Cobra (39 page)

‘What threats?’ asked Cupido.

‘Death threats.’

‘From whom?’

‘They didn’t exactly sign their names, but he knew it was from people in organised crime. He just laughed it off as scare tactics, and posturing. He said they would not dare, because if they killed him, the government would be forced to act. So it wasn’t in the Mafia’s interest to carry it out.’

‘Anybody else? The factions, I mean.’

‘Just every terrorist organisation in the world, of course . . . You know . . . You can imagine, I’m sure. Anyway, a lot of factions, so we had to be very careful with our relationship.’

‘I don’t think you’re telling us everything,’ said Cupido.

‘I swear I’m telling you everything.’

He let it go for now.

‘So you had to be very secretive in your relationship.’

‘Very.’

‘How did you know which bank he usually used?’

‘David would transfer money for a plane or train ticket to Brussels or Paris or Zurich, for me to spend a weekend with him.’

‘OK, getting back to the past week, could you now tell us the whole truth?’

‘There really isn’t all that much to say that will make a difference. I lied about last seeing him at the department Thursday a week ago. We actually spent that following Sunday in Ipswich, and much of the Monday night in my apartment. David left just after twelve o’clock that night . . .’

‘Where did he go?’

‘To his place. That’s why I was so surprised when I went to see him at the office the next morning – we had an official appointment – and he wasn’t there. I mean, he always told me if he had to travel. But he did mention that it might happen, you know, with all his responsibilities, that he might be called away at short notice. So I wasn’t really worried then. But when there was no contact for four days . . . We’ve never been apart for that long . . .’

‘But you had no idea where he was?’

‘No.’

‘And the call on Monday morning?’

‘OK, that wasn’t the first call. David called me last Friday night, at about eleven. It was a very short, hurried call. He just said he was fine, he had to rush off on security business, and he might be away for a while. And he said I mustn’t tell anybody that he had called.’

‘That’s it?’

‘He did say he loved me. That’s it.’

‘And the Monday morning call, the early one?’

‘It happened almost like I told you. I did ask him where he was, and said that I had been worried, and he replied that he understood, but it’s his anti-terror work, he can’t talk about it, and everything is fine. But he said that he needed my help. And then he told me about coming to Cape Town.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Before he rang off, I told him that I loved him. And he said he loved me too. But . . .’ She shook her head slightly, as if she was unsure.

‘But?’

‘I don’t know. He said he loved me, but there was something . . . As if he was the tiniest bit embarrassed. As if . . . I don’t know, as if someone was listening?’

‘Maybe you’re right. And the second call?’

‘I asked him where he was staying, because usually he booked us into a hotel, you know, in Paris . . . And he said he has official accommodation. So I asked when I would see him, here in Cape Town. And he said perhaps on Tuesday, if he could conclude his work. Oh, and when I was on the plane, I . . . I know I shouldn’t have, but I thought nobody would know, and I was just so damn curious. I mean, I . . . Look, if you’re really into what I’m studying, the Adair Algorithm is like the Holy Grail. It’s bleeding edge, and it must be brilliant, because David is just so . . . Anyway, I thought, maybe if I can just look at the code, what harm could there be? So I popped the memory card into my Air. And there was a ZIP file. Password protected. So I took it out again. I really don’t know what’s on the card.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That’s about it, really.’

‘You didn’t think it was a little strange that he wasn’t going to be able to see you in Cape Town?’

‘Of course I did. But this was the first time that David had involved me in his other work. I thought, maybe that’s just how it was . . . How he was, when he was busy with the security stuff.’

‘Who kidnapped him?’ asked Cupido.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, too vehemently.

‘I think you suspect a specific . . . faction.’ Cupido put the last word in quotation marks with his fingers.

‘No, I don’t—’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘No.’

‘This is life and death, Miss Alvarez,’ said Bones. They could see her internal struggle. Her fists were balled, her lovely mouth pinched, her eyes darted.

‘The life and death of the man you love,’ said Cupido.

‘I . . . can’t tell you.’

‘Even if it means David Adair gets killed?’

‘Oh God . . .’

‘We’re on your side, Miss Alvarez. We are the good guys.’

‘I’m really not sure I can share this with you. It’s . . . very, very delicate.’

‘Do you think this
delicate
group is behind his kidnapping?’

‘I . . . maybe.’

‘Do you want to save him?’

‘Of course,’ she said emphatically. ‘But he trusted me with some very secret information, and I . . . I just don’t know . . . I mean, this is the sort of thing that could . . . It has very big implications. Internationally.’

‘Do you want to save him?’ asked Cupido, slow and measured.

She began to cry. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Just do what you think is right,’ said Bones.

‘Oh God . . .’ Her head drooped so that the thick black hair hid her face.

Cupido knew there was nothing he could do. They would just have to wait.

She lifted her head. Her eyes were still filled with tears.

48

Tyrone bought a packet of Panados, two chicken-mayo sandwiches, and a half-litre of Coke at the BP service station’s Pick n Pay Express on the other side of Somerset Road. Then he walked in the strong, chilly northwester, to the front of the Rockwell All Suite Hotel. He sat down on the low wall between the hotel and the service station, beside the big green recycling bin, where the wall of a storeroom provided shelter from the wind.

The pistol pressed against the small of his back and he had to shift it so it didn’t chafe him. He liked the feel of the gun there. Very
empowering
, he thought, and he grinned in the half-dark.

Pickpocket with a pistol. Uncle Solly would turn in his grave.

