Zulu (28 page)

Brian turned right at the first corner. He didn't have his gun, or his cell phone. Cold sweat was trickling between his shoulder blades. Shards of glass from the rear windshield had flown as far as the dashboard.

It was 6:01 by the clock. That was when he saw bloodstains on the seat.

 

Ruby couldn't sleep. After endless talking and torrents of tears snatched from the nothingness surrounding her, she and Rick had ended up fucking. He had convinced her that she was the only woman in his life, and in his bed. It wasn't that she had believed him, not
completely
, but she felt guilty. She was going to spoil everything again with her impetuousness. Just like when she'd had her label and dropped her top group because in her opinion they'd stopped playing rock and were producing popcorn, and they'd switched to one of the majors and had a big hit. That was it—she had to calm down. To concentrate on her happiness. Rick was a good guy. He loved her. He had told her that tonight. Several times. Rick wasn't her father.

The sky was still pale above the garden. Ruby was drinking her coffee on the stool in the kitchen, staring in front of her, when she froze—Brian had just appeared on the other side of the plate-glass window.

She got down off the stool like a sparrow going to pick up a crumb of bread and pulled open the sliding door that led out onto the terrace.

“Is Rick up?” he breathed.

“Fuck off.”

“This isn't a game, Ruby,” he said in a low voice. “Your Rick worked with the intelligence services in the apartheid days on a top secret project called Project Coast.”

“Blah blah blah.”

“Shit!” Brian whispered. “Two guys just came to my house and tried to kill me.”

Ruby saw the sweat on his forehead, and the handkerchief he was pressing to his left side. Was that blood?

“What's the catch this time?” she asked, intrigued.

“There's no catch. I want you to leave.
Now
. Rick is mixed up in Kate's murder. I know I'm the wrong person to tell you this, but you have to believe me.”

Ruby's head was buzzing with all this information. “Do you have proof?”

“It's only a matter of time.”

Ruby tried to close the door, but he put a foot on the sliding rail and grabbed her by the arm. “Shit, Ruby, don't argue!”

“You're hurting me!”

Their eyes met.

“You're hurting me,” she said softly.

Brian released his grip. The handkerchief he held pressed to his side was dripping—the bullet had left a deep gash.

“Rick knew your schedule, which means he also knew Kate's, and—”

“Rick didn't kill Kate,” she cut him off. “He was home with me that night.”

“He was with you at the time of the murder, yes. You took your band of metalheads back to their hotel, you dropped by the riding club, and you got home around nine. Rick's clinic closes at seven. That left him two hours to get to Llandudno, intercept Kate on the coast road, and hand her over to the killers before going home to establish an alibi. Damn it, why don't you just open your eyes?”

A man appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. “What's going on here?”

Rick was wearing shorts and a beige sweatshirt. He must have heard them arguing, or maybe he was another one who couldn't sleep.

“Don't try to fuck with me,” Brian growled. “You're going to come quietly down to headquarters, or I'll tear you to pieces.”

“You have no right to be here,” Rick retorted. “I warn you right now I'm going to call my lawyer.”

“Wouter Basson, Joost Terreblanche, Project Coast. Mean anything to you?”

Rick kept his cool. “Ruby's right,” he said. “You're crazy.”

“Really? '86-'91, Johannesburg military hospital. What were you treating? The few teeth the political prisoners still had left? Or were you trying out Basson's new products, testing them on human guinea pigs?”

“Jesus!” he said, heated now. “I'm a dentist, not a torturer!”

“And I'm a cop, not an idiot. You're sweating like a pig, Ricky, and I know that smell. It's the smell of fear.”

Rick went red beneath his sweatshirt. He was lying. Not only to Ruby.

“You don't even have a warr—”

Brian grabbed him by the neck and threw him to the tiled floor of the kitchen. “I've heard enough from you,” he breathed, hands tightening on his tendon.

Rick squealed with pain. Ruby was looking at them, too stunned to move, when a man in a ski mask suddenly appeared on the terrace. A powerful hand grabbed her before she could even lift a finger. Letting out a cry of surprise, she took a step back and felt the cold steel of an automatic weapon against her temple.

“Don't move, cop!”

Brian saw Ruby's face, paralyzed with fear, and the Walter 7.65 pressed to her head. He let go of Rick, who was moaning at his feet. There were two men on the terrace now, armed to the teeth.

