Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘But?’

‘I don’t know. He said he loved me, but there was something . . . As if he was the tiniest bit embarrassed. As if . . . I don’t know, as if someone was listening?’

‘Maybe you’re right. And the second call?’

‘I asked him where he was staying, because usually he booked us into a hotel, you know, in Paris . . . And he said he has official accommodation. So I asked when I would see him, here in Cape Town. And he said perhaps on Tuesday, if he could conclude his work. Oh, and when I was on the plane, I . . . I know I shouldn’t have, but I thought nobody would know, and I was just so damn curious. I mean, I . . . Look, if you’re really into what I’m studying, the Adair Algorithm is like the Holy Grail. It’s bleeding edge, and it must be brilliant, because David is just so . . . Anyway, I thought, maybe if I can just look at the code, what harm could there be? So I popped the memory card into my Air. And there was a ZIP file. Password protected. So I took it out again. I really don’t know what’s on the card.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That’s about it, really.’

‘You didn’t think it was a little strange that he wasn’t going to be able to see you in Cape Town?’

‘Of course I did. But this was the first time that David had involved me in his other work. I thought, maybe that’s just how it was . . . How he was, when he was busy with the security stuff.’

‘Who kidnapped him?’ asked Cupido.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, too vehemently.

‘I think you suspect a specific . . . faction.’ Cupido put the last word in quotation marks with his fingers.

‘No, I don’t—’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘No.’

‘This is life and death, Miss Alvarez,’ said Bones. They could see her internal struggle. Her fists were balled, her lovely mouth pinched, her eyes darted.

‘The life and death of the man you love,’ said Cupido.

‘I . . . can’t tell you.’

‘Even if it means David Adair gets killed?’

‘Oh God . . .’

‘We’re on your side, Miss Alvarez. We are the good guys.’

‘I’m really not sure I can share this with you. It’s . . . very, very delicate.’

‘Do you think this delicate group is behind his kidnapping?’

‘I . . . maybe.’

‘Do you want to save him?’

‘Of course,’ she said emphatically. ‘But he trusted me with some very secret information, and I . . . I just don’t know . . . I mean, this is the sort of thing that could . . . It has very big implications. Internationally.’

‘Do you want to save him?’ asked Cupido, slow and measured.

She began to cry. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Just do what you think is right,’ said Bones.

‘Oh God . . .’ Her head drooped so that the thick black hair hid her face.

Cupido knew there was nothing he could do. They would just have to wait.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were still filled with tears.

48

Tyrone bought a packet of Panados, two chicken-mayo sandwiches, and a half-litre of Coke at the BP service station’s Pick n Pay Express on the other side of Somerset Road. Then he walked in the strong, chilly northwester, to the front of the Rockwell All Suite Hotel. He sat down on the low wall between the hotel and the service station, beside the big green recycling bin, where the wall of a storeroom provided shelter from the wind.

The pistol pressed against the small of his back and he had to shift it so it didn’t chafe him. He liked the feel of the gun there. Very empowering , he thought, and he grinned in the half-dark.

Pickpocket with a pistol. Uncle Solly would turn in his grave.

He swallowed two Panados with a mouthful of Coke. The wound across his shoulders throbbed with a dull, growing pain.

From here he could see the entrance to the Cape Quarter Lifestyle Village. So he could see how long it was going to take before the cops arrived.

He ate and drank. And he thought.

How was he going to get the money? Conclude the transaction without getting shot in the head.

The easy way would have been an electronic transaction, but Uncle Solly taught him long ago: Stay away from banks,Ty. They have tentacles that pull you in, you don’t want to leave tracks, you don’t want to be connected with a paper trail if a fence is prosecuted, you don’t want the tax man to come asking questions. Cash is King.

There would be a lot of questions if a coloured outjie , formerly of Mitchells Plain, suddenly got two point four million in his bank account.

The exchange would have to be manual. Hard cash, the hard way. But how? He couldn’t involve anyone else, because these guys were bent on murder. Look what they did at Bellville Station, even after he gave them the card. And how stupid was that? If he had been lying dead now, all they would have would be a card full of Cape tourist pics.

’Cause they underestimated him, thought he was just a local yokel, too stupid to be a player. Surprise, surprise, motherfucker, ma’ nou weet hulle. They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

But the fact remained: he would have to be extremely clever if he was going to get out the other end alive. He had made one big mistake himself. He thought the guy with the eyes was a lone operator. Now he knew there might be four of them.

Four. Against one.

Bad odds.

He would have to be smart.

He thought for an hour, while the wind blew stronger, and fatigue crept up on him again. Slowly he began to formulate a plan. Until the wind became too cold and miserable, and he knew the cops were not too fast when it came to cellular tracking. He stood up, walked west on Somerset, to the corner of Ebenezer. He walked into the Victoria Junction Hotel, past reception as if he belonged there, into the bar and lounge.

He enjoyed the warm interior for a moment. There were only a few guests – three businessmen at the bar, a group of four men and women in a square of couches and chairs in the middle of the big room.

He sat down at one of the small tables against the wall, where he knew no one could hear him. He took out Cellphone Number Two.

A waiter approached, brisk and friendly. Tyrone shook his head to show he didn’t want anything.

He watched until the waiter was far enough away, then he turned the phone on and waited for a signal.

He called his old cellphone number.

The guy answered a little faster this time.

‘Yes.’

‘Hello, motherfucker, how are you?’ asked Tyrone.

‘I am good, because I have a future. But not you.’

‘Do you want the original card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have the money?’

‘Not yet.’

‘When will you have it?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Maybe nine o’clock.’

‘OK, motherfucker, here is what you are going to do: tomorrow morning you are going to stack that money on a table, and you are going to take a photograph. And then you are going to take a bag, and put the money in the bag. Then you take another photograph, of the bag with the money in it. And then you are going to get your buddy to take a photograph of you and the bag. Full length, so I can see exactly what you look like and what you are wearing. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you are going to MMS me those photographs to this number. And when I receive them, I will call you with instructions.’

‘You will not call on this number again. We will break this phone now.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. I will not negotiate on that.’

‘So how do I contact you tomorrow?’

‘On the number we send the photos from.’

Tyrone thought. That should be all right.

‘OK.’

‘We know your sister is in hospital,’ said the guy.