Trackers

by Deon Meyer

  say, before I knew you, I was in love with your story, the one I was required to write as a profile and a report. You are everything I wanted to be, everything I fantasised for my own life: a discoverer, a doer, a traveller, a risk-taker, you followed your heart and passions and interests, you experienced, lived. I sat in front of that computer and thought, how eagerly would I love to write your story. How wonderful your book would be.

  This morning (it feels a lifetime away) I sat on Milnerton Beach and the pain in my hand rescued me - because it reminded me of something I did. And in that act, never mind that it was through shame and anger, I did not walk away, I fought back.

  And this afternoon I fought back again; through a phone call to retrieve my diaries, since then I have sneaked, evaded, camouflaged and outmanoeuvred. Action words. My heart beat, my hands shook, I rode in a minibus taxi, sat in a suburban train - both firsts for me, what would the Durbanville wives say? I discovered another world, I crossed borders, I lived (just a little bit dangerously) and I can write about it, Lukas, one day I can use these small scraps of experience.

  By now you must be able to guess what I am trying to say: that I dare not, in your words, ‘walk away from it all'. That I want to have more, to live more, to experience more.

  I know what you meant to say with 'your circumstances .. .'and I can't blame you. You wanted to say that I am a mother, I have a child, I have responsibilities, I don't have to (or can't, or ought not, or must not) stay in this great adventure. It is a question I have been wrestling with for months, and I still don't know where the truth lies. For seventeen years I lived for my son and my husband. Now, for Barend's sake as well, I must live for myself.

  You said, 'you can't stay here'. But I must.

  Please ...

  10 October 2009. Saturday.

  She came out of the bedroom wearing one of his shirts. She saw him at the breakfast counter, his bare back to her, bent over, all attention on the disassembled parts of a laptop, tools spread over the counter top. And her letter nearby.

  She leaned against the door jamb, looking at him, at the long muscles of his back, at his neck, his dark hair so neat in its military cut. She wanted to touch him, went closer.

  His head jerked around, and he looked at her for a second. 'Milla,' he said, stern and urgent, scaring her. 'Stop right there.'

  'What?'

  He turned back to the innards of the computer. 'Explosives. It's Osman's laptop ... Just let me ...' She saw him carefully pull out a thin, silver tube, with two thin wires attached. He put it to one side, with great respect. Then he slowly lifted out a thin worm of greyish white stuff, it looked like children's modelling clay.

  'C4,' he said, keeping it still, touching it respectfully. 'There might be another detonator here ...'

  Until he was satisfied, had taken the clay out of the interior of the computer and put it aside. He wiped perspiration off his forehead and turned to her.

  'Good morning,' he said.

  She came close, leaned against him, her hand on his bare back, kissed him on the cheek. 'So that's what you do before breakfast...'

  He held her tightly, said nothing.

  'Did you read my letter?'

  'I did.'

  'And?'

  He let go slowly. 'Look,' he said, and pointed at the explosive.

  'I understand. But...'

  He shook his head, put his hands on her shoulders, his face solemn. 'Milla ...'

  'I can help you,' though she knew what he was going to say.

  'Milla, I want you, I want to be with you and I'm coming back to you when this thing is over, I swear to you. But look at it objectively, please; if things get rough ... I can't afford to worry about your safety, I can't allow that to affect my choices ...'

  She couldn't keep the disappointment from her face.

  'I'm sorry,' he said.

  Later, while she drank coffee and he put the computer together again, he told her about the laptop, how he understood now why Osman reached for his cellphone first during the kidnapping.

  'This receiver was on top of the computer lid. Osman wanted to phone a number that would activate the explosive. The charge is small, just enough to destroy the computer. And when I took the phone away from him, he tried to get to the computer, because there is a switch as well...'

  'But why?' she asked.

  'That is what I want to find out.'

  When he had finally put the computer back together, there was another obstacle.

  'It needs a password,' Becker said.

