Thirteen Hours

by Deon Meyer

  'Thanks, Chief.'

  'Shall we go?' asked Connelly.

  The other two men nodded. Anderson took his wife's hands in his. 'Jess, if she calls, just stay calm and find out as much as you can.'

  'I will.'

  'And give her the number of the Captain. Ghree-zil, she must call him ...'

  'Would you rather stay, Bill?' asked Connelly.

  'No, Mike, I have to be there. I owe it to Erin and her folks.' He opened the front door. The cold seeped in and his wife pulled her dressing gown more tightly around her body. 'I've got my cell. You'll call,' he said to her.

  'Right away.'

  They walked out on the porch. Anderson closed the door behind him. Deep in thought, Jess returned slowly to the study.

  The phone rang.

  She started, with her hand to her heart in fright and an audible intake of breath. Then she ran back to the front door, pulled it open and saw the men getting into the police car.

  'Bill!' she shouted, her voice shrill and frightened.

  He came running and she hurried to the phone.

  Rachel Anderson sat at the table where Piet van der Lingen's laptop and a myriad reference books and papers were strewn across the table. In her ear the phone kept ringing on another continent - far too long, she thought, what was her father doing?

  'Rachel?' Her mother said suddenly, anxious and out of breath.

  'Mom!' Rachel was caught off guard, expecting her father's calm.

  'Oh, my God, Rachel, where are you, are you all right?' She could hear the underlying hysteria and fear.

  'Mom, I'm fine, I'm with a very kind man, I'm safe for now ...'

  'Oh, thank God, thank God. We've spoken to the police over there, we've spoken to the Ambassador and the Congressman, it's going to be all right, Rachel. Everything's going to be ... Bill, she's safe, she's with somebody, a kind man, Rachel, this is such wonderful news, I love you honey, do you hear me, I love you so very much.'

  'I love you too, Mom ...'

  'Now, I'm going to put your father on, listen very carefully, he's going to give you a number to call. Promise me you will do exactly what he says, Rachel, please.'

  'I promise, Mom. I'm OK, I know this must have been really tough for you ...'

  'Don't you worry about us, we are going to take care of all this, honey, it's so great to hear your voice, I can't believe it, here's your father, I love you, you hear, I love you very much.'

  'Love you too,' said Rachel Anderson, and smiled through the sudden tears of longing and gratitude. Her father came on the line: 'Honey? You're OK?'

  'Yes, Dad, I'm OK, I'm with a very kind gentleman, I'm sitting in his house, I'm perfectly safe.'

  'I can't begin to tell you what a great relief that is, honey, that's really great news.' Her father's voice was calm. 'We've been pretty busy on this side, trying to get you help, I've spoken to the Consul General in Cape Town, they are standing by, I'm going to give you their number, but first, I'm going to give you the number of a police Captain. Now, I know you said something about the police when you last called, but this man was recommended by their top structure, and I spoke to him personally. He's in charge of your case, and he gave me his word that he'll make sure you are safe, OK?'

  'Are you sure?'

  'Absolutely, even their Secretary of ... their Police Minister knows about you, the Consul General is talking to them, so this is very high level, nothing can happen to you. So can you take down the numbers?'

  She looked across the desk and spotted the end of a yellow pencil under a printed document, pulled it out and turned over one of the typed sheets.

  'I'm ready,' she said with determination and inexpressible relief. The nightmare was nearly over.

  Mbali Kaleni parked on the Parade. In bright sunlight she walked down the alley of flower sellers, past the old post office, between stalls selling anything from shoes to packets of nuts. For a second she contemplated buying some candy-coated cashews, but reconsidered, she wanted to get to Upper Orange quickly. She just wanted to go back to that house ...

  She walked faster, swinging her big, black handbag with every stride.

  'Just explain one thing to me,' said Griessel to Oliver Sands. He was standing: Oliver sat at the table wide-eyed, as though the attention was too much for him to handle.

  'Why did the girls bring backpacks with them to the club?'

  'Those bags ...' Sands said. 'They never went anywhere without them. It's a girl thing, I think. You know, make-up and stuff...'

