Деон Мейер - Cobra

In the lecture hall Nadia felt the vibration of her phone. She peeped, saw it was Tyrone phoning. Three times.

She waited for nine minutes, until the lecture was over. Then she walked out and phoned him.

‘Hello?’ an unfamiliar voice.

‘Who is this?’ she asked.

‘I’m the guy who picked up this phone on the street. I called you, because your number is the only one on here.’ It was an accent she could not place, but the man sounded polite.

‘Oh,’ she said.‘It’s my brother’s phone. Where did you pick it up?’

‘Here in the city. He must have dropped it – it was just lying there. Where can I contact him?’

‘You are a good person,’ she said.‘I . . . His phone is the only way . . .’

‘Sorry, what is your name?’

‘Nadia.’

‘OK, Nadia, I can take the phone to him. Where does he work?’

‘I . . . He’s on a painting contract, somewhere in the Bo-Kaap. I’m not sure . . .’

‘I’m flying out today, so I would really like to get it to him.’

‘That is very nice of you. Uh, let me . . . Can I give you his home address? He has a . . . There might be people at home, at the place where he has a room. Or you can drop it in the mailbox or something?’

‘Of course. What is your brother’s name?’

21

Griessel walked out into the corridor. The voice over the phone was a woman’s, full of self-confidence and authority. Speaking in Afrikaans. About something to which only the Hawks and the British Consulate were privy. It made no sense.

His cellphone rang again. He answered quickly. ‘Griessel.’

‘Are you alone?’The same voice.

‘ Ja .’

‘Let me just tell you up front, you can try to track these calls, but it won’t work.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your name is Benny Griessel. You’re a captain in the Directorate of Priority Crimes Investigation in Bellville. You have an eighty-three per cent crime solving rate, but you have a serious drinking problem. Your ex-wife’s name is Anna Maria, your children are Carla and Fritz. In 2006 and in 2009 you were involved in disciplinary hearings with the SAPS. Every time you were acquitted. You have three outstanding traffic fines against your name.’

He said nothing, felt deeply uneasy.

‘The point is, I have access to information. That is all you have to know. If you doubt my trustworthiness, ask me a question.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Call me Joni.’

‘Joni who?’

‘Joni Mitchell.’

‘The singer?’

‘Yes.’

He had never been crazy about Joni Mitchell, she hardly ever used decent bass guitar. But he just said ‘OK’, because he smelled Intelligence Services. Spooks.

‘Your only problem is, you can’t talk about these calls. Not to anybody. If I hear you blabbing, they will stop. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should also know, this is not one-way traffic. I give a little, you give a little. Understand?’

‘It will depend on what you give.’

‘Naturally. I will give what I can, when I can . . .’

‘Why?’

‘Good question. Because I want to. That is all I am going to say.’

‘OK.’

‘Here is an example so long: last night at 20.42, the British High Commissioner in Pretoria asked via the Department of International Relations and Cooperation for a talk with the Minister of State Security. This meeting took place at ten o’clock at the minister’s house. The rumour is that you are going to receive an order not to proceed with the investigation.’

‘Someone will have to investigate it . . .’

‘SSA. The State Security Agency is going to take it over.’

‘That is . . . It doesn’t work like that.’ But his guts started to contract, nobody was going to take this case away from him.

‘We’ll see,’ said Joni. ‘I don’t have much time. Emma Graber told you about the Adair Algorithm.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Now he was sure that Joni was a Spook. ‘Yes.’

‘It’s an old trick. Divulge part of the information to create a false trail. There is more, Captain. According to my information, Adair loaded a new version of the algorithm into the international banking system some time in the past six weeks, without permission.’

He waited, but she said nothing more. ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What is different about the algorithm?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

He thought of Cupido’s theory, and he wondered suddenly whether he had something there. ‘Would Adair have . . . Could he channel money out of the system?’

She was silent for a moment. ‘It’s an interesting theory,’ she said with a measure of respect. ‘And surely a possibility . . . Now you must give me something. The correct email address that Adair used as Morris.’

The question surprised him, because he had only sent the incorrect email address to Emma Graber of MI6. By email. That meant that Joni had intercepted it. And she was a Spook who spoke Afrikaans. That meant SSA. Who didn’t trust Zola Nyathi to reveal all the information. And if he gave her the correct Morris address, the SSA would know about Lillian Alvarez. And that he did not want.

But he also didn’t want to spoil this new information channel. You never knew . . .

He gave her the correct address.

The line went dead.

Griessel ran back to Lithpel Davids.

The stolen wallet in Tyrone’s trouser pocket yielded four hundred British pounds in notes, and just over two thousand five hundred South African rand. The urgency made him use some of the rand for a taxi home – from the stop in Portswood Street.

The driver looked at his injuries and asked: ‘Now who bliksemsed you, my brother?’

‘You charge me two hundred rand for a trip of four kilos and then you want to get personal with me too?’

‘ Ek vra ma net . Just asking.’

‘ Fokken rip-off.’

‘So why don’t you take the bus?’ And a few seconds later, ‘No wonder you look like you do.’

He almost lost his temper, the anger welling up, a surge of jumbled emotions. He suppressed it with difficulty, knowing with a deep certainty that he had to stay calm. He had to plan his way ahead, the next step, the urgent things.

He made the taxi drop him off at the corner of Longmarket and Ella Street, in case this doos went to the cops when the paw-paw hit the fan, he didn’t want a specific address to be available.

‘No tip?’

Tyrone just shook his head. He waited for the taxi to disappear over the curve of Longmarket. Then he jogged home. He hoped that the rich Muslim’s oldest daughter, who hung around the house during the day, wouldn’t see him come in now, not with all this damage.

In his room he undressed. He saw that the bullet had made a long tear across his sweater. It was caked with dried blood. He tossed it in the corner and turned around so he could see the damage to his back in the mirror.

He gave a moan to the heavens: there was a lot of blood. But no fresh bleeding. The wound was a thick stripe across his shoulder blades. Trouble was he wouldn’t be able to reach it. He would have to rinse off in the shower and hope for the best.

He quickly checked his face. He had to get out of here. He had to call Nadia, the clock was ticking. Thank God for a dark skin. Because once he had washed thoroughly, he would look OK.

He hurried to the tiny bathroom.

At 9.27 the SAPS sergeant at the V&A shopping centre radioed the charge office at the Sea Point Station, breathlessly and somewhat disjointedly, to report ‘a bad shooting’.

The constable on radio duty had the good sense to run down the passage to tell his station commander the news.