Деон Мейер - Cobra

‘It’s gone off air, the call was too short for a good fix, but it was made in the vicinity of the Waterkant and Loop Street crossing, give or take five hundred metres.’

‘I’m on my way.’

He rang off, and began calling his colleagues as he jogged to the front door.

Tyrone sat on the planter box of black marble in front of Atterbury House in Lower Burg.

Nadia was OK.

In a manner of speaking.

She was cross with him. ‘Tyrone, come in, and leave those things, the polieste say you’re not in trouble, please, boetie .’

‘Everything is fine, moenie worry nie . Are there cops guarding you?’

‘ Ja ,Tyrone, and it’s because you won’t let this thing go.’

‘Everything is going to be just fine, sussie .’ Then he’d ended the call and walked over here.

Time to check in for the money shot.

He switched the second cellphone on.

On the way, Griessel phoned Nadia.

She said, yes, her brother had phoned, he wanted to know how she was.

Then he heard another call coming in, said goodbye, and took it.

Dave Fiedler: ‘Funny thing, china. That fourth number you asked me to keep an eye on, the one that called Phone One from Castle Street last night . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘It just came alive. I’m trying to get a fix on it now . . . hang on . . . Damn!’

‘What?’

‘Went off again. All I can tell you is it’s in the city.’

Old dogs don’t believe in coincidences, thought Benny Griessel. Two phones calling shortly after each other from the city?

Phone Four was also Tyrone’s.

07.51.

Tyrone ordered a Big Breakfast at McDonald’s in the Golden Acre. And Premium Roast coffee.

He carried everything carefully on a tray in one hand, dragging the suitcase with the other. He sat down so that he could watch the door, although he couldn’t quite say why.

Three sugars in the coffee.

He ate and drank. The coffee was OK, the food was basically tasteless. He would have to dump the suitcase, he couldn’t drag it around with him all day, he had to travel light. Be highly mobile. Time to rock ’n’ roll, and yes, some running would be involved.

He had only needed it to look legit for the guesthouse. He would leave it here, just put the underpants, socks, and shirts in the rucksack.

When he had finished eating, he switched the cellphone on again. Only long enough to see there were no pictures of the money, the bag, or the guy yet.

54

08.12.

Rush hour, the city traffic was crazy, even though it wasn’t raining – the sun broke through dramatic clouds, the sunbeams blindingly bright on the wet road.

That’s how the Cape is, thought Griessel when he eventually parked in front of Fiedler’s house and office. When rain looked likely, every fokker in the Peninsula drove his own car to work, although it then took everybody twice as long.

He got out. His ZTE rang. It was Fiedler. He answered and said, ‘I’m at your door.’

‘Phone Four was alive for three minutes. I’ll open up for you.’

And when Fiedler opened the door, ‘Three minutes, and then it went dead again. Still in the city centre. I can’t get a close fix.’

‘So that’s twice?’

‘Yes, china. Twice, three minutes every time, then off again, for about five.’

‘He’s checking in for something. A call . . . ? And he’s worried that he will be tracked.’

‘If you check in like that, you’re waiting for an email, or a text,’ said Fiedler. ‘Not a call.’

‘Yes,’ said Griessel. ‘Will we be able to see a text?’

‘I was afraid that you’d ask that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because accessing the server is against the law.’

‘Can you do it?’

‘For a Hawk? Are you crazy?’

‘Can you do it?’

‘Of course I can do it, china. But it’s going to cost a little extra. And you’ll have to sign something. I’m not going to incriminate myself.’

‘How much extra?’

08.17.

Griessel phoned Nadia Kleinbooi again. He apologised for bothering her.

Anxiously, she asked if there was any news.

No, he said. But he would love to know: did Tyrone have an email address?

She said no without hesitation.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’

‘Why?’

‘We just want to make sure.’

This time she thought a bit before she answered. ‘No, he’s not into those things.’

‘Does he have a car?’ Something he should have asked a long time ago.

‘No.’

‘Does he have access to someone else’s car?’

‘No. I . . . No, I don’t think so.’

Griessel thanked her and rang off. And he thought, Tyrone knew enough about technology to be careful with cellphones, and to hoodwink the Cobras with a memory card. He wasn’t so sure she was right.

If the pickpocket had an email address, and that was how he was communicating with the Cobras, they were fucked. Completely.

Metrorail train 2561 on platform 10 of Cape Town Station was full.

At 08.26 Tyrone slipped through the door of the middle third-class carriage and stood in the aisle.

He waited till just after 08.30, when the train jerked and pulled away, before he switched the cellphone in his hand on again.

He held it so that the people pressing against him couldn’t see the screen.

He watched it search for a signal, and find it.

It always took a while for an MMS to come through.

At least he was on the move. And he was going to stay on the move, until this thing was finished.

He watched the time passing on the screen.

One minute.

The train picked up speed.

Two minutes.

The train began to lose momentum.

Three minutes.

He felt the action of the brakes as the train slowed to a stop at Woodstock Station.

He waited until it came to a complete standstill.

The doors opened. More people got on.

He switched the phone off.

Still no photos.

Jirre .

08.49.

Mbali arrived first.

‘Turn around and drive to Bellville Station,’ said Griessel to Cupido over the phone. ‘We think he’s on a train – we picked him up in Woodstock, and again in Maitland, he was on for about three minutes . . . Hold on, Mbali is here . . .’

Griessel pointed to where Dave Fiedler was busy at the computers. ‘We think Tyrone is taking a train. See if you can look at the Metrorail schedule. We need to know which train.’

He turned his attention back to Cupido and the phone again. ‘Vaughn, are you there?’

‘I’m here. I turned around at the N7, but the traffic is hectic, pappie, it’s going to take a while to get back to Bellville.’

‘OK. We’re trying to find out which train it could be.’

‘How sure are you it’s a train?’

‘He doesn’t have a car, and he can’t move this fast in a bus or taxi during rush hour. Dave said three minutes is not long enough to get a precise fix, but every time it was within a kilometre of the stations, and the phone is moving, it looks like it’s moving.’

‘OK, Benna, keep me posted.’

‘I’m looking at the Metrorail schedule,’ Mbali called.

The front doorbell rang.

‘Jesus,’ said Dave Fiedler. ‘It’s like a bloody beehive here.’

Mbali clicked her tongue at him.

Griessel said, ‘It must be Bones, I’ll open up for him.’

09.01.

At Parow Station Tyrone got off and walked quickly over to the train schedules on the wall in the station building, just to be sure.

Train 3412 ran back to Cape Town, from platform 11. In five minutes, at 09.06.

He jogged around to the platform. Stopped. Switched the phone on. Stood and stared at the screen.

It found a signal.