Thirteen Hours

by Deon Meyer

  'Must have a rich dad,' said the young man in the apron as he opened an email.

  'Those Landies cost three hundred grand.'

  'Where does he work?' Vusi asked hopefully.

  'Same address. He works from home.'

  Griessel heard the phone ring on another continent. It was crystal clear and he wondered what time it was in West Lafayette, Indiana.

  'Anderson,' said the voice on the other end.

  'Mr Anderson, my name is Benny Griessel ...' Griessel was aware of his Afrikaans accent, and for a fraction of a second the logical next sentence lay on the tip of his tongue,'... and I'm an alcoholic.' He bit it back and said, 'I am a Captain in the South African Police Services and I'm in charge of the search for your daughter. I am very sorry for the circumstances, but I can tell you we are doing our absolute best to find her and protect her.'

  'Thank you, Captain, first of all, for taking the time to call. Is there any news?' The voice was polite and American, making the situation feel unreal to Griessel, like a TV drama.

  'We have a police helicopter searching the area where she was last seen, and we have more than ten patrol units looking for her in the streets, with more coming. But so far, we have not located her.'

  There was a silence over the phone, not just the usual static of a local call.

  'Captain, this is a difficult thing for me to ask, but when Rachel spoke to me over the telephone, she said that she could not go to the police ... I hope you understand, as a parent, I am very concerned. Do you know why she said this?'

  Griessel took a deep breath. It was the question he had been afraid of. 'Air Anderson, we have been thinking about this ... matter ...' Those were not the right words.'... this question, I mean. It could mean different things, and I am investigating all the possibilities.' It didn't seem enough. 'I want to tell you, I have a daughter the same age as Rachel. My daughter is in London at the moment. I know how you feel, Mr Anderson. I know this must be very ... difficult for you. Our children are all we have.' He knew it sounded odd, not quite right.

  'Yes, Captain, that is exactly what I have been thinking these past few hours .. .That is why I am so concerned. Tell me, Captain - can I trust you?'

  'Yes, Mr Anderson. You can trust me.'

  'Then I will do that. I will trust you with my daughter's life.'

  Don't say that, thought Griessel. He had to find her first. 'I will do everything I possibly can,' he said.

  'Is there anything we can do from here. I... anything ...?'

  'I am going to give you my cell phone number, Mr Anderson. You can call me any time you like. If Rachel calls you again, please give her my number, and tell her I will come to her, just me, if she is worried ... And I promise you, I will call you if there is any news.'

  'We were thinking ... We want to fly out there ...'

  He didn't know how to respond to that. 'I.. .You can, of course ... Let me find her, Mr Anderson. Let me find her first.'

  'Will you, Captain?' There was a desperate note in his voice, grabbing at a lifeline.

  'I will not rest until I have.'

  Bill Anderson put the phone down carefully and sank back into his chair. He put his hands over his face. His wife stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

  'It's all right to cry,' she said to him in a barely audible whisper. He didn't reply.

  'I will be strong now, so you can cry.'

  He slowly dropped his hands. He looked at the long rows of books on the shelves. So much knowledge, he thought. And so useless now.

  He dropped his head. His shoulders shook. 'I heard him,' said Jess Anderson. 'He will find her. I could hear that in his voice.'

  Captain Benny Griessel sat with his elbows on the director's desk and his chin in his hand.

  He shouldn't have said it. He didn't want to make promises. He should have stuck to: 'I will do everything I possibly can.' Or he should have said: 'In the circumstances I don't want to make predictions.' But Rachel Anderson's father had pleaded with him.

  'Will you, Captain?'

  And he had said he would not rest until he found her.

  Where the fuck did he begin?

  He dropped his arms and tried to concentrate. There were too many things happening at once.

  The helicopter and patrols were not going to find her. She was hiding, afraid of the police. And he didn't know why.

  The solution was to find out who was hunting her. Vusi's plan looked better and better. He must check on their progress.