“Hands on your head!” the man in the ski mask screamed, his gun still trained on Ruby.

Feeling nauseous, Brian obeyed. Rick stood up, massaging his neck, his head down, and retreated to the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Another man now came into the room. He had a thinning gray crew cut, and a firm body that belied his sixty years. Joost Terreblanche wasn't wearing a ski mask, but he was carrying a gun under his beige military jacket. Brian, his hands raised, was looking for an unlikely way out when a blow in the small of his back with the grip of a gun sent him sprawling.

He stifled a cry. The kitchen floor was soon stained with blood—his wound had reopened.

Terreblanche gave Rick a piercing look with his metallic eyes: “You've done well for yourself, V.D.V.”

Rick met Ruby's eyes. She was looking at him in utter dismay. This was no time for explanations. Terreblanche looked down at Brian, who was lying at his feet, unable to get up. He lifted his foot, and brought his boot down on Brian's liver.

A long moan escaped his throat as he rolled toward the breakfast bar. Terreblanche took a step toward him.

“No!” Ruby cried.

Brian was crawling on all fours now, not sure he was still alive. The heel of the boot broke his back.

 

 

 

J
anet Helms corresponded with other hackers via lines they themselves had set up, whose access codes changed every month, but never on the same dates. It was as good a way as any other to compensate for her loneliness and to become even better at hacking. What had they thought in intelligence—that she had become a hacker by paying for intensive courses in high-tech institutes that cost two hundred rand an hour?

Chester Murphy lived in Woodstock, two blocks from the two-room apartment she rented. Chester was a real vampire; he avoided sunlight and, like her, lived mainly on junk food and computers. Janet spent the night at his place once or twice a week, depending on what the club was currently up to. Chester wasn't good-looking, with his fat face and tapir-like nose, but Janet liked him—he had never come on to her.

Chester had put together a network of hackers, twelve members whose identities were secret, and who sent each other individual or collective challenges: to be the first to hack into the computer system of an institution or company suspected of fraud, or to join together and hack into one of the army's radar systems. The network he had set up had so far proved undetectable, independent, and undeniably effective.

Chester hadn't asked any questions when Janet had showed up at his place at about ten in the evening—he was busy on the computer in his bedroom. Janet had settled down in front of the screen in the living room, with her fizzy drinks, her exercise books, and her mints. She had picked up her precious codes from her office at headquarters and felt up to hacking half the universe. After a few hours spent testing the enemy's defenses, she finally managed to get into certain classified army files. Many dated from the apartheid period. By five in the morning, she had the whole organizational structure of Project Coast—two hundred names in all. She had immediately faxed the list to Brian Epkeen, who had gone night fishing in Hout Bay. His reply had come quickly, in a text:
Rossow
.

Dawn was breaking when Chester told her he was going to bed—she barely heard him climb the stairs. She continued her research and found some interesting information. Unlike Joost Terreblanche, Charles Rossow's name was mentioned on several websites, and his activities as a chemist were displayed for all to see. He had worked for several major national and, more recently, international pharmaceutical companies. There was nothing, though, about his collaboration with Basson—only his successes were recalled. Now fifty-eight, Charles Rossow was currently a researcher in molecular biology for Couvence, an organization that worked under contract for a number of large pharmaceutical companies and specialized in setting up clinical trials abroad. Rossow had also published several articles in prestigious reviews, focusing in particular on genome sequencing, which he described as “a major advance in the molecular knowledge of the human body.”

Digging a little deeper, Janet collated the content of the articles.

The composition of most genes was not yet known, nor the place and time when they were expressed in the form of proteins, but the genome provided an extremely useful toolbox. The next stage would involve the discovery and localization of most genes, understanding their significance and, above all, analyzing their control mechanisms. Thanks to molecular biology, a precise knowledge of the human genome and the genomes of infectious and parasitical agents would gradually lead to a description of all the mechanisms of living things and their disorders. Once that had been achieved, it would become possible to take specific action to correct anomalies, alleviate or eradicate illnesses, even to act beforehand to prevent them: a fundamental advance in regard to the human condition, and the future of mankind as a whole. Quoting Fichte—“What man must be, he must become”—Rossow stated that whereas other animals were finished, man was only sketched. Recent discoveries were a step on the infinite road to perfection. The power of current research lay in its capacity to modify human nature itself. It would distinguish itself from traditional medicine by its ability to act on the very genotype of man, affecting not only the person concerned but also all his descendants. Biotechnology would then be able to achieve what a century of ideology hadn't: a new kind of human being. It would be possible to give birth to individuals who were less violent, free of criminal tendencies. Man could be remodeled like a faulty product that is sent back to the factory, biotechnology would allow us to modify his faults, his very nature.

