Деон Мейер - Cobra

When he got home, he phoned Dave Fiedler and said he also wanted a complete analysis and monitoring of the number that had called Phone One from Castle Street.

‘Sure, china, but the meter is running.’

‘Just let me know as soon as there is any activity on any of those phones.’

He walked through the cold, empty house to the kitchen. The rain drummed fiercely on the roof.

And suddenly he missed Alexa, her presence, her happiness when she saw him, her embrace, her chatter, every evening so intense and enthusiastic, as if he really mattered. As if she really loved him.

All this he saw and felt, now that she wasn’t here.

He took the Woolworths food out of the fridge – chicken and broccoli, his favourite, which she’d bought specially for him – with a pang of guilt about his relief earlier in the day, at the thought of having the house to himself.

He put the container in the microwave, pinged it on. Two minutes, thirty seconds.

What was he going to do, between the devil of his self-doubt and his inadequate rascal, and the deep blue sea of his attraction to her? And the pleasure of being with her. She was so . . . full. Full of everything. He sometimes wished her joie de vivre , her intensity, her naivety would infect him.

She was his perfect polar opposite. He didn’t want to, he dared not, he could not lose her. Despite, everything, he had begun to love her very much. And tonight, after he had regained a measure of relevance as a policeman, as a team member of the Hawks – for the first time in his career – he felt optimism. He wanted this thing with Alexa to work.

If he could just find a solution to his dilemma.

Griessel ate his supper.

When he had finished, rinsed his dishes and put them on the drying rack, he phoned the Louis Leipoldt Hospital. He asked to be put through to the ward where Nadia Kleinbooi lay, identified himself to the night sister, and asked how the patient was.

‘We gave her a sleeping pill, Captain. She’s sleeping peacefully.’

He thanked her and said she must see that the four constables got coffee regularly so that they were awake and alert.

The night sister said yes, she’d see to that.

He rang off.

At least he knew now that there were four uniforms on guard.

He went to shower, put on his pyjamas, which still smelled faintly of sex. He made sure both his cellphones were on. He set the alarm on the iPhone for seven o’clock, but he suspected Dave Fiedler would call him long before then.

Then he slept.

53

Twenty to six.

Tyrone woke suddenly from sleep, released from a dream where a man in a grey cap was shooting Nadia, one shot after the other. He felt his sister’s body jerk in his arms, and he tried to shield her with his hands, but it didn’t help, the bullets went right through, leaving big holes in his palms, but there was no blood, only Nadia bled, and then he was awake and a huge wave of relief washed over him.

Just a dream.

Had he screamed out loud in his sleep, the way he had heard his own voice in the dream?

Moments of disorientation, the strange room, sounds of water dripping off a roof outside the window.

And then, the full onslaught of reality returning. He was here. This was the day he had been preparing for. His body was stiff, his back was sore.

Was Nadia OK?

He wanted to phone the hospital straight away.

But he couldn’t phone from here.

He got up and walked through to the bathroom.

Tyrone sat on the end of the bed. He was washed, dressed, packed. He’d taken two Panados already, but the pain still throbbed across his back. The cellphones on the dressing table lay neatly in a row, the pistol next to them.

Phone the hospital. Hear if Nadia is OK.

Switch on the phone the guys are going to send the money photo to.

Twenty past six in the morning? You’re too anxious,Tyrone. Get a grip. Take a deep breath. Don’t fuck this up.

Turn on the TV. If there was an attack at the hospital, it would be on the news.

He switched it on. The high, exuberant voices of a children’s programme were suddenly too loud and shrill for the morning silence. He stabbed at the remote’s volume button over and over again until it could barely be heard. Navigated to SABC2 and Morning Live . An interview with a darkie dude that he didn’t know. The news would probably come on at half past.

Breathe. Go through the schedule.

He wanted to know if Nadia was OK. Watch the news. If there was nothing, phone later, once he was out of here.

He must have breakfast, ’cause it was going to be a hectic day.

He must buy chewing gum, to stick the memory card to.

He must double-check the train times.

He must wait for the photos of the money, the suitcase, and the guy.

And then it was lights, camera, action.

He looked at the TV screen.

Twenty-four past six.

Time stands still when you’re not having fun.

The iPhone alarm woke Griessel at seven.

When he switched it off and lay back for a second, holding the phone, he was grateful for the six hours of unbroken sleep. And then he realised that it meant there had been no action on any of the numbers, and he wondered if his plan was going to work.

Perhaps none of the cellphones was still in use.

Wouldn’t that be typical: just when he started getting his head around all the technology, it turns out to be useless.

He got up, in one restless, uneasy movement, walked to the toilet, lifted the seat, pulled his pyjamas down, aimed, and urinated.

He suppressed the urge to call Dave Fiedler now.

If there was news, he would have known.

He flushed, put the seat down again, and walked to the hand basin. He must finish up and drive over to Fiedler’s.

News item, four minutes past seven, Morning Live : ‘Western Cape police spokesperson Wilson Bala denied that the SAPS was investigating a shooting that allegedly occurred at Cape Town’s Victoria and Alfred Waterfront yesterday. This, despite claims by family members of Waterfront security personnel, and eyewitness reports of extensive medical and law enforcement presence at the shopping centre yesterday morning. Both the centre management and the Blue Shield security company declined to comment on the matter. The alleged shooting even drew attention in parliament today . . .’

What the fuck? wondered Tyrone.

And then a moment of huge relief. His face was not on TV.

But why not?

He watched the news until it was over, his thoughts occupied with possible reasons, his heart fearful of news of a hospital shooting.

It didn’t come.

But now he wasn’t sure if that meant anything. If the cops were denying that they were investigating a Waterfront shooting? A shooting he had seen with his own eyes.

What was going on?

The urge to move, to get going, to gain momentum, overwhelmed him. He must get out of here. He must phone Nadia.

And then get breakfast, even though he felt queasy now.

07.27

Griessel had a coffee mug in his hand and a mouth full of toast with Marmite, when his ZTE phone rang.

‘Hello,’ he answered, swallowing quickly.

‘China, we’ve just had action. Phone Number Three came alive four minutes ago and called the same number as yesterday afternoon. Call lasted just thirty-seven seconds.’

‘Hang on . . .’ Benny plonked down the half full coffee mug and ran to the bedroom to get his jacket.

He grabbed his notebook out of his jacket pocket, riffl ed through the pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘This number?’ He read it out to Fiedler.

‘That’s the one.’

Nadia’s iPhone. It was Tyrone phoning her again.

‘Where’s the phone now? Phone Three.’