  Griessel stood up and reached for his cell phone. But then it rang loudly in the silent office, startling him.

  'Griessel.'

  'This is Inspector Mbali Kaleni of the South African Police Service, Benny.' Her Zulu accent was strong, but every Afrikaans word was enunciated with care. 'We traced a Land Rover Defender that fits the number. It belongs to a man in Parklands, a Mr J. M. de Klerk. I am on my way.'

  'Very good work, but the Commissioner asked if you would help with another case. Fransman Dekker's investigation ...'

  'Fransman Dekker?'

  Griessel ignored the disdain in her voice. 'Can I give you his number? He's in the city ...'

  'I have his number.'

  'Call him, please.'

  'I don't like it,' said The Flower, 'but I will call him.'

  'On the eleventh of January we electronically transferred an amount of fifty thousand rand into an ABSA account, on Adam's instructions,' said the accountant of AfriSound, Wouter Steenkamp, with modulated precision.

  He was comfortably ensconced behind a large fiat-screen computer monitor, elbows on the desk and fingers steepled in front of his chest. He was a short man in his early thirties with an angular face and heavy eyebrows. He clearly took trouble with his appearance - the thick-rimmed glasses and short hair were equally fashionable, there was a careful, deliberate two-day growth of black stubble on his chin, and dark chest hair was just visible at the open collar of his light-blue sports shirt with narrow white stripes. Chunky sports watch, tanned arms. No lack of self- confidence.

  'Who was it paid to?' Dekker asked from his chair opposite.

  Steenkamp consulted his screen without untwining his fingers. 'According to Adam's note the account holder was "Bluegrass". The bank branch code was an ABSA branch in the Bloemfontein city centre. The transaction was successful.'

  'Did Mr Barnard say what the payment was for?'

  'In his email he asked me to put it under "sundry expenses".'

  'That's all?'

  'That's all.'

  'Was there also a payment of ten thousand?'

  'Exactly?' Steenkamp's eyes scanned the spreadsheet on his screen.

  'I believe so.'

  'In the past week?'

  'Yes.'

  'Not on my records.'

  Dekker leaned forward. 'Mr Steenkamp ...'

  'Wouter, please.'

  'According to my information, Adam Barnard used an agency to determine who was behind the Bluegrass account. At a fee of ten thousand rand.'

  'Aah ...' said Steenkamp, sitting up straight and reaching for his neat in-tray. He lifted documents and pulled one out. 'Ten thousand exactly,' he said and offered it to Dekker. 'Jack Fischer and Associates.'

  Dekker knew the company - former senior white police officers who had taken fat retirement packages five or six years ago and set up their own private investigation business. He took the document and examined it. It was an invoice. Client:AfriSound. Client contact person: Mr A. Barnard.

  Under Item and Cost was printed: Administrative enquiries, R4, 500. Personal interview, R5,500.

  'Personal interview?' he read aloud.

  Steenkamp just shrugged.

  'Is this Adam Barnard's signature here?'

  'It is. I only pay if either he or Willie has signed it.'

  'So you don't know what the account was for?'

  'No. Adam didn't discuss it with me. He put it in his out-tray and Natasha put it in here. If it was signed by him—'

&nb
sp; 'Do you often use Jack Fischer?'

  'Now and then.'

  'You know they are private investigators?'

  'Inspector, the music industry is not all moonlight and roses ... But Adam usually handled that sort of case.'

  'Would Willie Mouton know?'

  'You will have to ask him.'

  'I will have to keep this account.'

  'May I make a copy first?'

  'Please.'

  Inspector Vusi Ndabeni had never flown in a helicopter before.

  The pilot passed a headset to him over his shoulder, someone closed the door, the engine made a mighty roar, the rotors turned and they lifted off. His stomach churned. He put on the earphones with trembling hands and watched De Waal Drive shrink below him.

