Trackers (9 page)
Authors: Deon Meyer
Step three would begin now. This was the risky part. They
must replace the original dish with a new one. They had nine minutes in which
to do this.
Nine minutes, that was how long Baboo Rayan, Supreme
Committee dogsbody and watchman, left the premises every morning to buy milk
and a newspaper at a cafe in Victoria Street. Sometimes it was longer,
depending on the traffic in Mountain Street, but it was never less than nine
minutes.
On the monitors in front of him were three different images.
The middle one came from number 16A, a video feed showing the Supreme Committee
house across the street, where Baboo Rayan's white Hyundai Elantra was parked.
The second monitor, to the left, was from inside the panel van around the corner
and showed the driver's view of the street. The third, on the right, showed the
front of the cafe where Rayan did his shopping every morning without fail.
There was no video in the old, beat-up bakkie on the corner
of Chamberlain and Mountain Street. It was Quinn's crisis management, his plan
B - a way to block off the street and delay Rayan. He did not want to use it,
because it could easily create suspicion among the extremists, who had been
hyper-suspicious and extra cautious over the past weeks. About everything.
On the centre screen the front door of 15 Chamberlain opened
and Rayan appeared.
'Stand by,' said Quinn into the small microphone in front of
his
mouth.
He watched Rayan stop on the pavement and look up and down
the street, as he always did. Then he unlocked the door of the Elantra and got
in. He adjusted the car radio first. He started the car and shifted gears.
Rayan began to drive.
Quinn pressed the button of the stopwatch. 'OK, Handyman,
it's a go,' Quinn said.
The panel van began to move, the one with the fictitious TV
installation company logo on its sides.
Rayan's Elantra disappeared from the centre screen.
Quinn checked the image on the left. The panel van turned
into Chamberlain Street. Rayan's car approached from the front. Rayan ignored
the van and drove past it.
'Let's speed it up.'
Central monitor. 15 Chamberlain. He waited for the panel van
to appear. Seconds ticked away.
'T minus eight,' Quinn read the time from the stopwatch.
The panel van made a U-turn and parked so that the video
camera faced down the street and the front door and satellite dish were visible
from number 16A.
The technician and his assistant jumped out and jogged around
to the rear doors.
'Take it easy. Don't rush. Act normal.'
They moved a little more calmly. Opened the rear doors,
removed the first ladder and the toolbox.
Nervously Quinn checked the video footage of the cafe,
although it was far too early for Rayan to be there.
His team carried the ladder and toolbox to the gate of number
15. One of them opened it. They began unfolding the ladder, as the dish was set
up high. Leaned the ladder against the wall. The technician climbed up and
carefully examined the bolts, called down to his colleague below, 'Thirteen
socket.'
Rayan had not yet reached the cafe.
The technician loosened the TV cable and began unscrewing the
bolts, while his assistant walked back to the van to fetch the new dish and
foot piece.
'T minus seven.'
Rayan's Elantra stopped in front of the cafe.
'He's a little ahead of schedule, let's focus,' said Quinn.
'Bolts are rusty,' said the technician on the ladder. 'Pass
me the Q20.'
Quinn said nothing. Just watched. The assistant was on his
way back to the panel van to fetch the second ladder. All according to plan.
Rayan got out and walked into the cafe.
Please let there be other customers, Quinn thought.
'Bolts are a bit of a problem,' said the technician.
'What?'
'Rust. Can't move two of them.'
Rayan had disappeared into the cafe. Quinn checked the
stopwatch. 'You have one minute to make the abort call.'
'Roger.' Quinn saw the technician spray more Q20 on the bolt.
The assistant put the second ladder next to the first.
The technician struggled to loosen the bolt. Strained at it.
Seconds ticked away.
The technician sprayed and tried again. The bolt wouldn't
budge. Sprayed again, all the bolts. For a long time. Coupled the socket
spanner to the bolt, wrenched at it, determined.
Progress too slow.
'T minus six.'
Still he struggled with the bolts. Quinn's palms were sweating.
Rayan was still in the cafe.
'Damn,' said the technician.
'Thirty seconds to make the call.'
He watched the man wrestle with the equipment. One bolt loosened.
'One down.' He removed it, hurriedly.
Rayan was still in the cafe.
Maybe he should put the team in the bakkie on standby, Quinn
thought. There was more rust than they had bargained on.
Not yet. Keep that for a last resort.
'Two down.'
'Too slow.'
'Hang on, I'll get them ...'
'T minus five approaching. This is the point of no return.
What's your call?'
He heard the technician grunt with effort. 'Three down, it's
a go.'
'Roger. Speed it up.'
Rayan emerged from the cafe, plastic bag with milk hanging
from his forearm, the newspaper in his hands, his eyes scanning the headlines.
Take your time, Baboo.
'Four down. It's out.'
Quinn saw the old dish handed down to the assistant. He put
it on the ground and climbed up the second ladder with the new one. He got to the
top and took the new screws carefully out of his pocket, passed them one by one
to the technician. During the dress rehearsal they had dropped the screws
twice, losing precious seconds.
Baboo Rayan reached the Elantra. He lowered the newspaper.
Looked across the street, momentarily straight into the TV camera lens. He's a
fool, thought Quinn, a moron going through the motions of observation, but
seeing nothing. They had had a GPS transmitter on his car for a month, they had
been observing him for nearly two weeks, right under his nose, and he was
blissfully unaware. He looked, but saw nothing.
Rayan took out his keys and unlocked the door of the Elantra.
