Trackers (46 page)

'Madam!' shouted one of the movie ticket collectors. Milla began
to jog, just waving her hand at him.

Out the other side, she turned right, up the steps, then left
again in the Arena. The telephones were there, near the escalators, as she had
recalled. She opened her handbag, took out her purse and went to the coin-operated
phone furthest away. She took out the coins. Had one good look around, tapped
in the numbers one by one.

It rang.

She put the coin in the slot. It dropped.

'Hello?' Lukas's voice was brusque.

'I don't have much time, I'm calling from a payphone. I'm
going to ask you two questions. Just answer them. Nothing else.'

'Milla, what's ...'

'Nothing else.'

'I'm listening.'

'Do you work for the CIA?'

She listened with every fibre of her being, heard the sound he
uttered, astonishment and amusement combined, as though she was making a joke.
'Do I work ...' Another noise, a little concern now. 'No. The answer is no.'

He's telling the truth, Milla thought. She knew it. 'Did you
shoot Julius Shabangu?'

'No!' Fervent. 'Milla, you have to tell me ...'

'Lukas, just listen. The flat was bugged, they're listening
to my cellphone calls, I think they're following me. They're looking for you.
I want to warn you, and I want to help you.'

He was quiet a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was
suddenly calm. 'Do you know who they are?'

'Yes. The Presidential Intelligence Unit.'

Another silence. Then, 'How do you know...Wait, that's not
important now. Where are you?'

'In the Tyger Valley Centre. No one followed me when I came
in.'

'Where is your cellphone?'

'In the car. Outside.'

'Good. Listen very carefully, I'm going to tell you what to
do.'

Rajkumar waddled into the Ops Room out of breath, holding a
memory stick in his hand. 'You had better listen,' he said to Quinn and Masilo,
and pushed it into a computer.

'Patch it through to the system,' said Raj. 'News bulletin on
Kfm, five minutes ago.'

He got the audio file playing. The
newsreader's voice, clear and solemn:
Local police are calling on the
public to help in the search for Cape Town businessman and Muslim religious
leader Mr Shaheed Osman. Osman was reported missing after an apparent
car-jacking outside the Azzavia Masjid mosque earlier today. Several witnesses
saw a man forcing Osman into his late model Toyota Prado. Family members have
told Kfm news they are deeply concerned about Mr Osman's health, as he suffers
from a serious heart condition.

She walked briskly out through the Game exit, through the
underground parking, to the slope down to Hume Street. She looked for a
pedestrian path, spotted one to the right and jogged over to it. She skidded
down the incline to the bottom.

The street was busy, just as she had hoped. She waited for
the first gap in the traffic and sprinted. A motorist hooted sharply at her,
she stood on the island for a second, then ran across the other lane, to the
ugly steel fence of Willow Bridge. Only then did she stop and look around, out
of breath, searching, as Lukas had coached her.
Were
there any other people walking too fast? Or running. Identify them. Colour,
gender, clothing, height, appearance.

There were none.

She ran to the corner and turned left.

'Nothing?' Quinn asked over the cellphone.

'It's a big centre,' the operator said. 'There are only four
of us.'

'Keep looking.'

'What about her cellphone?'

'We suspect she left it in the car.'

First she bought a bright red headscarf, and a white jacket.
She asked for the largest shopping bag they had. Then, the sunglasses with
outsize white frames.
If you don't have cash, use
your credit card. It doesn't matter now.

Then she bought a cellphone.

Where is your cellphone?

In the car.

Good. Leave it there. Buy a new one. They
will ask for your ID, tell them you will bring it tomorrow, it's an emergency,
your...your phone has been stolen, you have to let your family know urgently.
Buy a charger that works in a car. Then find a place, somewhere in a shop,
where you can watch the doors, somewhere quiet...

She walked down to the basement parking, ran to the back,
against the wall. On the back of a blue Mazda she put down the box with the
cellphone, opened it and assembled.

There is usually enough power in the
battery to last an hour or two ...

When she was finished she sent the SMS. HAVE PHONE. NOW FOR
STEP 2.

She wound the scarf around her head, put on the dark glasses
and slipped into the jacket.

At Pick 'n' Pay she quickly bought the bare essentials - a
toothbrush, colourless lip gloss, mascara and deodorant. A writing pad and pen.
She asked one of the bag packers where she could find a minibus taxi.

'Where to, madam?' Amused.

'To Bellville.'

'Up in Durban Road, at the Engen garage. But it's a long
walk.'

'It doesn't matter. Thank you.'

Walking out of Willow Bridge was a problem, there was only
one route in and out.

Get something to change your
appearance, a jersey or a jacket, something
bright. And
a big shopping bag, anything to change your silhouette. From then on try to
walk differently, slower, head down, like you are tired, on your way home.
Don't look back, don't look round, just walk ...

It took her just over fifteen minutes
to reach the filling station. There were three taxis there. She approached the
rear one. 'Where are you going?' she asked the fare collector.

'Is that a philosophical question, or does madam want to ride
with us, genuine?'

She took the Metro train from
Bellville to the city.

There were few people travelling in that
direction this late in the afternoon. She sought out the busiest compartment,
as Lukas had instructed her. She kept her eyes on the floor, her handbag on her
lap, holding it with both arms. Most of her fellow travellers were young men.
Milla thought about the report on organised crime. She SMSed Lukas: ON THE
TRAIN.