Staring at the computer screen with burning eyes, Janet Helms was starting to understand what was going on. It was he, Rossow, who had invented the unknown molecule found in the drug.

By leaving industrialists to finance clinical research, the political authorities had made a serious mistake. Whenever a pharmaceutical company applied for a license to put a new product on the market, it alone was in a position to supply the elements by which that product could be evaluated—with the result that expensive medications falsely claiming to be innovative had become the rule. The same company also kept exclusive rights, opening the way to human life itself being patented. Rossow and his sponsors had seen that opening and had moved in.

Janet found an address for Rossow in a well-to-do and highly protected suburb of Johannesburg, but nothing in Cape Province. Next, she took a closer look at Rossow's employer, Couvence, an organization specializing in clinical trials. Activities listed in India, Thailand, Mexico, South Africa.

“This is it,” she said under her breath.

Seven-fifteen. Janet Helms went home to take a shower before dashing to the harbor.

 

The Waterfront was almost deserted at this time of day. The shops were just opening, stalls being set up. Janet was the first to arrive at the bar where they had arranged to meet. She was five minutes early, and she was starving. She sat down on the terrace and put down the exercise book in which she had made notes on the information gathered during the night. As Neuman had asked, it couldn't be traced back to her computer.

The air was cool, the young waiter indifferent to her presence. She managed to catch his eye and ordered a tea with milk and some sweet cakes.

In spite of her sleepless night, Janet was excited. Quite apart from the chance to avenge her lost love, this was the biggest case she'd ever worked on. If they brought it off, it would establish her as an essential part of the captain's team. She would be promoted, and work directly under Neuman. She would make herself indispensable. Irreplaceable. As she had with Dan Fletcher. He would find he couldn't do without her. She would end up ousting his current right-hand man, Brian Epkeen, who wasn't exactly in Superintendent Krüge's good books. Time was on her side. Her capacity for work was unequaled. She would take the place Neuman had intended for Dan.

Janet looked at her watch again. Eight-eleven. The lanyards of the sailboats flapped in the breeze, the shipping company shuttles gleamed in the sun, waiting for the tourists to arrive; the Waterfront was gradually waking up. The waiter passed her table, all smiles, drawn to the young blonde who had just sat down at the next table.

The light climbed up the verdant mountain. Eight-thirty. Janet Helms was waiting on the terrace of the cafe where they had arranged to meet, but no one came.

No one ever came.

 

 *

 

The heel of a boot breaking his back—that was the last thing Brian Epkeen remembered before he had sunk into limbo. Reality came back, little by little, green daughter of the sunlight filtering in through the drawn blinds—Ruby's eyes, just above him, swaying in the post-boreal atmosphere.

“I was starting to think you were dead,” she said in a low voice.

He was. Only it wasn't visible. His eyes finally came into focus. The world was still here, half-nocturnal, painful—a searing pain in his lower back, boring into his spine. He could hardly move. He wondered if he would ever walk again. He was thinking in fragments, pieces of thought that, when he put them in order, didn't make any sense. It wasn't only his back that hurt—his skull did, too. He realized he was lying on the wooden floor of a dark room, with Ruby's large emerald eyes all he could see.

“What happened to my head?” he asked.

“They hit you.”

“Ah.”

He felt like a drowning man who had come back to the surface. They had tied his hands behind his back with tape. He turned on his side to relieve the pain in the small of his back. His head would have to wait.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“In the house.”

The blinds were drawn, the window handle had been removed. Brian was seeing stars.

“How long have I been out?”

“Half an hour,” she replied, sitting down on the bed. “Shit, who are these guys?”

“Rick's pals. He worked on a top-secret project with an ex-soldier named Terreblanche. That's the old guy with the shaved head who beat me up.”

Ruby said nothing, but she was sick with rage. This bastard Brian was right. The world was populated with bastards—the world was full of Rick van der Verskuizens who whispered sweet nothings in her ear and sniffed her ass and then dumped her in the end for his faggot friend in the boots.