He swallowed two Panados with a mouthful of Coke. The wound across his shoulders throbbed with a dull, growing pain.

From here he could see the entrance to the Cape Quarter Lifestyle Village. So he could see how long it was going to take before the cops arrived.

He ate and drank. And he thought.

How was he going to get the money? Conclude the transaction without getting shot in the head.

The easy way would have been an electronic transaction, but Uncle Solly taught him long ago:
Stay away from banks,Ty. They have tentacles that pull you in, you don’t want to leave tracks, you don’t want to be connected with a paper trail if a fence is prosecuted, you don’t want the tax man to come asking questions. Cash is King.

There would be a lot of questions if a coloured
outjie
, formerly of Mitchells Plain, suddenly got two point four million in his bank account.

The exchange would have to be manual. Hard cash, the hard way. But how? He couldn’t involve anyone else, because these guys were bent on murder. Look what they did at Bellville Station, even after he gave them the card. And how stupid was that? If he had been lying dead now, all they would have would be a card full of Cape tourist pics.

’Cause they underestimated him, thought he was just a local yokel, too stupid to be a player. Surprise, surprise, motherfucker,
ma’ nou weet hulle.
They wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

But the fact remained: he would have to be extremely clever if he was going to get out the other end alive. He had made one big mistake himself. He thought the guy with the eyes was a lone operator. Now he knew there might be four of them.

Four. Against one.

Bad odds.

He would have to be smart.

He thought for an hour, while the wind blew stronger, and fatigue crept up on him again. Slowly he began to formulate a plan. Until the wind became too cold and miserable, and he knew the cops were not too fast when it came to cellular tracking. He stood up, walked west on Somerset, to the corner of Ebenezer. He walked into the Victoria Junction Hotel, past reception as if he belonged there, into the bar and lounge.

He enjoyed the warm interior for a moment. There were only a few guests – three businessmen at the bar, a group of four men and women in a square of couches and chairs in the middle of the big room.

He sat down at one of the small tables against the wall, where he knew no one could hear him. He took out Cellphone Number Two.

A waiter approached, brisk and friendly. Tyrone shook his head to show he didn’t want anything.

He watched until the waiter was far enough away, then he turned the phone on and waited for a signal.

He called his old cellphone number.

The guy answered a little faster this time.

‘Yes.’

‘Hello, motherfucker, how are you?’ asked Tyrone.

‘I am good, because I have a future. But not you.’

‘Do you want the original card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you have the money?’

‘Not yet.’

‘When will you have it?’

‘Tomorrow morning. Maybe nine o’clock.’

‘OK, motherfucker, here is what you are going to do: tomorrow morning you are going to stack that money on a table, and you are going to take a photograph. And then you are going to take a bag, and put the money in the bag. Then you take another photograph, of the bag with the money in it. And then you are going to get your buddy to take a photograph of you and the bag. Full length, so I can see exactly what you look like and what you are wearing. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you are going to MMS me those photographs to this number. And when I receive them, I will call you with instructions.’

‘You will not call on this number again. We will break this phone now.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. I will not negotiate on that.’

‘So how do I contact you tomorrow?’

‘On the number we send the photos from.’

Tyrone thought. That should be all right.

‘OK.’

‘We know your sister is in hospital,’ said the guy.

‘If you go near my sister again, I will destroy the card,’ he said, but he had to concentrate to keep the panic out of his voice.

‘We know which hospital. If you don’t deliver the card, or if there is something wrong with the card, we will go in there and kill her.’

‘The police are protecting her.’

The guy laughed quietly. ‘You think so? You think they will stop us?’

Tyrone’s hand began to shake.

Then the guy said, ‘I will send you the photos tomorrow morning,’ and he rang off.

They sat in the Hawks’ clubroom, the legendary, hidden bar room where only members of the unit were allowed in: Nyathi, Griessel, Mbali, Cupido, and Bones Boshigo. The only door was locked.

Griessel did not come in here often, but sometimes on a Friday afternoon he stood with the guys outside at the braai. Now he thought, it could be the first line of a joke: ‘An alky is locked inside a police bar . . .’

He realised everyone was waiting for him to say something.‘Vaughn, do you want to report first?’ He saw his colleague was burning to share something with them.

‘The CIA, pappie,’ said Cupido. ‘Lillian Alvarez says it is the CIA who abducted Adair.’

After the stunned silence, Zola Nyathi asked, ‘And she knows that
how
?’ Very sceptical.

‘It’s a long story, Colonel.’ Cupido gave them the main points of Alvarez’s experiences over the past week. ‘But I’ll let Bones tell you about the bank stuff.’

‘It seems,’ said Bones, ‘that the good professor unleashed a new version of his algorithm about six weeks ago,
nè
. New, improved, expanded. All in the name of hunting terrorists. Now, the way this algorithm works, is to use SWIFT data to track the source of the money – the country, the bank, and the account – and unique transaction patterns, because terrorists receive and withdraw and use money in a very specific way, aimed at avoiding attention. So the algorithm generates patterns, and Adair’s data-mining software then identifies possible suspects, and looks at the names and nationalities of all the account holders and money movers, and spits out the most likely suspects to the intelligence people, who follow it up. But the terrorists are not complete idiots. They know about the algorithm, and they have started to change their financial behaviour and the paths through which the money fl ows. That’s why Adair wrote the new software: to adapt to the new behaviour. And apparently he is the first one who gets the results every day, ’cause he has to study them to see if the whole system is working properly,
nè
?’