Деон Мейер - Cobra

Didn’t sound right.

And then the big question: How did the Cobra – or the people who hired the Cobra – know that Adair was in a guesthouse on a wine farm in Franschhoek?

If they knew where Adair was before his flight to South Africa, surely they would have kidnapped or murdered him there?

But somewhere between last Monday and yesterday they found out where he was, and sent the Cobra from Europe to do his job.

If Adair was lying low, with his false name, false passport, and false email address, how did they know?

He put the pen down, opened his steel cabinet, and took out the rolled-up camp bed. He put it together, set his iPhone for seven, turned off the light, lay down on his back, and closed his eyes.

He only wanted a few hours of sleep so that he could think this through with a clear head, do what he needed to do. Such as, that he must get a bulletin out to all stations to let them know, should the body of a white man in his fifties be found somewhere. Such as, the fact that someone must sit down and compare all the video material from Oliver Tambo and Cape Town International Airport since Friday with the old photo of Joaquim Curado.

Perhaps luck would be on their side.

18

Tyrone Kleinbooi’s Casio G-Shock wristwatch woke him at 6.45.

He had stolen it one Sunday morning last year on the common in Green Point, from a mountain biker whose attention was distracted by his sexy cycling partner.

Tyrone tuned the radio to Kfm, because he wanted to hear the weather forecast. Isolated showers, clearing towards midday.

That was a relief. For his industry.

He made instant coffee. He ate Weet-Bix with milk and sugar. Brushed his teeth, showered, shaved, and dressed. Black, slightly faded Edgars chinos with deep open pockets. Old black T-shirt, reasonably new black polo-necked jersey. Black is beautiful, Tyrone. Smart. And invisible. You can be anything in black.

He pushed up the sleeves of his jersey to just below the elbows, he could work better that way. He put the silver Zippo and the hairpin with the small yellow sunflower in his left trouser pocket. He picked up the light blue Nokia Lumia 820, put it in the small neat rucksack that he had bought, because the size and the material and look were important. It mustn’t rustle, mustn’t look cheap, and it mustn’t interfere with his hand movements. But it must be able to hold the loot, cellphone, and his rain jacket.

He had taken the Lumia out of a businessman’s pocket up in Kloof Street – the man had been occupied with his coffee and croissant at Knead, reading the sports pages of the Cape Times, did not look like the Windows phone type. And no self-respecting fence was going to pay for a Windows phone, zero second-hand value , so Tyrone just kept it for himself. So he could at least phone Nadia, and she him.

He locked his room and walked around the Slamse’s triple garage, along the wall to the gate. He typed in the security code. The gate clicked open. He walked out, to the city.

Weather looking OK.

He walked briskly. Tuesdays were not your best days of the pickpocket week, but the early bird catches the worm if you keep your eyes open between the suits in Strand, Waterkant, Riebeeck, Long and Bree, and you blend in with the office workers hurrying along in groups, late for work, take-away coffee in one hand, as you squeeze in through the doors with them, up the escalators or in the lifts.

He was a man on a mission. Twenty-one thousand bucks by the end of Jan.

Tall order.

But every journey starts with one small step.

That wasn’t one of Uncle Solly’s. He’d heard that one time in St George’s Mall, this pretty whitey girl trying to motivate her hangdog loser boyfriend.

And he liked it. So he didn’t steal anything from her, except the quote.

Out of habit he looked north, across Table Bay. He saw the cruise ship, beyond Robben Island. He smiled. Tin can full of marks, that boat would be here in an hour or two.

Rich pickings.

Griessel dreamed a giant snake was chasing him, the mouth agape, spitting, so that it dripped off the back of his head and he felt the sour venom burning down the back of his neck. The alarm was a sudden reprieve, catapulting him to the silent safety of his office.

He folded up the camp bed and stowed it away, took the toilet bag and a worn old towel from the filing cabinet, and went to shower in the bathroom on the third floor.

While he shaved, he realised he felt rested. Fresh. Just over two extra hours of deep sleep, and the cobwebs were gone.

Perhaps because he knew he was alone for at least two nights. He and his rascal, solo.

A little less pressure.

He stood looking at himself in the mirror, and he felt the urge come over him. The urge to catch the Cobra.

Something inside him revolted against the concept of a hit man with a trademark. It was sociopathic, arrogant, it represented everything that was wrong with this world. Everyone was obsessed with money and status and fame. More than ever, it seemed, it was the root of evil, the source of more and more crime.

The murdered bodyguards, B.J. Fikter and Barry Minnaar, were former members of the Force, and not one of the highly advanced, First World detective services had been able to apprehend the Cobra so far. After all the mess of the past few months, with the SAPS derided as never before, it would be good to show the world . . .

And catching men was what he did. At least, all that he did well. There was no denying that he often struggled, made mistakes, but that moment when you clicked the handcuffs around the fucker’s wrists and said ‘You’re under arrest’, there were few things that measured up to that, it was when the universe balanced out, just for a moment.

He wiped off his face, packed his toiletries in the bag, checked himself in the mirror. One of his new shirts, only slightly creased, with the blue jacket.

This morning no one would think he was drinking again.

Just before seven he knocked on Nyathi’s door jamb.

The Giraffe waved him in and said, ‘Benny, I think we should tell the team everything.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said in relief. He had been feeling guilty since yesterday about lying to IMC.

Nyathi gathered up his papers. ‘I have to go and chair the morning parade. You get your guys into your office. Just your team, Bones, and Philip van Wyk. Make it very clear: we trust them completely, but they have to be utterly and completely circumspect. We cannot afford a single leak.’

‘Yes, sir. But we are going to need more people.’

‘Something happened?’

‘Interpol has a lot on the assassin. He’s called the Cobra.’

Nyathi checked his watch. ‘Walk with me, please.’

On the way to the morning parade, Griessel told him in broad strokes about the new information, the thirteen-year-old photograph, and what he planned to do.

‘Good,’ said the colonel. ‘Go ahead, and keep me posted.’

‘Just one more thing, sir. Philip says Sergeant Lithpel Davids can get into Adair’s email . . .’ And he left that hanging there so that the colonel could draw his own conclusions.

Nyathi stopped and looked at Griessel. ‘Do it,’ he said, barely audibly.

First he thanked the detectives who had worked very late. Then he

told the team everything.

They joked about the Cobra’s nickname.

‘The bastard probably has a Twitter account too,’ said a surly Cupido, his reproachful eyes on Griessel.

They studied the photograph. Griessel explained his strategy. He asked Ndabeni and Radebe to liaise with the SAPS office at O. R. Tambo Airport in Johannesburg, and to fly up as soon as possible to study the video material of the Arrivals Hall. Liebenberg and Fillander must do the same at Cape Town International.