  Griessel considered the bag that Oerson had brought. Small and compact. That made sense. He would have to sort through the plastic refuse bag, but not here. He would have to go back to Caledon Square.

  'Jeremy speaking,' Oerson answered his phone and Fransman Dekker could tell he was a coloured man, and he was probably in a car.

  'Bro', my name Fransman Dekker, I'm SAPS, howzit that side?' he said, because Griessel had warned him the Metro officer was a 'difficult character'.

  'No, things going with springs, and you?'

  'Just so, bro', listen, there was a helluva surprise in that bag of stuff your people found, a shoe, number ten and a half, if I can just find out where it was picked up.'

  'No idea, bro', but I'll get the men to come in and tell me.'

  'Many thanks, it's a murder case, I have to run, you know how it goes.'

  'I know. Give me ten minutes, I'm sort of tied up at the moment.'

  'Will you call me?'

  'Daatlik, bro'.'

  Dekker rang off and knocked on the door of the accountant, Wouter Steenkamp. There was no answer so he opened the door. Steenkamp was on the phone, saying:'... fucking police will have to help, or I'll have to make another plan.' He saw Dekker and said over the phone 'Hold on,' then to Dekker: 'The press are blocking reception. You'll have to help control them.'

  'OK.'

  'They'll help,' he said into the phone. 'Right, bye.' He looked at Dekker expectantly.

  'I will go and tell them to wait outside. It would be best to lock the front door.'

  'What a mess,' said Steenkamp.

  'Just wait here, we need to talk some more,' said Dekker.

  'Now what?'

  'New information,' said Dekker before leaving to go and manage the media. 'There are some who say you are cheating them.'

  'Your people can go,' Vusi said to Galina Federova.

  'So, you will not arrest anybody.' She was sarcastic, cigarette between her fingers.

  'No. They've been a big help.'

  Griessel thought Vusi was too polite; he should tell the fucking foreigner he would throw her ass in jail if she wanted to be funny. He realised his patience was worn thin. He had to get out of here, away from the smell of alcohol and the sight of bottles. The fucking thirst was just below the surface. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do next. They knew the girls had been here, they knew there had been discussions and arguments. They knew two men had left shortly after the girls and they knew there had been a chase down Long Street, but all of that helped fuck all, because it could not tell them where she was. And then his cell phone rang and he plucked it out angrily and said: 'Benny Griessel.'

  'I've been to see Alexa Barnard, Benny,' Doc Barkhuizen said.

  'Is she OK, Doc?'

  'She's pumped full of medication, but you know what lies ahead for her. She's a strong woman, Benny. Beautiful too. I can see why you're so concerned about her.'

  'Fuck off, Doc.' As Doc Barkhuizen chuckled on the other end, he heard the beep of another incoming call.

  'She said when you have a chance, she would like to talk to you. Something to do with her husband.'

  'Doc, I've got another call, it's a bit crazy right now, thanks for going to see her. We'll talk later,' he said and accepted the other call.

  Griessel said his name and a woman with an American accent asked: 'Is that Captain Benny Ghree-zil?' He thought, wasn't that what I just fucking said, but he answered civilly: 'Yes.'

 
; 'My name is Rachel Anderson. My dad said I should call you.'

  The name burned right through him, through the disappointment over Mat Joubert, through the frustrations of the day and the desire to drink, jolting his body as he said: 'Jissis.' Then 'Yes, yes, are you safe, where are you?' Adrenaline and relief washed through him, he took two steps to Vusi's shoulder and put an urgent hand on it. His black colleague looked around and he said: 'Rachel Anderson,' and pointed at the phone. Vusi's whole face lit up.

  'Yes, I'm with a Mr Pete van der Liengen, the address is ...' Griessel heard a man speaking in the background. Then Rachel's voice again:'... Number six Upper Orange Street... In Orainisiegh?'

  'Yes, yes, Oranjezicht, Six Upper Orange, just stay there, I'm on my way, don't open the door for anybody, I will call when I get there, please, Miss Anderson,' he pleaded. Dear God, this was good news. Griessel gestured to Vusi that they must go, jogged out the door and headed for the alley, faster and faster, hearing Vusi's shoes on the floor behind him.

