Cobra (24 page)

‘
Hhayi
!’ said Mbali as if he was committing blasphemy.

‘That’s why I asked you to switch off your cellphones at the Waterfront,’ said Griessel. ‘Because I am now absolutely sure they are eavesdropping on our calls, and they can track us. We don’t want them to know we are here. We must remember they have access to exactly the same technology as us, but they don’t need subpoenas. And there’s a good chance our offices are bugged . . .’

Mbali shook her head.

‘We have to assume,’ said Griessel.

She merely nodded.

‘I’ll ask the Green Point SC to suppress the info of the cobra markings on the shell casings. If this shooting,’ Benny pointed at the big house, ‘. . . leads us anywhere, we’ll stay ahead of them.

‘Now, let’s talk about what happened at the Waterfront. With the pickpocket, I mean. Mbali how did you see it?’ He hoped Cupido would understand what he was trying to do, and shut up now.

Mbali was quiet for a long time, her hands on the steering wheel.

From the back seat Cupido sighed impatiently.

‘I think that this Cobra person kidnapped David Adair, and he is still alive.’

Griessel heard a detached note in her voice. Her usual self-confident matter-of-fact manner was missing.

‘OK,’ he said.

‘I think Adair contacted Lillian Alvarez, because she had to bring something from Cambridge to Cape Town. Something this Cobra person wants. I think she was going to hand it over to him at the Waterfront, but then the pickpocket stole it.’

‘I’m not sure that makes sense,’ said Cupido.

‘Why?’ asked Mbali.

‘Because that pickpocket is quick. We couldn’t see what he stole, and I saw nobody in that video of the theft itself that looked like the Cobra. So, if he didn’t see, he couldn’t have known.’

‘Maybe he spoke to Alvarez just after the wallet was stolen, and she told him what happened. Maybe he saw it happen, from a distance. Maybe he wasn’t sure what was stolen. We could have seen all that on the other cameras, if we hadn’t destroyed the evidence. And then this Cobra person followed the security officials, he was only about twenty seconds behind them on the video. And he shot everybody. The pickpocket escaped.’

‘Maybe . . .’ said Cupido, but he wasn’t convinced.

Mbali shifted in her seat, eventually, turned to them. ‘The backpack is important,’ she said.

‘Why?’ asked Cupido.

‘The pickpocket had it on his back when he was arrested. But when he ran out, it was not there. The man who might be this Cobra person was carrying it in his left hand.’

‘So?’

Mbali shrugged.

Griessel nodded.‘Vaughn? You sound as if you have another theory.’

‘There’s no evidence that the Cobra thought Knippies still had the stolen item. Maybe he found what he was looking for, and just ran away from the crime scene . . .’

‘He would not have run if he had what he wanted. He’s a professional,’ said Mbali.

‘Maybe. But my theory still stands: Adair skimmed money on TFTP. And the Cobra is after the money. Alvarez brought something that said where the money is, or how you can get it. Swiss Bank account number . . .’

‘She could have emailed that,’ said Mbali.

‘Maybe,’ said Cupido.

Griessel nodded, and opened the door. ‘Let’s go and see how this fits in with the rest.’

From the sitting room of the big house, where he sat with the grieving owner, the Green Point SC saw the three detectives approach. In front walked the stout, short Mbali with her big handbag swinging from her shoulder, then the taller Vaughn Cupido in a black coat that made him look a bit like Batman, and then Benny Griessel, in height just nicely in the middle between the Zulu and the coloured man. His tousled hair needed a trim, and he had strange Slavic eyes. Everyone who had been in the Service for more than ten years knew about Griessel, the former Murder and Robbery detective who had once arrived at a murder scene so drunk that they had to load him in the ambulance along with the victim’s corpse.

These were the Hawks, thought the SC. The crème de la crème. A
vetgat
,
windgat
and a
dronkgat
. The fat, the vain, and the drunk.

What was going to become of this country?

Woodstock lies only two kilometres from the heart of Cape Town’s business district.

Two hundred years ago it was a farm, and an outstretched white beach where the wintry northwester spat up the wrecks of sailing ships like driftwood. A hundred and thirty years ago it was the third biggest town in the Cape Colony. And fifty years ago it was one of the very few suburbs in South Africa where brown, black, and white could live undisturbed side by side under apartheid, before it decayed ever faster into poverty, with all the social evils that brought with it.

The minibus taxi dropped Tyrone off in Victoria Road, where the neighbourhood was going through a systematic revival – new boutiques, décor, and old-fashioned furniture shops existed comfortably beside old businesses selling hardware and motor vehicle spares. Office buildings, warehouses, and old bakeries were being restored, and to the south more and more yuppies were buying the pretty old houses.

But when Tyrone jogged north up Sussex Street, this sense of resurgence evaporated rapidly. The little houses here were dilapidated, squat and poor, despite the lovely old Cape architecture. Like the one on the corner of Wright Street, a corrugated-iron building bearing a weathered, insignificant sign, red letters on a blue background, indicating that it was the home of PC Technologies
.

The veranda was secured with heavy-duty, white-painted burglar bars, and the door to the street was protected by a security gate. Apparently to keep thieves out. But also to allow for time, should the SAPS appear with a search warrant. Because PC Technologies belonged to Vincent Carolus, a specialist in the handling, cleaning, and fixing of new, second-hand
and
stolen computer and related equipment.