  Milla came to look. A box on the screen. Enter your Windows password.

  'You don't know what it is.'

  'No idea.'

  'Perhaps I can help.'

  'You know about computers?'

  'No, but I know someone.'

  Janina Mentz and Tau Masilo on one side of the table, the Americans on the other, in a meeting room at the Department of Home Affairs in Plein Street, the nearest to neutral ground that Mentz could find at short notice.

  From the outset she was cool towards the four CIA people. Burzynski's reaction was a small, secret smile, as though he knew something. It irritated Mentz, she decided to fire the first salvo: 'Bruno, I haven't informed the Minister about the CIA's shenanigans yet, but if we can't find a resolution by lunchtime, I will have no choice.'

  'Shenanigans?' with the surprise of the innocent.

  'Please. I really don't have time to play games.'

  'Janina, I honestly don't know what you are talking about.'

  'Adverse weather conditions in the North Atlantic? Do you honestly think we are so backward that we don't know how to check the weather?'

  'I said I wasn't sure exactly where ...'

  'Oh, nonsense, Bruno. You knew exactly. You always do. You were playing for time, and I deeply resent that, because it is putting South African citizens in harm's way. Do you really want that on your conscience?'

  'There's risk to your public? You never said that. Perhaps, Janina, you could start by levelling with us, especially in view of the fact that you expect us to throw all our resources at your problem.'

  'Here's a bit of levelling, Bruno: We don't have an operative snooping around the CIA at the moment. We don't do that with our allies.'

  'Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?'

  She clapped her hand on the file that lay before her, decided to play her trump card. 'Be careful now, Bruno. I have some very interesting information in here.' She saw a momentary hesitation, and she thought, I've got you.

  'Then, by all means, share it with us,' said Burzynski.

  She opened the file, took out the photograph of Lukas Becker and skimmed it across the table to him, keeping her eyes on him like an eagle.

  Burzynski gave nothing away, squared up the photo slowly, and studied it. Then looked up at her, the little smile back again. 'So who's this guy?'

  'He's the one who's been working for you since at least 1997. Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Iran, Turkey, and, more recently, Iraq.'

  'Not for me, he hasn't.' Burzynski slid the photo across to one of the new people, Grant, a middle-aged man with a big half-grey beard and an intense gaze.

  'Oh, please, Bruno. We know about his attempts to befriend one of our staff members, we know about the very important item he lost in Johannesburg, we know he eliminated Julius Shabangu. And you've paid him a small fortune. So stop insulting my intelligence, and let's move on ...' She watched Grant, saw the negative shake of the head. Then she asked: 'Where are you keeping Osman?'

  It was with this last name that she finally spotted a reaction, slight, a narrowing of Bruno's eyes, just as quickly it was gone. He looked at his three colleagues. The two new ones, Eden and Grant, nodded at him, one after the other.

  They were Burzynski's seniors, she realised. Interesting.

  Finally he looked back at Janina, and cleared his throat. When he spoke, the annoyance was gone from his voice, it was suddenly calm and serious. 'I'm going to tell you thr
ee things, Janina, and you should seriously consider believing me, for the sake of your government and your country. Number One: I don't know who this man is,' he tapped a finger on Becker's photo, 'but if you want us to investigate the matter, we will. Number Two: we believe you have Osman, and we're very keen to get access to him. And Number Three: your ship, The Madeleine, has completely disappeared. It's like it never existed.'

  'You can't find it?' In disbelief.

  'That's right. And to say we did our best is putting it mildly. We want to find it, even more than you do. So, here's the deal: you show me yours, and I'll show you mine.'

  Tau Masilo had been following the full interaction with great interest. At that moment his cellphone rang in his jacket pocket.

  'I am sorry,' he said, took it out and checked the screen. It was Quinn calling. 'This might be important,' he said, 'excuse me.'

  Masilo got up and walked out quickly, closing the door behind him, and then asked: 'Any news?'

