Bruno, I can't thank you enough.'
Milla Strachan struck Advocate Tau Masilo on his left cheekbone. She hit out again, but he stopped her, grabbing her wrists.
'Thiba!' he shouted in his mother tongue, shocked. He pushed her away, straightened up and forced her back into her chair. She struggled furiously, kicking at him.