Cobra (40 page)

The last ‘
nè
’ was a question, and everyone nodded. They were still following.

‘So what happened was, Adair started to identify a new category of suspects that had the right financial profile – or the wrong one, depending on your side of the fence – but did not fit in with any of the software’s parameters for nationality, origins of names, and other stuff that would indicate terrorists. So he started digging, without telling anybody, because he was very worried that the software was screwed up. And then he realised that this new group of suspects were probably spies. Clandestine operatives, working for intelligence agencies. Alvarez says what gave him the big clue was the fact that if you tracked the money all the way to the original source, a hell of a lot of it came from very obscure Chinese and Russian accounts. The kind of stuff governments bury deep in red tape and dummy corporations and funny names. And there were as many payments going the other way – coming from the Americans and the British, going to people and little companies in the Middle East, Russia and China—’

Cupido could not keep it in any longer. ‘So basically he was building a list of all the undercover spies and sleepers and even double agents of the world’s major intelligence agencies. And he was the only one who knew, the only one with all this data.’

‘Why did he tell Alvarez?’ asked Nyathi. ‘She’s a student, isn’t she?’

‘Long story, Colonel. Let’s just say they are having a red-hot affair, and he was very troubled by this spy thing, and she kept asking him what was wrong, why was he so glum, had she done something to upset him, nagging all the time, until he told her. Poor guy must have wanted to share it with someone, all that pressure . . .’

‘How did the CIA find out?’

‘That’s the thing. About three weeks ago, Adair got very crafty. He went to MI6, and told them what he had. They wanted it all, of course, but he said he’ll horse trade. If the British and American governments agreed to take on the banks about their money laundering, to make a real effort to use all the financial data to cripple organised crime, he’d release the spy data to them. But it had to be done with legislation, and real results. And he had some demands about public privacy too, and the limits of government snooping. MI6 was furious, and threatened him with all sorts of legal action, but he didn’t budge,
nè
. Then they blocked his access to the SWIFT system and his software, brought in their own people, and tried to find the data themselves. But it turns out Adair suspected they might do just that. So before he went to MI6, he deleted his new software, and loaded the old version again. The spy data was just gone.’

‘That’s what’s on the memory card,’ said Griessel.

‘Exactly,’ said Cupido. ‘The girl says she doesn’t think MI6 would kidnap their own citizen. If it all goes wrong, they want deniability. Clean hands. But she says of course MI6 is very good friends with the CIA. And the CIA has no scruples, everyone knows about Guantánamo Bay and drone attacks and all that monkey business. So, if the CIA kidnapped Adair, everything is sweet.’

Mbali shook her head in revulsion.

‘It will explain why our very own SSA is so keen to get hold of Adair,’ said Bones.

‘That’s right, pappie,’ said Cupido. ‘Just think how they could play puppet master with all those spies’ names. Talk about horse trading . . .’

Zola Nyathi clasped his hands together, slowly and formally. Griessel knew it was not a good sign.

‘I think the girl is wrong,’ said the Giraffe. ‘Or she’s lying.’

They waited for him to explain. Nyathi looked down at his hands. ‘When Benny and I spoke to Emma Graber, the woman from MI6 at the British Consulate, the overwhelming impression was that they did not know that Adair was kidnapped, let alone by whom. If it was the CIA and they knew about it, they would not even have bothered to involve us, or the State Security Agency. They would have responded very differently to our passport enquiries.’

They digested the logic in quiet disappointment. Cupido said hopefully, ‘So maybe it’s the Russians. Or the Chinese . . .’

Nyathi shook his head. ‘Sadly, I don’t think so. Unfortunately you’re not the only members of this unit that have had a busy afternoon. But my news is bad, and perhaps less . . . shall we say, about international intrigue. I have to tell you, if we decide to continue to pursue our investigation . . .’ and the colonel looked straight at Mbali ‘. . . it will lead to further disappointment in our government, and it will be a considerably higher risk to our careers. And it will probably lead nowhere else but into deep trouble, because we have nothing to go on. So I’d like to give you all the opportunity to walk away, right now. I will understand, absolutely and completely.’

49

The northwester was up to gale force when Tyrone walked up Somerset Street, and then south, up the hill along Dixon and Loader. He wanted to shelter in the warmth of the guesthouse, take his tired body to bed and sleep, because tomorrow he must have his mind clear and sharp.

But there were still two things he had to do. Of the one, the last call that he had to make, he didn’t want to think now. He was focusing on the other task, getting that last bit of insurance in place.

He walked to the top of the rise, where Strand Street ran around the belly of Signal Hill. There was no shelter from the wind here, it screamed in his ears, it shoved and plucked at his body. He waited for a gap in the traffic, and jogged across the street. Then, on the other side, he ducked into the bushes.

When he was sure that no one could see him, he took the pistol out. In the faint glow of the city lights he worked the safety catch clumsily, aimed at a tree’s broad trunk about eight metres away, and pulled the trigger.

The pistol made a muffled retort, and bucked in his hand.

He walked to the tree.

Missed completely.

Jirre.

He hoped it was just the strong wind.

In the Hawks’ bar, no one moved.

‘Are you sure?’ asked Zola Nyathi.

They nodded, one by one.