  'Osman,' said Quinn. 'He's in hospital. Intensive Care Unit at the Chris Barnard Memorial. Heart attack. A man corresponding to Becker's description dropped him off yesterday afternoon. Osman only regained consciousness this morning ...'

  Masilo laughed, abruptly. 'Unbelievable.'

  'That is not the big news. Osman asked the nurse at Intensive Care to phone Suleiman Dolly, via land line to his house. Probably he couldn't remember the Sheikh's latest cellphone number. We intercepted the call. First she told Dolly that Osman was in hospital. Then, and I quote "Mr Osman asked me to say the dog has the laptop" ...'

  Masilo quickly made the connection. 'Becker.'

  'That's right. We suspect it was in the shoulder bag that Osman was so attached to. The hospital staff said that was the first thing Osman asked for when he woke up. But there is something else. The third thing that the sister told Dolly was that "the dog is driving a blue Citi Golf, CA 143 and another four numbers".'

  'They're going to look for him.'

  'I think so.'

  'Do you have people there?'

  'I have eight people at the hospital now, Osman is isolated. In the meantime, Dolly has also arrived, threatening interdicts ...'

  'Let him threaten, just keep them all away from him.'

  69

  iThemba Computers was on the first floor of Oxford House in Durbanville's main road. The young man behind the counter recognised Milla, despite the headscarf. 'Hello, Tannie,' he said, using the respectful Afrikaans form of address.

  'Hello,' said Milla. 'My neighbour,' she gestured at Becker, 'has a problem with his laptop ...'

  'What can I do for you, Oom?'

  'I forgot my Windows password,' said Lukas Becker.

  'XP, Vista or Seven?' the young man asked.

  Burzynski was talking when Masilo came back.'... have an interest in Osman, so we both know this is about local Muslim extremism, Janina. I really don't see the point of being coy about it.'

  Masilo sat down, pulled his notepad closer and wrote the words, Osman found. In hospital. We have him under guard.

  Mentz read as he wrote, nodded slightly.

  Masilo turned the notepad over

  'You can't find the ship,' Mentz stated sceptically.

  'We have located every single vessel of that approximate tonnage not running LRIT and AIS. And believe me, it wasn't easy. The fact of the matter is, there are three possible explanations. The first is that they are hiding somewhere. Not terribly likely, I know, but if they've switched off the transmitters, if they are completely stationary, and well camouflaged, they might get away with it. The second option is that they've scuttled her. Which begs the question of "why", of course, and we're not seriously considering it. The third is that they're running a false LRIT, and if that is the case, we're basically up the creek. It could take weeks to cross-check every ship out there.'

  'You said you want to find it even more than we do.'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'We knew you would raise that question, Janina. I've been on the line with Langley all night about this, and the bottom line is that I'm not cleared to say more than this: we believe the cargo on The Madeleine is of vital importance to both American and South African national security.'

  'So you know what we know.'

  'I don't know what you know. But let me formally and fully introduce you to my two colleagues,' and he gestured at the two new people who Mentz knew absolutely nothing about. 'Janet Eden is a senior analyst at MENA, our Office of Middle East and North Africa Analysis. Jim Grant is at the Office of Terrorism Analysis. And they both came to South Africa because of your SOLAS request. Janet, would you do us the honour?'

  She was a slim, attractive woman, well-groomed, in her forties. 'Thank you, Bruno.' She addressed Mentz and Masilo. 'I'm not going to apologise for the fact that we won't be able to share all our intelligence. We're all big girls and boys in the same line of work. We know the rules.' She was businesslike and self-assured. 'So let me tell you what I can. About ten weeks ago, both Jim and I independently became aware of higher levels of communication between suspected al-Qaeda cells in Oman, Pakistan and Afghanistan, and, to our surprise, in South Africa, particularly Cape Town. We've seen communication between Somalia's al-Shabab and Cape cells before, low level, easily decoded, but the al-Qaeda stuff was very different. When we took this information to our superiors, a task force was created to focus on the matter exclusively, which also included Bruno and his colleagues down here. Much to our frustration, the communication is using a cypher discovered by Dr Michael Rabin at Harvard back in 2001, and it is probably unbreakable. I won't bore you with the details - which you can Google quite easily - but it entails two parties setting up a source of genuinely random numbers, then broadcasting those numbers to each other ...'