  Sometimes these machines dropped out of the sky, he thought. One shouldn't look down, someone once told him, but the city was below them now, Parliament, the Castle, the railway tracks leading to the station in tidy ranks; the harbour, sea, blinding as the sun reflected off it. Vusi took his dark glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on: 'Does Table View know we're on our way?' he said, looking down at Robben Island in wonder.

  'Turn the microphone - it's too far from your mouth,' said the co-pilot and demonstrated what he should do.

  Vusi bent the microphone around to the front of his mouth. 'Do Table View know we're coming?'

  'Do you want to talk to them?' asked the pilot.

  'Yes, please. We're going to need patrol vehicles.' 'Let me get them for you.'

  With glittering Table Bay to the left and the industries of Paarden Island stretching away to his right, Inspector Vusumuzi Ndabeni spoke to the SC of Table View over a helicopter radio. When he had finished, he wondered what his mother would say if she could see him now.

  Chapter 25

  Benny Griessel jogged down Buitengracht again. The traffic jam had cleared as though it had never existed. His mind was on the fugitive Rachel Anderson. Where was she heading? The only possibility was the Cat & Moose Youth Hostel; that was where her luggage was, and her friend Oliver Sands. Where else could she go?

  He phoned Caledon Square and asked the radio operator to send a unit to Long Street. 'But they must not park in front of the Cat & Moose. Tell them to wait inside. If she does come, she mustn't see them.'

  That was all he could do. According to Vusi, the eyewitness at Carlucci's had looked at the covert photos of Demidov's troops, shaken his head and said no, it was none of them.

  That really meant fuck all, because Organised Crime might not have sent all the pictures. Or the pictures could be out of date. Or they didn't have photos of all of Demidov's people.

  Either he or Vusi would have to go back to Van Hunks again. But first he would see what the house in Table View produced. He had to give the whole search some direction. He would use Caledon Square as the base; it was central, that was where the radio connection with the patrol cars was.

  He ran the last two hundred metres to his car, aware of the heat now smothering the city like a blanket.

  'I don't know what it was for,' said Willie Mouton, and passed the Jack Fischer invoice back across the desk to Dekker. 'I don't think they will tell you.'

  'Oh?' 'It's sensitive. Client privilege.'

  'What is?'

  'No, Willie,' said Groenewald, the lawyer.

  'Of course it is. They guarantee confidentiality. That's why we use them.'

  'Privilege only counts for doctors, psychologists and legal practitioners, Willie. If the police have a warrant, they can get the information.'

  'What is the use of their guarantee then?' The Adam's apple bobbed.

  'Is there anyone specific that you deal with at Jack Fischer?' Dekker asked.

  'We work with Jack himself. But you're barking up the wrong tree, I'm telling you.'

  Rachel Anderson could no longer hear the helicopter.

  At first the silence was eerie, but gradually it became reassuring. In spite of her tracks in the flower bed, even though a black policewoman had been only two steps from her hiding place, she had evaded them.

  She made up her mind. She would stay here until dark.

  She checked her watch. It was eleven minutes to twelve. Another eight hours before the sun went down. A long time. But let them look for her in other places; let them forget about this garden.

  The pain from the scratches and bruises was a dull constant in her body. She would have to make herself comfortable if she were going to lie here that long.

  Slowly she sat upright and pressed the thick, thorny branches to one side. She didn't want to make any noise, or show movement. She didn't know whether there were eyes trained on these plants.

  The rucksack would have to come off. She could use it as a pillow.

  She loosened the clips, pulled the straps off her shoulders and lowered the rucksack. It snagged on the branches and thorns, awkward, behind her. With care she untangled it and put it on the ground. She turned on her back slowly and let her head rest on the bag.

  The ground underneath her was not too uncomfortable. The dense shade would protect her from dehydration. She knew her blood sugar was low, but she would survive until night fell. She would have to find a telephone; somewhere someone would allow her to phone, they must, she would beg. She had to tell her father where she was.

  She drew a deep breath and looked up through the dense leaf cover to where patches of sky shone through. Her eyes closed.

  Then she heard the front door of the house open.