‘OK,’ said the colonel. ‘Let me tell you about my afternoon. The brigadier and I had a telephone conference with both the National and the DPCI commissioners. We were asked if we had terminated our investigation. Several times. The brigadier told what he thought was the truth. I lied. Several times. I am ashamed of that, because Musad Manie is a good man, and he trusts me. I’m not sure the commissioners believed us. Then they asked us if we had destroyed any evidence, because there is a strong indication that we did. Both the brigadier and I told them what we thought was the truth. I am not going to ask you about that again, but if they can disprove it, our careers are over, and we will drag down the brigadier as well. But be that as it may, the point is that both commissioners were clearly under extreme pressure from above. And we all know what that means. About forty minutes later, the brigadier had a call from the acting head of Crime Intelligence. The general told him that CI is sending in a team to, and I quote, “oversee the conclusion of our investigation, and to inspect our systems for compliance”. They are flying in from Pretoria tonight. I’m expecting them any time now.’

‘
Hhayi
,’ said Mbali under her breath.

‘Yes, Mbali,’ said Nyathi in sympathy.

Vaughn Cupido hissed through his teeth, a fricative that sounded very much like the suppression of a swearword.

‘Then it’s probably not about spies and the CIA,’ said Bones.

‘No, it’s probably not,’ said Nyathi.

Mbali was correct, thought Griessel, when she said in the hospital that this was about South African government secrets. But as Criminal Intelligence was involved that high up, most probably it meant very specific secrets. Because it was common knowledge that the head of that unit frequently received calls from the highest office in the land.

‘I must tell you,’ said Nyathi, still sombre and deliberate, ‘that I had no choice. After the calls, I told the brigadier everything. I offered him my resignation. He did not accept. He did, however, demand an apology for the fact that I did not trust him to support us. He then asked me what I was going to do. I told him that I was going to have a meeting with you all and tell you the truth. And the truth is that, as noble as the cause may be, we have nothing. We are being investigated, watched, listened to. We have no room to manoeuvre. We are not going to discover what is on that memory card, and we are not going to save David Adair. So you have to ask yourself: why do you want to endanger your lives and your careers by chasing quixotic windmills?’

Nobody moved. The atmosphere was heavy, heads were hung low.

Everyone’s except Griessel’s.

Tyrone fetched the third cellphone from the guesthouse.

This time he walked towards the city. Despite the wind that propelled him with an invisible hand, and the cold that penetrated his jacket, he concentrated on the call he had to make. He had considered phoning the hospital, but he didn’t know if that would help. He would have to talk directly to the cops. And he would have to be convincing.

How had Hoodie and his henchmen known she was in the hospital?

Who were these men?

What was on the
fokken
memory card?

They shot her, and they must have known what he would do – take his sister to the nearest hospital. They knew her name, and his. Doesn’t take a genius.

The cops would have to look after Nadia. Lots of them. Because these guys were afraid of nothing.

If something happened to her . . . For a moment he considered dropping the whole thing. Just telling the guy tomorrow, I’ll leave your card somewhere, take the thing and go away, leave us alone.

It’s not worth the trouble.

But of course, it wasn’t that simple.

Even if you took the anger away, at what they had done, to him and Nadia. He couldn’t carry on like this. Every day it got harder to work in his industry. The cameras everywhere. The cops, the patrols in the city, the security, wherever you found affluent marks, there was law enforcement. And he had targets to meet so that Nadia could study and he could survive. And he was getting further and further behind, and the pressure was growing. And the more pressure, the more he had to take risks. And taking risks was trouble, no matter how you looked at it.

Two point four million.

A lot of money.

It could take away all his troubles. All the pressure. All the risk.

Long-term security.

It was Nadia’s bursary. And maybe even he could better himself – finish school, and go and study to run a business. Something small, a hat shop for men, an exclusive clothing shop. Tyrone’s Outfitters. He would like that.

And maybe that train trip across Europe.

But only if he could get the cops to protect Nadia.

He sheltered on the threshold of a big closed door, just a few metres from the Zanzibar restaurant in Castle Street. It was deserted in this weather.

He called Vodacom directory enquiries and got the number of the Bellville cop shop.

In the oppressive silence of the Hawks’ bar Griessel said, ‘It doesn’t matter what is on the card.’

They looked at him, caught unaware by the positive note in his voice. While disappointment and disillusionment had wafted through the room, he had had a sudden moment of clarity and insight: he was the only one here who knew how it felt to work in a broken system. He had been through it all before. Even if he was a drunk and a fuck-up. Maybe
because
he was drunk and a fuck-up. In those days, in the darkest years of the old system, he had to find a reason to get up in the morning and do his work, despite everything. It was the only thing that stood between him and total devastation and despair.

It made Benny Griessel here, now, suddenly feel useful again. Relevant. For the first time in months. Or years, he didn’t think he could remember. It was almost a euphoric experience: he could think of more important things than life’s meaningless little frustrations. He could make a contribution. A difference. That was why there was excitement in his voice.

And now he had to find the right words to explain it. Without making a total fool of himself.

‘It doesn’t matter why the SSA is involved, or CI, or MI6,’ said Griessel. ‘It doesn’t matter where the pressure is coming from, or if we are disappointed in our government, or our commanders . . .’

He saw Mbali looking at him, hurt and disappointed. ‘We don’t work for the president, or the minister or the commissioner,’ he said. ‘We work for the people who were killed in Franschhoek and in the Waterfront, and for their families. We are all they have. We are the police. We enforce the law, the law that says if you kill someone, you have to pay. That is what I want to do: catch them, and make them pay. It is the only thing I can do. It is the only difference I can make. And I just think . . .’ and he wondered, where all this shit was coming from that he was going to say now, but he said it anyway, in the full expectation that Cupido would laugh out loud ‘. . . if we all . . . if everybody in this country can just try to make a difference, then everything will be OK.’ In the silence, only the humming of the big beer fridge in the corner could be heard.