Brian tried to stand, thought better of it. “Do you know where David is?” he asked.

“In Port Elisabeth, celebrating his diploma with Marjorie and his friends. Don't worry, he won't be back before next week.”

Steps squeaked in the corridor. They fell silent, waiting. The door opened wide. Brian saw a pair of boots on the polished floor, then Joost Terreblanche's athletic physique above him, a military jacket, weasel eyes staring at him.

“So, cop, woken up?” The voice matched his boot studs.

“I liked it better when I was asleep.”

“A wiseguy, I see. Who knows you're here?”

“No one.”

“Coming out of a shootout? What do you take me for—an idiot?”

“No, just a son of a b—”

Terreblanche placed his boot on Brian's head, and pressed down with all his weight. He wasn't very tall, but he was as thick as an anvil.

“What did you do when you left your house?”

“I came straight here,” Brian replied, his mouth twisted by the boot.

“Why didn't you go to your police friends?”

“I wanted to get Ruby out of here. You might have used her . . . for blackmail.”

“Did you suspect the dentist?”

“Yes.”

He squashed Brian's face under his boot. “And you didn't tell anyone on your way here?”

“I left my cell phone behind,” Brian managed to say. “With your friends after me.”

Debeer had found the fax with the Project Coast list, the samples, and the hard disk stolen from Hout Bay. But this shit stirrer had had the time to look at it. Terreblanche took his boot away, leaving stud marks on Brian's cheek. His story seemed to match Debeer's.

He took an object from his jacket. “Look what we found in your pocket.”

Brian looked up and saw the memory stick. The leather heel smashed into his stomach. He may have been expecting it, but he still writhed on the floor.

“Leave him alone!” Ruby cried, from the bed.

Terreblanche didn't even look at her. “Shut up, bitch, unless you want a pickax handle up your ass. Who did you show the contents of the hard disk to?”

Brian was snatching at the air like a flying fish. “Nobody.”

“Is that right?”

“I didn't.”

“Didn't what?”

“Didn't have time.”

Terreblanche kneeled and grabbed Brian by his shirt collar. “Did you send a copy to headquarters?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“The lines . . .” he spluttered, hardly able to breathe. “The lines weren't secure. Too many names erased from the records.”

Terreblanche hesitated. His men had destroyed the computer in the bedroom during the attack, so there was no way of knowing what he might have done with the files.

“Did you send a copy of the hard disk to anyone else?” Terreblanche was getting impatient. “Well, did you? Talk or I'll kill her!”

He took out his gun and aimed it at Ruby's head. She shrank back toward the bed in fright.

“That won't make any difference,” Brian breathed. “I was trying to make sense of the files when your guys jumped me.”

The hand that held the gun was covered in brown spots. At the end of the barrel, Ruby was shaking for the two of them.

“So nobody knows these files exist?”

Brian shook his head—this asshole reminded him of his father. “No,” he said. “Only me.”

Silence bounced off the walls of the room. Terreblanche lowered his gun and glanced at his Rolex. “O.K. We'll see.”

 

 *

 

The cellar was a cold, gloomy room that smelled of casks. Brian was trying to loosen the ropes binding him, but without much hope. He had been tied to a chair, and with the lamp shining on his face all he could see was a black dot.

A corpulent man was preparing something on the nearby table. He thought he made out Debeer, and a machine that didn't look very encouraging.

“I see we haven't kicked our old habits,” he said to the soldiers.

Terreblanche did not reply. He had tortured people before. Blacks, mostly. Some who didn't even belong to the ANC or the UDF. Usually losers who'd let themselves be manipulated by Communist agitators. Thatcher and the others had dumped them after the fall of the Berlin Wall, but he still felt the same hatred for Communists,
kaffirs
, liberals, all that riffraff now in power.

“You'd do better to save your saliva,” he said, supervising the setting up.

He looked at his watch. They still had a little time before dashing to the airfield. Rick's house was isolated, nobody would disturb them. It was when they returned to Hout Bay for the loading that they had found the guards and the switchboard operator out cold. Someone had broken into the building and stolen the hard disk. They'd guessed it was the cop who'd been nosing around, and they'd been proved right, but the bastard had escaped. Luckily, Debeer had seen the fax he had received, the Project Coast list, with V.D.V.'s name on it. The cop was sure to have made the connection.