  'We know about the encryption,' said Mentz.

  'Good, then I don't need to explain. Last week, we followed the trail of the communication to, amongst others, Shaheed Osman, hence our recent interest in him. But electronic communication is not our only source of intelligence. Assets in Pakistan and Afghanistan have been picking up snippets, and we accumulated enough to know that something very big is brewing, that a fishing vessel is involved, and that it will happen within the next seventy-two hours, in or near Cape Town. Bruno ...'

  'Thank you, Janet. Janina, let me be frank: we want Osman, and we want him badly. We have little doubt that he has the cypher keys, and this is a real emergency situation, our time is running out. Yesterday, Langley asked me to submit to you a formal request for the apprehension of Osman, with your approval and cooperation. You can imagine our surprise when we received news of his abduction late yesterday. We honestly believed it was you. That's why we asked for this meeting...'

  Burzynski stopped talking when he saw Tau Masilo writing frenetically on his writing pad.

  Mentz read the four words: Becker has Osman's laptop. She looked up at the Americans. 'I'm going to need a few minutes to think this over.'

  It took the young man at iThemba Computers only eleven minutes to retrieve the password for Shaheed Latif Osman's laptop. He wrote it down for them: Amiralbahr.

  'There you are,' said Milla, with a happy, effervescent feeling, as though she herself had provided the solution.

  'What does it mean, Oom?'

  'Nothing. That's why I forgot it. Thanks a lot.'

  'Oom, should I leave the script like this?'

  'What script?'

  'The formatting script.'

  Becker scratched his head. 'Remind me.'

  'Oom, the script you have here that says, control, alt and home will format the hard drive, delete everything.'

  'Oh, yes ...'

  'And two wrong passwords too ...' 'You can take all that off.'

  'Bruno,' said Janina Mentz, 'you are playing a dangerous game. Your man Becker has Osman's laptop, you now have the decryption key, and yet you are sitting here, deceiving us, and wasting precious time. Why?'

  Indignation infused Burzynski'
s face, he wanted to reply, but Jim Grant got in first and spoke for the first time. 'Madam,' he said in a deep, authoritative voice, 'I am the Deputy Director of the CIA's Office of Terrorism Analysis. I am fully informed about every intelligence and counter-intelligence operation the Agency is currently running in Southern Africa, as well as every single agent and asset involved. And I wish to most categorically state that this man is not one of them. If he were, I would have told you right now, because the greater and common cause necessitates it. If you're going to insist on doubting us, I'll have to ask you to take this matter directly to your President. We might respectfully ask that he calls our Secretary of State for clarification ... But I beg you, if we go that route, let's do it immediately. As everybody seems to be pointing out, we are running dangerously low on time.'

  It was the combination of his gravity, authority and solemnity, and their repeated denials, even though Becker had the laptop, which made Janina Mentz wonder, for the first time, whether she might be wrong. She hesitated a moment before she said: 'If he's not working for you, the next question is, who is he working for?'

  'We don't know. But we would love to find out, if you'll supply us with more intel.'

  'In that case,' she said, and leaned back in her chair, 'we all share the same problem. We have to find Becker. Because he has the key.'

  At the Bayside Centre in Table View she bought clothing and groceries with cash she had drawn from an ATM in Durbanville. Then they drove back to the Big Bay Beach Club, so she could cook, and he could explore the laptop.

  Lukas was quiet. She knew it was the circumstances, the odds that he would be able to get his money back growing ever slimmer. She wanted to encourage him, but she didn't know what to say.

  Mentz and Masilo walked back to the PIA offices.