Minutes later came the response: WAIT
IN FRONT OF STATION IN ADDERLEY. BLUE VW GOLF. She replied: OK.

Then she put the cellphone in her
handbag, sat hunched over in her seat and wondered what he would say when she
told him everything.

'We can't find her,' the operator
told Quinn.

'They have CCTV. I'm going to phone the shopping centre
office and ask them to let you look at the tapes. She must be there somewhere,
her car and cellphone are. But two of you must keep looking. What about fitting
rooms ... ?'

'It's difficult.'

'No it isn't. Look.'

She didn't have to wait long before
the blue Golf stopped next to her. The car's paint was faded, it had rust
spots, a few dents. She bent down, saw it was Lukas wearing a baseball cap,
opened the door and got in.

He pulled away immediately, but put out his hand and grasped
hers, looked at the headscarf and the dark glasses. He grinned and said: 'Mata
Hari Strachan.' She saw the tension in his face, thought she was to blame. She
squeezed his hand and said, 'I'm sorry.'

'No, Milla, I am.' His eyes on the busy traffic.

'Lukas, there are things you don't know.'

He glanced fleetingly at her, worried.

Then she told him, from the beginning.

They drove towards Blouberg, in the last crush of rush hour.
Past Milnerton Beach where she had come to her senses a few hours before,
though she was barely aware of her surroundings. She let the words tumble out
of her, too fast, the pressure to confess her deceit was too great, she
stumbled over the sentences. The sun was setting over the sea, Lukas's face was
grim in the soft light. He listened in silence, not looking at her.

When she was finished, he just said, 'Milla ...' with a weary
admiration.

She felt the relief of a burden set down, the suspense of
waiting for his reaction. It didn't come quickly.

He sighed. 'I don't work for the CIA and I had nothing to do
with Shabangu's death.'

'I believe you.' Then: 'Was it coincidence, Lukas? When you
went dancing?'

'Yes.'

'And the Monday night?'

He lifted his hand from the steering wheel in a gesture of
helplessness.

She waited, increasingly aware of his tiredness.

'One night in New York,' he said quietly, 'I was thinking
about a university girlfriend. Just incidentally wondering what had become of
her. And the next day I bumped into her on Lexington Avenue ... What are the
chances ... ? I can't explain it...'

She understood what he was trying to say. 'I know.'

'It just happened ...'

'Do you still think of her?' Her attempt to provide relief.

It worked. He turned his head and smiled. 'Not so much any
more.'

'You're tired,' she said.

'No,'
he said. 'I'm in trouble. And I'll have to tell you about it, because you are
part of it now.'

At half past six the operator told Quinn they had studied the
video material. They had seen Milla Strachan walk into Entrance 8 of the Tyger
Valley centre just after 14.00. They could determine her route more or less,
she had been responsible for a small flurry of excitement at the cinema, she
had walked past a camera in the Arena. It was fourteen minutes before they saw
her leave via Exit 6 on the western side. One last camera had followed her
trail in the underground parking lot, apparently to the outside.

They suspected someone had picked her up there.

Lukas Becker told Milla about the kidnapping of Shaheed Latif
Osman.

It was supposed to be over within a couple of hours, he said.
He wanted to intercept Osman and his car outside the mosque, get him into the
Golf in a way that ensured no one could follow them, drive to Blouberg, tie
Osman to a chair in the rented apartment and say as soon as they paid the money
back he would release Osman.

It had initially run according to plan. Outside the mosque
Osman had been very frightened, then he recognised Lukas from their previous
confrontation outside Osman's house, and calmed down a bit. He had got into his
Prado, followed instructions and driven off, saying over and over, 'Shabangu is
lying, I don't have your money.' To which Becker had patiently replied: 'Then
you will have to get it.'

The first problem arose when he had forced Osman out of his
car next to a railway line in Woodstock. While he was getting out, Osman had
put his hand in his pocket. 'Don't,' Becker shouted and pointed the pistol at
him, but the man ignored it. Lukas tackled him to the ground, pinned his hands
and pressed the pistol barrel to his cheek.

'Lie still.'

There was dreadful tension in Osman's body, a desperate look
in his eye. Becker, acutely aware that his time was running out, ripped off the
jacket and searched it. He found only a cellphone, tossed it over the fence.

Osman jumped up then, but strangely did not run away. He
struggled back to his car.

'What are you doing?' he shouted, stopping him.

'The bag,' Osman said urgently.

The bag. The shoulder bag Osman had carried out of the
mosque.

Lukas turned back swiftly, pulling Osman with him, and
collected the bag from the Toyota Prado. He had to be quick, because his pursuers
were coming.

Once they were over the railway tracks, in the alley between
factory buildings, Osman tried to take the bag from Lukas. 'Give it to me!'

Lukas jerked it away and said: 'Come.'

Osman, despair etching his face, walked more slowly and
grabbed his chest. 'My heart,' he said.

'Stop lying. Come on!'

In the Golf, Osman had sat hunched up, waxen, wet with
perspiration, breathing rapidly. A trembling hand reached out for the black
bag in slow motion.

'Leave the bag.' Then he looked into Osman's eyes, saw his
wild panic. The hand jerking back to Osman's left shoulder, face distorted in
pain. Still, Lukas Becker did not believe him.