  'I'm not going anywhere,' said Rachel Anderson, and her voice sounded cheerful, as if she was looking forward to his arrival and Benny was out the back door, into the alley and running as fast as he could.

  Barry stood on the back of his bakkie and watched the driver of the delivery vehicle get in and start the engine. He looked to the right where the upright, bold silver Peugeot Boxer panel van stood waiting. His phone was ready in his sweaty hand. He pressed the call button and held it up to his ear.

  'Yes?' said the man with the grey beard.

  'The truck is leaving.'

  'Good. Can you see the panel van?'

  Barry looked at the dirty, dusty Peugeot. 'Yes, they're moving.'

  'Jay is going to call Eben, they will cover the back door. Then he'll turn the van around and come back to the front gate in Upper Orange, so the nose is pointing towards the city. When they get out and go through the front gate, you tell me.'

  'Right. Stand by.'

  Chapter 33

  Piet van der Lingen stood next to his big work table. 'The police are on their way,' she said, 'Captain Benny Ghree-zil.' The old man witnessed a transformation - her eyes brightened and the tension melted away. He smiled at her with his white false teeth and said: 'We will have to teach you proper Afrikaans pronunciation - it's Griessel.' 'Gggg ...' she tried it, sounding as though she was clearing phlegm from her throat.

  'That's it,' he said. 'And roll the "r" as well. G-riessel.'

  'Ghe-riessel.'

  'Almost. Ggg-rrriessel.'

  'Griessel.'

  'Very good.' They laughed together. She said: 'How will I ever be able to thank you?'

  'For what? For brightening an old man's day?'

  'For saving my life,' she said.

  'Well, when you put it that way ... I demand that you come and have lunch again, before you go home.'

  'I would love to ...'

  She saw him look up and away, at the window, with sudden concern shadowing his face. Her eyes followed his and she saw them, four men coming up the garden path. 'Oh, my God.' she said because she knew them. She got up from the chair. 'Don't open the door!'The fear was back in her voice. 'They want to kill me - they killed my friend last night!' She ran a few steps down the passage, a dead end. She heard someone wrenching at the front door and spun around in panic.

  Then the leaded glass of the front door shattered. She sprinted back across the hall on the way to the kitchen, the back door. A hand came through the gap to unlock the front door from inside. 'Come on!' she shouted at van der Lingen. The old man stood frozen to the spot, as though he planned to stop them.

  'No!' she screamed.

  The door opened. She had to get away and ran through the kitchen, hearing a shot in the hall. She whimpered in fear, reached the back door and spotted the long carving knife in the drying rack. She grabbed it, tugged open the back door, and stepped outside in sudden dazzling sunlight. There were two more between her and the little gate in the corner, charging at her, black and white, with determined faces. Urgent footfalls behind her, she had only one choice. She ran at the one in front of her, the white man whose arms were spread wide to seize her. She whipped up the knife, stabbing at his chest with hatred and loathing and shrill terror. He tried to pull away, too late, the knife piercing his throat. His eyes filled with astonishment.

  'Bitch!' the black man yelled and hit her with his fist. The blow landed above her eye and a cascade of light exploded in her head. She fell to the right, onto the grass, hearing their shouts. She struggled to get up, but they were on her, one, two, three of them, more. Another fist slammed into her face, arms pinned her down. She heard their short, brute grunts, saw an arm lifted high, something chunky and metallic swinging at her face, and then the darkness.

  Griessel raced. He had taken the blue revolving light out of the boot and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. It was propped on the dashboard, but the fucking thing wouldn't work. So he just drove with the Opel's hazard lights flashing, but that didn't help much. He pressed long and hard on the hooter, saying to Vusi: 'I should have taken a car with a fucking siren.' They sped up Long Street through one red traffic light after another. Every time he had to slow down, stick his arm out of the window and wave frantically at the crossing traffic. Vusi did the same from his window.

  'At least she should be safe,' said Vusi warily, ever the bloody diplomat. Griessel knew that what he really meant was: 'We needn't drive so madly - she said she was with a good man.'