He tossed the newspaper on the passenger seat and took the plastic bag off his
arm ...'
'T minus four.' Behind schedule.
Rayan got into his car.
The assistant pressed the new foot piece against the wall.
The technician pushed the first bolt in.
Rayan fiddled with the radio again.
The technician put in two more screws, one after the other.
The fourth was the microphone, he had to work carefully, there were thin wires
to be connected.
Began tightening the three screws.
The assistant let go and climbed down the ladder and folded
it.
Rayan's Elantra began to move.
The assistant took the ladder back to the panel van.
'Microphone going in.'
The assistant came back for the old dish.
'T minus three.'
'Microphone in. Connecting now.'
The assistant packed the old dish away and came back for the
toolbox. The technician was having trouble with the delicate wiring.
'Dammit,' he said.
'Connect the TV cable now. We can connect the microphone
tomorrow.'
'I'll make it.'
'Do it.'
'Roger.'
The technician connected the TV cable.
The assistant came and stood at the foot of the first ladder,
ready to take it.
'TV connected.'
Quinn checked the stopwatch. Rayan was at least a minute away
from the corner.
'You have thirty seconds.' He decided to put the intercept
team in the bakkie on standby. 'Intercept team, start your engine.'
'Roger.'
The technician was back to working on connecting the
microphone wires.
'Twenty seconds.'
Quinn looked at the left-hand monitor. He would be able to
see the Elantra come around the corner.
'Ten seconds.'
'Damn, damn, damn.'
'Nine, eight, seven, interceptor team, stand by ...'
'Roger.'
'Connected,' the technician said with great relief.
'Get the fuck out of there,' Quinn couldn't keep the tension
out of his voice.
The technician slid down the ladder. The assistant grabbed
the ladder. They ran to the panel van. Pushed the ladder in and slammed the
door. Went around to the cab.
'Close the gate,' said Quinn sharply. The technician ran.
'Don't run!'
Walked. Closed the little gate. Walked back to the panel van,
got in.
They were out of time.
The van drove off.
Ten seconds later Rayan turned the corner.
Quinn gulped and leaned back in his chair. He wiped his palms
on his trousers.
'Intercept team, stand down. Gentlemen, that was magnificent.
Please test the microphone.'
The voice of the female operator in number 16A was heard for
the first time. 'Microphone is a go.'
'Well done,' said Quinn. 'Very well done.'
He
switched off his headset microphone. So that he could exhale loudly.
Photostatic record:
Diary of Milla
Strachan
Date of entry:
9 September 2009
Jessica invited me to dinner. She is such an enigma, with her
looks she could have been a model.
Highlight
of the day: the tango. I struggled with it. Then Mr Soderstrom said the tango
is four legs, two bodies, one heart. 'Most dances,' he quoted someone, 'are for
people who are falling in love. The tango is a dance for those who have
survived it, and are still a little angry about having their hearts so badly
treated.' Then I understood.
10
September 2009. Thursday.
They stood staring at the TV screen with grim faces. Rajkumar
was the only one sitting. Quinn and Masilo stood.
They watched the video footage of the members of the Supreme
Committee arriving within minutes of each other - Suleiman Dolly the last one -
and entering the front door of 15 Chamberlain Street.
Via the EAM in the satellite dish support they heard the men
talking. The sound was hollow and fuzzy. Rajkumar's team would use programming
to refine it later. But it was still good enough to hear the extremists
greeting each other, light-heartedly enquiring about each other's health inside
the house.
'Come. The agenda this morning is short.' It was probably
Suleiman Dolly's voice coming over the system, and the three observers pricked
up their ears. Hope burgeoned.
'That's understandable, Sheikh,' said another Committee
member.
'Why haven't we had any news yet? We've run out of time,'
said another.
'We must just have faith,' said Dolly.
'Allahu Akbar.'
'Come, let us go,' said Dolly.
Quinn looked at Masilo.
'Does that mean what I think it means?' asked Rajkumar. 'Hang
on,' said Masilo.
Over the loudspeakers came the sound of feet shuffling. 'They
are moving,' said Raj and looked at the blueprints of number 15, which were
spread out in front of the big TV screen. The question was, where to? And how
well the EAM would work. The loudspeakers fell silent
'Shit,' said Raj. 'They're going down to the basement.' Quinn
adjusted the volume. There was a hissing, very faint echoes of a man's voice,
but indecipherable.
'Would you be able to filter that?' asked Quinn. Rajkumar
shook his head, very disappointed. 'Probably not.' They stood and listened to
the speakers, till the last shred of hope evaporated.
'Come on, Raj,' said Masilo, encouragingly. 'We all knew the
chances were going to be slim. They are not stupid.'
'I know. But fuck knows, we need a break. I mean, we deserve
it. Just a bit of luck.'
'All
things come to those who wait,' said Tau Masilo. Rajkumar completed the saying
in his usual, pessimistic manner. 'They come, but often come too late.'
Janina Mentz was on her way to the office of the Minister of
Safety and Security, three blocks away, for their
eleven
o'clock appointment.
She walked erect, full of confidence, in the rain. She had
prepared well. In her briefcase was The Report. But that was just the final
planting of the seed. First she had to do the spadework, the much more
important preparation of the seedbed. She had planned the process, visualised
it: the Minister, a jovial man with shaven head and an easy smile, would
receive her cordially and ask her to take tea with him. She would accept with
thanks. She would sit down, take her time opening the combination locks of the
briefcase, take out the file, but keep it on her lap.
