Деон Мейер - Cobra

He waited.

He couldn’t go on like this for the whole day, fok weet , when were those guys going to send the photo?

Or were they trying to track him?

Good luck with that, motherfuckers.

Train 3412 pulled into the station.

Still no photos, no message.

Shit.

He got on the train, heading back to Cape Town.

‘I think it is train 2561. It was at Woodstock at 08.33, and in Maitland at 08.42 . . .’

‘He’s back on-line,’ called Dave Fiedler. ‘Hang on, the fix is coming . . .’

Griessel looked at his notes. ‘Mbali, I think you’re right.’

‘He should be in Parow now,’ said Mbali.

‘Yes, Parow it is,’ said Fiedler.

‘What time does that train reach Bellville?’ asked Griessel.

‘Six minutes past nine,’ said Mbali.

‘ Fok ,’ said Griessel, because it was too soon. Cupido would never make it.

‘This once, I forgive you,’ said Mbali, also dismayed.

55

At 09.14,Tyrone got off at Goodwood Station.

He switched the cellphone on again.

The first MMS came through.

On the small screen he saw the photo. The money, stacked on a table: hundred- and two hundred-rand notes, tied in bundles with rubber bands.

His heart leaped. Could that be two point four million? It seemed so little?

The next photo came through.

A black rucksack, with the money visible through the open zipper. The bag was pleasingly full. That looked better.

The third photo. A man in a blue windcheater and black beanie. High cheekbones, stubble. The rucksack on his back.

Tyrone felt his heart beating. This was a face he had never seen before. It wasn’t Hoodie, it wasn’t the Waterfront shooter. But this one looked so . . . terrifyingly ruthless.

He felt the phone in his hand tremble.

Stick with the plan,Tyrone.

He steadied himself, tapped the phone to call the number,

It rang.

The guy answered immediately. ‘No, don’t call me. Send me text messages.’

‘Why?’ asked Tyrone.

But the line was already dead.

Griessel, Mbali, and Bones Boshigo stood and stared at the photo on Dave Fiedler’s computer screen.

‘That’s a lot of money,’ said Fiedler.

‘I’m guessing at least a million, million point five,’ said Bones.

‘Track the number it was sent from,’ said Griessel.

‘I’m busy . . . He’s just called it.’

‘Who called what?’

‘The train guy . . .’

‘Tyrone. Call him Tyrone.’

‘OK, Tyrone’s just called the number from which the photographs were sent. He’s still in Goodwood. I’m getting a better fix, hang on. Yes, definitely at or very near the station.’

‘He’s clever,’ said Mbali. ‘He got them to send him a picture of the money. He’s selling them the memory card . . .’

‘There’s another photo,’ said Fiedler. ‘And another . . .’ His hand moved quickly, adeptly with the mouse.

The new photos appeared on the screen, one beside the other.

‘ Hhayi ,’ said Mbali, because the last one was the one of the man with the rucksack. ‘That’s a Cobra.’

‘A Cobra?’ asked Fiedler, but Mbali waddled hastily away to the conference table, where the O. R. Tambo photos of the five suspected Cobras lay. She flipped through them, and found the one that looked like the man in the photo that was sent to Tyrone’s phone. She trotted back.

‘It’s this one.’ She held the photo up beside the screen. The resemblance was clear.

‘Print that photo, Dave,’ said Griessel. ‘And send one to Captain Cupido’s number.’

‘Give me his number,’ said Fiedler.

Griessel looked it up on his phone, and held it out so that Fiedler could see.

‘Tyrone is very clever,’ said Mbali.

Griessel wasn’t listening, his brain was too busy now. Tyrone on the train. Tyrone deliberately took the train from Cape Town Station. He could have taken a taxi. He could have taken the bus, but he didn’t.

Why?

Tyrone, who travelled to Parow, and was now on the way back towards Cape Town.

‘We have a new text,’ said Fiedler. He read: ‘“Why must I only SMS?” That’s from Tyrone’s phone, to the other guys.’

‘The Cobras,’ said Griessel, because he wanted their communication to be very clear. What lay ahead was going to be messy enough.

‘Who the f— Who are the Cobras?’

‘The bad guys.’ Griessel read the SMS over Fiedler’s shoulder.

Why must I only SMS?

‘They must have told him not to call,’ said Griessel.

‘But why?’ asked Bones. ‘They can still be traced and tracked, can’t they?’

‘I think I know, but you’ll have to tell me what the hell is going down here,’ said Fiedler.

Griessel knew it was the right thing to do now. ‘Tyrone is selling a very valuable item to some very dangerous people. We call them Cobras, it’s a long story . . . Tyrone is trying to set up the exchange of the item, for the money in the photo.’

‘Is it a gang? How many Cobras are there?’

‘Five, at least.’

‘OK. I think they want him to text so that they can share the message quickly. Doing that on a voice call is tricky in peak time – our cellular network is just too up to shit if you’re on the move and you’re not using the same service provider.’

They all read the new message from the Cobras to Tyrone on the screen: Because I say so.

There was silence in Dave Fiedler’s big room. Everyone trying to make sense of the text messages.

‘They are setting a trap for him,’ said Mbali.

‘Yes,’ said Griessel. ‘They are.’

Fiedler was busy at another computer, while the detectives stood and looked at the screen where the money photos and text messages appeared. Time dragged.

Go to Bellville Station .

‘That’s Tyrone to the Cobras,’ said Bones.

‘I have a fix on the Cobra phone,’ said Fiedler.

New text: No .

‘The Cobras are saying “no”?’ asked Bones.

‘Where is the Cobra phone?’ asked Griessel.

‘It’s moving along the R304, going south, towards the N1.’

Do you want the card?

Nobody said a word, waiting for the Cobras to answer.

Bellville Station too dangerous after yesterday. Choose another place .

‘Fair enough,’ said Bones.

Nothing on the screen.

Fiedler, at the other monitor, said, ‘The Cobras are now on the N1, heading towards the city.’

Griessel wished he could call in the SAPS helicopter, or that he had the time and manpower for a roadblock.

His phone rang. It was Cupido.

‘Vaughn, we still don’t have anything, I’ll phone you back.’

‘Roger, Benna.’

‘Why isn’t Tyrone answering?’ Bones asked.

‘Because they have messed up his plan,’ said Mbali.

Go to Parow Station.

‘Trains,’ said Griessel suddenly.

They looked at him questioningly, but he picked up his ZTE and phoned Nadia again.

It rang for longer this time. She answered with a scared ‘Hello?’

‘Nadia, does Tyrone ride the trains often?’

‘ Ja , he comes to me a lot, in Stellenbosch. He’s always saying he likes the trains. Loves riding them.’

‘First class or third?’

‘I think third class.’

‘Thank you, Nadia. We still don’t have news, but I’ll let you know as soon as there is.’

‘Thank you.’

He killed the call. He heard Fiedler talking, and Mbali answering, but he wasn’t listening. He wanted to make sure his reasoning was correct, that he understood Tyrone. He tried to put himself inside the pickpocket’s head. He didn’t have a car. Taxis and buses were subject to the flow of traffic. Unpredictable, at best. And also not private if you want to make calls or receive photos of money. The Metro trains were reasonably predictable. In the morning they ran at regular intervals. They were public, but if you wanted to make a call, you could get off and put distance between yourself and your fellow passengers.