Carolus grew up in Begonia Street, Mitchells Plain, only three houses from where Tyrone and Nadia lodged with Uncle Solly. Nobody knew how he acquired his first personal computer, but everyone knew that at fourteen he was already a technology wizard. He had been called ‘PC’ ever since.

He was one of only five people at this present moment who knew what Tyrone’s true occupation was. The other four were also dealers in stolen goods.

Tyrone stood gasping for breath at the steel door. He pressed the button under the video camera, hurriedly and perhaps a touch too hard.

It took fourteen seconds before the electronic lock opened.

29

The owner of the big house in Ella Street wept unashamedly, uncontrollably. Mbali sat beside him. She held the man’s hand tightly, her face twisted with sympathy.

‘How am I going to tell my wife?’ the man kept asking.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Mbali every time.

They waited for him to calm down a little, then asked him the usual questions.

In Cape English he told them that his daughter had been studying fashion design. She had so many plans. She was only twenty-four years old. ‘And now she’s gone.’

Mbali comforted him again.

They asked him whether anything was missing from the house. He said nothing that he had noticed.

They asked whether his daughter had been to the Waterfront today.

‘No, she was home. She would have called if she . . . She did not go out much.’

Griessel took out his cellphone, retrieved the photo of Knippies, and showed it to the man.

‘Do you know this person?’

‘Was it him?’ he asked, shock and horror in his voice.

‘No, sir, we don’t think it was him. Do you know him?’

‘Yes, he is my tenant. Why are you showing me his photograph if it wasn’t him?’

‘We think the person who came into your house might have been looking for him. He rents a property from you?’

‘No. Yes . . . He lives out in the back. In the servants’ quarters. What has he done?’

‘Right here? At the house?’

‘Yes, behind the garage.’

Cupido moved towards the door. ‘I’ll go and look.’

Griessel nodded. ‘Does he work for you?’

‘No, we are renting it as a flat . . . What has he done? What is he mixed up in?’

‘Sir, please,’ said Griessel, ‘at this stage we know very little. And we are hoping you can help us.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just . . . I always thought . . . I never believed him.’

‘We want to know everything, but right now, can you please tell us his name?’

‘Tyrone Kleinbooi.’

‘Do you know where we can find him?’

‘I don’t know. He is . . . He says he’s a painter. He does contract work, all over. We . . . I hardly see him.’

‘OK. How long has he been renting from you?’

‘From the beginning of the year.’

‘Do you have a prior address for him?’

‘He used to live somewhere in Mitchells Plain. I don’t have the address.’

‘Do you have any information about his family?’

‘I don’t know if he . . . I . . . I don’t know. We advertised the fl at, last year in November. And he came to see us. He was very well mannered, looked like a good boy. He told us this story, about him being an orphan. Him and his sister, they were . . . they lived in Mitchells Plain, with old people who brought them up, and then they died. And he said his sister was going to university to become a doctor, and he was a painter, and most of the work was in and around the city, so he wanted to rent. He had the deposit, he paid on time, every month. My wife . . .’ He began to sob again, they could see him struggling to bring himself under control. ‘My wife really liked him. He would come and talk to her. Just talk. Like he wanted . . . like he would to a mother . . .’

‘Sir, do you know at which university the sister is studying?’

‘Stellenbosch. That’s what he said. But I . . . I thought it was a little too sad to be true, being orphans, you know. And her studying medicine. I thought he just told us all that to get the flat, because there were other people who wanted it too. But my wife said we must help the less fortunate, and that he’s a good boy . . .’

He began to cry again, then said, ‘How am I going to tell my wife?’ ‘That’s heavy encryption, my bru,’ said PC Carolus. He was two years older than Tyrone, but short and swish – always decked out in modern labels. Even the big black-rimmed glasses were fashionable.

‘How heavy?’ asked Tyrone in the dusky room. They were both staring at the computer screen where PC had opened the memory card.

‘AES heavy. 128-bit heavy.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘AES is Advanced Encryption Standard. That’s way heavy.’

‘But you can do anything.’

‘No, not that. Maybe if I had months.’

‘So what is it?’

‘It’s an encrypted ZIP file,Tyrone.’

‘Like I know what that means.’

‘It’s like . . . a ZIP file is like a box. Something is stuffed into the box, but you don’t know what the contents are until you open the box. And this box can’t be opened because there’s a lock on it. A heavy lock, that’s the 128-bit encryption. And you can only open it if you have the key. And I’m assuming you don’t have the key?’

‘I don’t.’

‘I rest my case.’

‘So what do you think is in there?’

‘Tyrone,
wiet jy
what’s in a box if you just
look
at the box?’

‘Well, if it says fragile on it, then you know . . .’

‘But here’s
fokkol
written on the box. It can be anything – a few porn movies, a shit-house full of documents, pirated software . . . anything digital. You understand?’

‘OK. But you can copy it?’

‘Now let me get this straight. You come in here, it looks like you’ve been beaten up real good, you walking funny, and with all due respect, you look
kwaai
jumpy to me. But you say nothing and you know I won’t ask. Now I scheme you want to pull a digital scam. You, who don’t even know what a ZIP file is?’

‘It’s not a scam, PC, it’s an ace in the hole.’

PC shook his head. ‘
Wiet jy wat jy doen?
Do you really know what you’re doing?’

‘
Ek wiet, ja
.’

‘And you’re not going to tell me?’

‘Not now.’

‘OK, cool, my bru’, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do.
Ja
, you can copy it. Anybody can copy a ZIP file. You just can’t open it if you don’t have the decryption key.’

‘OK, and you can substitute it, so no one can see the difference?’