  'She should be,' Griessel said and waved wildly, hooting continuously, 'but I can't afford a fuck-up.' He put his foot down, and the Opel's tyres squealed.

  Mbali Kaleni was driving serenely down Annandale in dense traffic near the turn into Upper Orange. She put on her indicator light to change lanes, waiting patiently, but no one would give her a gap. She shook her head, Cape Town drivers; in Durban this sort of thing would never happen. Eventually the stream in the right- hand lane thinned and she swung over, keeping the indicator on.

  The traffic lights were red.

  It looked like a hornet's nest, Fransman Dekker thought, the crowd abuzz, with microphones poised to sting you.

  He stood on the stairs, and shouted loudly: 'Attention, everyone.'

  They swarmed on him, there must have been twenty people, all talking, the stingers aimed at him in desperate hands. He could only hear snatches of the questions '... Ivan Nell shot him?''... the Geysers praying for?''... tried to murder Alexa Barnard?' 'Is Josh Geyser under arrest?''... Xandra dead?'

  He held up his right hand, palm forward, dropped his head to avoid eye contact and just stood there. He knew they would quieten down eventually.

  Kaleni saw them.

  She spotted the panel van in front of the house, thinking at first it was those clowns from Forensics. She couldn't stand them, and wondered irritably what they were still doing here.

  There was movement on the other side, the Belmont Avenue side, as she approached.

  People were carrying something.

  What was going on?

  Closer still she saw there were four men in a hurry, each holding onto a piece of something. They moved crab-like along the pavement, but the picket fence hid their burden. She saw they were heading for the panel van parked in Upper Orange. Strange.

  They were carrying a person, she saw as they came around the corner and out from behind the obscuring fence. She kept her eyes on them: it was the girl, lifeless, they were gripping her arms and legs. Mbali accelerated and her hand reached for her hip, pressed the leather loop off her service pistol, swung across the road and aimed for the front of the panel van. She was going too fast and could not stop in time, braked hard. In front of her one man jumped out of the van from the driver's side, holding a pistol fitted with a silencer. The small tyres of the Corsa squealed, the car skidded sideways, on a collision course for the kerb. She wrestled with the steering wheel and came to a standstill just a metre from the Peugeot, at right angles to it. Instinctively, she n
oted the registration number, CA 4 ...

  She saw a pistol aimed at her, the windscreen starred and the bullet slammed against metal behind her. She wanted to dive down, but the safety belt held her.

  'ujesu,' she said quietly and reached a hand to unclip it.

  He shot her. She felt the dreadful blow to her body, but the safety belt was loose, she flattened herself, right hand reaching for her pistol. She lifted it and fired off three blind shots through the windscreen. The pain was an earthquake that rippled through her, slowly, unstoppable. She checked the wound. A hole below her left breast, blood trickling into a pool on the upholstery. Pity, she always kept the car spotless. She fired off more shots and sat up quickly. The pain ripped through her torso. Quickly she scanned for him through the windscreen. He wasn't there. Movement, here he was, just beside the door, pistol in both hands, long deadly silencer aimed at her eye. She saw a kind of African necklace around his neck, the beads spelling out a word. She jerked back her head, swung her pistol around in the certain knowledge of death. Fleeting sadness, so short, this life, as she saw his trigger finger tighten with purpose.

  Griessel blasted a path through the traffic with his hooter and turned from Annandale into Upper Orange. A man in a fucking yellow Humvee gave him the finger, two cars had to brake sharply as he raced over the crossing. Vusi clutched the handle above the door, speechless.

  Benny sped, on, accelerating out of the corner. They were nearly there. A madman in a big silver panel van came racing downhill in the middle of the road. Benny hooted again and swerved out of the way. He caught a glimpse of the driver's face, a young asshole with a fierce expression, then he looked up at the street ahead, which was suddenly empty. He changed down a gear, flattened the accelerator, engine protesting, another gear change, charged up the hill. This was his territory, his flat was only one block away in fucking Vriende Street; stupid bloody name, he still thought so. De Waal Park to the right, then Vusi said, 'It's just up there,' and they crested the rise. They both saw the Corsa at the same time, and neither spoke, because from the angle it had stopped, something was not right.