  Barry drove up in his Toyota bakkie from the city side. Upper Orange was quiet now, the police vehicles and uniforms gone. Only a white microbus with a SAPS emblem still remained up on the corner.

  He wondered if it would be worthwhile to watch the Victorian house.

  He looked for the driveway that he had noted earlier, turned up it and drove to the back against the garage door. He picked up the binoculars that lay beside him on the worn seat cover. He realised he couldn't see the house from here. The wall on the left was too high.

  He climbed onto the load bed of the Toyota and leaned back against the cab with the binoculars to his eyes. It was barely a hundred metres to the Victorian house. He let the binocular lenses sweep across the house.

  It was dead still.

  He checked the garden. Back to the house.

  A waste of time.

  Then the front door opened. A man appeared. Barry focused on him and waited. An old man stood in the front door. Dead still.

  Josh and Melinda Geyser were sitting close together at the big oval table in the conference room when Dekker opened the door. They looked at him expectantly, but said nothing until he was seated - one chair away from Josh.

  'Inspector Griessel and I don't believe you are suspects in the case at this stage ...'

  'At this stage?'

  'Madam, the investigation has only just begun. We—'

  'We didn't do it,' Josh said emphatically.

  'Then help us to take you off our list.'

  'Who else is on the list?' asked Melinda.

  Dekker wanted to shut her up. 'We are trying to trace a parcel.' He saw the fright on her face.

  'What parcel?' asked Josh.

  'I am not at liberty to tell you, Mr Geyser, but I am asking you again: help us.'

  'How?'

  'Give us permission to search your house, so we can make sure there is nothing that connects you with Barnard's death.'

  'Such as?'

  'A firearm. You can refuse, and we would have to obtain a search warrant. But if you give permission ...'

  Josh looked at Melinda. She nodded. 'Go ahead. There isn't anything.'

  Dekker looked at her intently. He saw only the decisiveness. 'Wait here, please. I will be back as soon as possible.'

  When Mbali Kaleni walked through the double ground-floor doors of AfriSound there were four white people standing in front of the black receptionist, in animated conversation.

  'Excuse me,' said Kaleni and held up her ide
ntity card. 'Police.'

  All four turned to her. One had a camera slung around the neck.

  'Are you here about the Barnard case?' a young woman with very short blonde hair asked.

  'Are you from the newspapers?' asked Kaleni.

  'Die Burger,' the woman said. 'Is it true that Josh and Melinda Geyser are being questioned in there?'

  'I don't talk to the media,' she said and directed herself towards the receptionist.

  'Inspector Dekker. Ngaphakathi?' 'Yes, he's inside.'

  'Please,' another journalist called out, 'are the Geysers here?'

  Kaleni just shook her head as she climbed the stairs.

  'Izidingidwane.'

  Rachel Anderson lay stock still, but she couldn't hear anything.

  Had he just opened and closed the front door?

  She barely breathed.

  There were footsteps, scarcely audible: one, two, three, four.

  Then silence.

  'The policewoman told me you are an American girl,' said the same voice she had heard earlier. She was startled by the abruptness and then she tensed as she realised he was speaking to her.

  'I saw you when you jumped over the fence. I saw how scared you were. And then, the men in the Land Rover ...' There was great compassion in the voice, but the fear that he knew she was there paralysed her.

  'The policewoman told me those men are hunting you, that they want to hurt you.'

  She breathed through her mouth, silently.

  'You must be very frightened, and very tired. I suppose you don't know who to trust. I will leave the door unlocked. If you want to come inside, you are most welcome. I am alone. My wife died last year. There is food and drink inside, and you have my word that no one will ever know you were here.'

  Emotion welled up in her. Self-pity, gratitude, the impulse to leap up.

  No!

  'I can help you.'

  She heard feet shuffling.

  'I will be inside and the door is unlocked.'

  It was quiet for a moment before she heard his footsteps moving away again. The door opened and shut.

  Then there was the roar of a cannon and her whole body jerked in alarm.