Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘There is the phone that was in the rucksack. Let us call it Phone One. That is the one the Cobras have now.’

‘Check.’

‘There is the phone that he used around one o’clock to call Nadia on her iPhone. The number was on Nadia’s register. Phone Two.’

‘Check.’

‘But tonight, while we were with Nadia at the hospital, he called her again, from another number, but definitely a cell number. Phone Three.’

‘Check. That pickpocket is a canny coloured.’

‘But now we know Tyrone wants to continue to negotiate with the Cobras. And how is he going to contact them?’

‘By calling the phone that was in his backpack,’ said Mbali. ‘Phone One. Because the Cobras still have it.’

‘We hope,’ said Griessel.

‘So we try and plot Tyrone’s phone?’ asked Bones.

‘We try and plot all three phones,’ said Griessel. ‘So we can find him and the Cobras.’

Cupido was driving, but he took a moment to look at Griessel with amused pride. ‘Who said you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?’

‘I’m trying,’ said Griessel, pleased with himself.

‘Then we and Dave Fiedler will have to get a move on. Before the pickpocket completes his payback.’

Tyrone put the three phones in a row on the guest room dressing table. He made doubly sure they were all off. He propped Number Three in his recharger, because tomorrow it was the one that had to be fully loaded.

He hung up his jacket, trousers, and shirt in the cupboard. He laid out clean underwear for the next morning. He placed the pistol beside the bed.

He gulped down another two Panados, pulled the duvet back, and slid into the bed.

Jirre , that was good.

One day, when all these troubles were over, he would like to ask the aunty here what kind of mattress this was.

He would surely be able to afford one, with two point four million stashed away.

Then he thought about Nadia, and he prayed that the cops would take his call seriously. He had used his best Flats Afrikaans, had used all the slang of the gangs, he had dropped a few names of known mob bosses, he had said there was a contract out for any gang member who walked into the hospital and shot her.

It wasn’t easy, because when you said it, then you saw it, here in your head.

And that’s the last thing he wanted to see. Because it was his fault.

But he mustn’t think about that now. Let him go over his plan. Bit by bit, step by step. He had picked the turf that he knew.

Work the places you know,Ty.

And everything was geared so that, when all was said and done, he could get to his sister quickly.

Just in case. Because he wasn’t going to crook anyone, he would keep his part of the bargain.

But you never knew. And he was a pickpocket with a pistol now.

Outside the rain suddenly slashed against the window, rattling and raging.

And he thought, at least his plan was reasonably weatherproof. Unless it rained so much that the trains stopped running.

When they turned out of Buitengracht into Helen Suzman Boulevard, Griessel’s ZTE phone rang.

He answered.

‘Benny,’ said Zola Nyathi. ‘I think we can be fairly sure there are five Cobras. The photographs don’t show much of their faces, probably because they were aware of the cameras, had their heads down and were all wearing some sort of disguise – hats, caps, glasses, bandanas, or scarves. But they are all mid-thirties, probably. Military types. Which isn’t conclusive, of course. But then there are the names. I’m not sure about the pronunciation: Hector Malot, Raoul de Soissons, Jean-Baptiste Chassignet, Xavier Forneret, and Sacha Guitry. I’ll SMS them all to you. But Vusi had an idea, while they were waiting for their flight back. He googled the names. And that’s why I’m sure they are all part of a team. All the names belong to famous French authors. Famous deceased French authors.’

51

Dave Fiedler handed Griessel’s SAPS identity card back to him. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me, china,’ he said in a rich baritone.

He was chunky and hairy – short beard and moustache, hair growing out of his ears, hair out of his nose, hair that pushed out from under the collar of his grey pullover, like plants reaching for light.

They were standing at the door of 2A Worcester Street in Sea Point, the double-storey where Fiedler lived and worked. The four of them only just fitted in under the small porch, with the rain falling in a thick, hissing curtain behind them.

‘We’re not kidding. Just get us out of the weather,’ said Cupido.

Fiedler stood aside and waved them inside, his luxuriant eyebrows raised in disbelief.

‘I hope you have a warrant,’ he said when Griessel walked past him.

‘We don’t need a warrant, we need your help.’

‘No wonder it’s fucking raining,’ said Fiedler, and shut the door behind Bones.

‘I will not tolerate such language,’ said Mbali. ‘Have some respect. I’m a lady.’

‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ said Fiedler, but so quietly that only Bones, right at the back, could hear him. He walked ahead, to a large room – probably once a sitting room before he had converted it into work space. To the left against the wall was a table with a coffee machine, mugs, sugar, and milk, beside a conference table with eight chairs. To the right was a long, low table with a couple of computers. There were film posters on the walls.

The story was that Fiedler had emigrated here seven years ago from Israel, a former senior member of the Israeli army’s legendary Unit 8200. This unit not only produced, according to the rumours, the most sought-after technology alumni in the world, but had also developed much of the programming and apparatus that Fiedler now used to do digital detective work for private investigators, the security industry, and the public.

Nobody knew why he addressed everyone that lived and breathed as ‘china’.

‘Please, sit down,’ he said, and he pointed at the table. ‘There’s a fresh pot of coffee, so help yourselves. I hope you brought the doughnuts . . .’

They didn’t get the joke. He shook his head.

‘What’s with the posters?’ asked Cupido.

‘Have you seen the movies?’

Cupido read the titles: American Pie , Blue Thunder , EDtv, Enemy of the State , The Bourne Supremacy , Minority Report , Cape Fear , 1984 , The Osterman Weekend , La Zona.

‘Some of them.’

‘What do they have in common?’

Cupido shook his head.

‘Surveillance flicks,’ said Fiedler. ‘And they all get it wrong . . . So the first thing I tell a new customer, if he wants movie tech, he should go watch a movie.’ He stood beside the table, clearly still not at ease. ‘This is very weird, but I’ll play along. What can I do for you?’

Griessel took out his notebook, and tore the page out. ‘We want you to plot these three numbers.’ He slid the page across the conference table. ‘We want to know where the phones are, and we want to know which numbers called them today.’

‘For starters,’ said Cupido.

Fiedler stared at Griessel with an expression that said he was waiting for the punch line of the joke.

When it was not forthcoming, he said, ‘You’re from the Hawks, it said on your ID.’

‘You’d better believe it,’ said Cupido.

‘And you want me to plot three numbers for you?’

‘Yes,’ said Griessel.

‘And you can’t ever tell anybody that this happened,’ said Cupido. ‘If we hear even a whisper that you mentioned this, ever, we will make your life a misery.’

Fiedler laughed, a short, deep guffaw. They didn’t react. ‘It’s the end of the world,’ he said. ‘God’s truth.’