Деон Мейер - Cobra

At the Adam Tas traffic light he stopped.

Phone Doc.

He couldn’t. His cellphone had to stay off.

Phone Doc. The SSA would not be able to draw any sensible conclusion from the fact that he was in Stellenbosch.

He sighed and turned on his phone.

33

At 14.40 Tyrone stood in front of the Sport Station in the Bellstar Junction shopping centre. The shop’s name was on a big sign on the wall behind him. When he had first walked up to it he thought for a fleeting second that they were lekker stupid when they made that logo because there was one giant S that had to serve for both words. But it didn’t really work – at first glance it looked like Sport Tation .

But his mind was focused elsewhere now. He had the cellphone in his hands, he kept an eye on the time. He was shaking, his heart pounding in his chest, too fast, too hard. He wondered about Nadia, how scared she must be. What had they done to her? Tied her up? Hurt her? He didn’t want to think of it . . . He must believe she was OK, and afterwards she was going to be heavy the moer in with him, that fury that transformed her into a spitting, hissing feline creature. If she was heavy angry, her eyes went a funny colour, and words streamed out of her mouth fast and furious, like a waterfall. What were you thinking,Ty? Are you mad? I thought I knew you.

But that was all OK, as long as she was orraait .

He had begun to work out a story that he would spin to her, but he didn’t know if she would fall for it. And if the cops put the CCTV footage on the TV, he was going to have his work cut out for him.

Jirre , he hoped she was OK.

If they so much as touch her . . .

14.43.

He had a view from here, all down the broad corridor from the shopping centre, between steelwork curved into triumphal arches, to the entrance of Bellstar Junction. Happily he could see across Charl Malan Street, under the M11 freeway. Not a perfect view, because there were always people in the way, people coming and going, everybody always moving, moving.

He could see Bobby van der Walt, a forlorn figure up there beside the concrete barrier of the fl yover. Bobby’s eyes were on him. He could hear the hiss and hum of the traffic racing past behind Bobby.

He kept still, made no gestures, in case Bobby thought it was The Sign. With dagga smokers you had to be careful, the brain cells weren’t always firing in sequence.

That blerrie whitey better do his part today, bum or not.

14.46.

When he’d recruited Bobby and explained carefully what he would have to do, he’d asked Tyrone, ‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all. But you have to wait for my sign.’

The narrowed eyes were still suspicious. ‘For a hundred bucks?’

‘I told you it was easy money.’

Bobby’s expression showed it might be too easy. There had to be a catch, somewhere.

‘It’s an important job, Bobby. That’s why I’m paying you properly.’

‘OK.’

Tyrone could see how his head was working. Bobby liked it that he had been sought out for an ‘important job’.

Then he took Bobby along and went to talk to the Somalian at the clothes and backpack stall. Bobby stood and listened attentively, keen to know how payday was going to work.

That Somalian was called Hassan Ikar.

‘Hassan, I want to buy this backpack.’Tyrone pointed at a compact black rucksack.

‘I’ll give you good price.’

‘No, Hassan, I don’t want to pay a good price. I want to pay full price, and a little more, but I need a favour.’

And he quickly explained to Hassan Ikar: he was going to pay him a hundred and twenty rand too much for the rucksack. Out of the change he must give Bobby van der Walt a hundred. The rest he could keep. But only when Tyrone phoned Hassan and said Bobby had done his work correctly and well.

‘Do we have a deal?’

Ikar thought it over. He couldn’t see any risk. Then he nodded. ‘OK.’

‘So give me your phone number.’

Tyrone phoned Hassan Ikar’s number to make sure it was working. Bobby stood listening to everything, and eventually agreed with a nod.

The plan was made.

But was it going to work?

14.47.

Tyrone checked the cellphone’s battery. More than enough juice, one of the few advantages of the Nokia 2700. Yesterday’s tech, but there weren’t a thousand apps sucking up the power.

A group of coloured labourers walked from the direction of the platform.

‘Are the trains running on time?’ asked Tyrone.

‘Just about,’ one called back. ‘Few minutes late.’

That was OK. A few minutes late. ’Cause he was cutting it fine. If everything went according to plan, if he and Nadia got away, he wanted to catch Metrorail 3526, at 15.08 on platform 9, to Cape Town. And he could use ‘a few minutes’, just in case.

Tyrone breathed deeply. Get a grip, you had to be cool and calm and collected. He looked up again at Bobby van der Walt – the figure was still standing there, solitary. Keep looking at me, Bobby, don’t let your concentration lapse . . .

14.49.

The security guard came walking towards him, a young black guy in a red beret with a fancy metal badge on it. ‘Can I help you?’

‘No, thanks, I’m waiting for my sister.’

‘OK.’

Then the cellphone in his hand rang and his whole body jumped and the security guard gave him a keen look.

‘That must be her now,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

The security man didn’t move.

Tyrone looked at the screen. Nadia’s number. It was them. He answered. ‘Hello.’

‘I am at the corner of Durban and Voortrekker Roads.’

Same voice, same accent.

‘Is my sister with you?’

‘Yes.’

He wanted to ask to hear her voice, but the security man was still standing right beside him, keeping an eye on him. He said, ‘I need you to come down to Bellville Station. There’s lots of parking . . .’

‘I don’t know where the station is.’

‘OK. You carry on straight down Durban Road. When you cross Church Street, you start looking for parking. There are always a few spots available. And then you call me again.’

The man didn’t answer him. He waited, heart hammering in his chest. The man broke the silence, ‘OK.’

Tyrone cut the connection. The security man gave him one last look, turned, and walked away. Tyrone looked up at the M11 bridge.

Bobby had disappeared.

Griessel battled to find the entrance to West Side in Stellenbosch’s Market Street where Nadia Kleinbooi lived. The apartment blocks were hidden behind an old Victorian house, the sliding gates had to be opened electronically with an access system. And when he parked outside and walked to the entrance, he saw there was no reference to a caretaker on the small keyboard beside the gate.

It was good news, he thought. If they wanted to harm her, they would have had trouble getting in.

He pressed twenty-one on the keyboard. Nadia’s fl at number. There was no answer.

He pressed twenty in the hope of finding a neighbour home.

Silence.

He worked from twenty-two up.

Eventually, at twenty-six, a man’s rough voice rasped over the intercom: ‘Yes?’

‘Captain Benny Griessel of the SAPS. I am looking for Nadia Kleinbooi from number twenty-one.’

‘I don’t know her.’

‘Can you open up, please.’

‘How do I know you are from the police?’

‘You can come to the gate and see.’

Ten seconds later the gate began to roll open.

Panic scorched like a veld fire through Tyrone. His eyes were glued to the concrete rail of the M11, visible just above the Shoprite banner that screamed U Save in red and yellow letters. Bobby’s silhouette was gone.