Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  Two women stood up when they came in: one, young and attractive, the other, older – with an unusual, eccentric air about her.

  ‘Captain Cupido, Captain Griessel, this is Christel de Haan, our hospitality manager,’ said Frank, and touched the younger woman’s arm sympathetically. Her eyes were red-rimmed behind the trendy dark-framed glasses. She gripped a tissue in her left hand and just nodded, as if she couldn’t trust her voice.

  ‘And this is Ms Jeanette Louw,’ he said with an inflection that was just a tad too neutral, making Griessel focus more sharply, noticing the body language. There was something in the atmosphere here that didn’t quite fit.

  Louw stepped forward and put out her hand. She was possibly around fifty, with big bottle-blonde hair, a chunky frame and a strong jaw. No make-up, and she wore a man’s black designer suit, with a white shirt and red-and-white striped tie. ‘Hello,’ she said sombrely in a deep smoker’s voice, her handshake firm as she greeted the detectives.

  ‘Christel and I will leave you now, at Ms Louw’s request,’ said Frank. ‘We will be in my office, when you need us.’

  ‘No,’ said Cupido, ‘we need to talk to you now.’

  ‘I want to talk with you alone first,’ said the blonde woman with an air of authority.

  ‘Please. My office is just here.’ Frank pointed down the passage.

  ‘No. We don’t have time for this,’ said Cupido.

  ‘Those were my people in the guesthouse,’ said Louw.

  ‘What do you mean “your people”?’

  ‘Vaughn, let’s hear what she has to say.’ Griessel didn’t have the energy for a confrontation as well. And he had picked up the atmosphere between these people. Along with the loss, there was friction, a certain tension. De Haan began to cry.

  Cupido nodded reluctantly. With murmured words of consolation, Marcus Frank sent his hospitality manager down the passage.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ said Jeanette Louw, and took a seat herself on one of the angular couches.

  Griessel sat down, but Cupido remained standing with his arms folded over his chest. ‘What’s going on here?’ he asked, clearly not happy with the state of affairs.

  ‘I am the managing director of Body Armour, a private security company in the Cape. We rented the guesthouse, and our contract with La Petite Margaux includes an NDA. They have no—’

  ‘A what?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘A non-disclosure agreement,’ she said as though maintaining her reasonable tone with some difficulty.

  ‘What for?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘If you give me a chance, I will explain—’

  ‘We are working against the clock, ma’am.’

  ‘I realise that but—’

  ‘We are the Hawks. We don’t have time for small talk and monkey business.’

  ‘Small talk?’ Griessel could see her control beginning to dissolve, and her expression altered to a mixture of anger and grief. She leaned forwards, thrust an accusing finger at Cupido. ‘You think I want to make small talk while some of my men are lying dead in that guesthouse? Drop your act, and sit down, so I can give you the information that you need. Or I will walk out of here, and you can come and find me if you like.’

  ‘I don’t take orders from a—’

  ‘Please,’ said Griessel curtly.

  Louw sank back slowly into the couch. It took a while before Cupido reluctantly said, ‘OK,’ but he remained on his feet with his arms crossed.

  It took Louw a minute to control her emotions, then she addressed herself to Griessel. ‘First of all, may I ask: how many bodies are there in the house?’

  ‘Two,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Only two?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded as though that’s what she had expected. ‘Can you describe them please?’

  ‘Mid-to late-thirties, short hair, lean, clean shaven, both were apparently carrying Glocks . . .’

  Louw held up her hand, she had heard enough. Her eyes closed, then opened again. ‘They are both my men. B. J. Fikter and Barry Minnaar.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Griessel. And then: ‘You mean they worked for you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of work, exactly?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘They were bodyguards.’

  ‘Who was the third person in the house?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘My client. Paul Anthony Morris.’

  ‘Who’s he, that he needs bodyguards?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘I . . . he’s a British citizen. That’s all . . .’

  ‘Shit,’ said Cupido, because he could see the complications already.

  Louw misread his reaction. ‘Captain, that is all the information that he was willing to provide.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ said Griessel,‘at this stage we suspect that he . . . is missing. And he is a foreigner. That means . . .’ he searched for the right word.

  ‘Big trouble,’ said Cupido.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Griessel. ‘We need all the information we can get, as soon as possible.’

  ‘That’s why I am here,’ said Louw. ‘I will give you everything I have.’

  ‘But not in front of the farm people. Why?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘Because of the confidentiality clause, La Petite Margaux had no knowledge of who was in the guesthouse. And I have a discretionary duty towards my client. That is why I must talk to you alone.’

  Cupido shrugged.

  ‘Tell us what you know,’ said Griessel.

  She nodded, and took a deep breath, as if to gather her strength.

  3

  ‘Last Wednesday, just before sixteen hundred hours, Morris contacted me by phone, and enquired about the nature of our services and the background of our personnel. With a . . . I suppose what they call an Oxford accent. I referred him to our website, but he said he had already studied it, and wanted to make sure it was not merely marketing. I assured him that everything was factually correct. He had a few questions about the training background of our personnel, which I answered—’

  ‘How are they trained?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘Most of my people are former SAPS bodyguards, Captain.’

  ‘OK. Proceed.’

  ‘Morris then said that he had, and I quote as well as I can recall, “a need to get out of circulation for a while, and enjoy the benefit of very vigilant, discreet and professional bodyguard services”. And he needed this from last Friday. I said yes, we can accommodate him, and asked whether I could work through the standard procedure to determine our service according to his needs. He wanted to know what that procedure entailed. I said it was a series of questions about his occupation, circumstances, next of kin who could be contacted in case of emergency, possible threats, time period, and budget limitations. His reaction was that there were no budget limits, and that he wished to use the services for a couple of weeks, but he would prefer not to supply any further information. I said I would prepare a plan and quote, and email it to him. He preferred to phone back, which he did an hour later.’

  Griessel listened to the official tone, the precise word choice. As if she sought refuge in the familiar territory of the official statement. There was a military air about her. He wondered if she had also been in the Service.

  ‘My recommendation was this guesthouse, and a team of—’

  ‘Why this one?’ Cupido asked.

  ‘We use it on a regular basis. It complies with our requirements. It is less than an hour from the airport, but outside the city. It is remote, with good access control, an open, manageable perimeter, and staff that understand our needs and requirements.’

  ‘OK. Proceed.’

  ‘My recommendation to Morris included a team of two armed bodyguards per day and night shift. He accepted immediately, and asked what the next step would be to close the deal. I asked him to deposit one week’s daily tariffs. He—’

  ‘How much?’ Cupido asked, uncrossed his arms and sat down in a chair beside Griessel’s. ‘How much was the deposit?’


  ‘Just over five thousand two hundred pounds. About seventy thousand rand.’

  ‘For a week?’ In disbelief.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And he paid it?’

  ‘Within half an hour. And the next day, the Thursday, he sent a scan of the photo page of his passport via email, which I had requested for identification and registration purposes. It showed that he was a fifty-six-year-old British citizen. He also called that Thursday with details of his arrival. During that call I notified him of procedures at the airport, and gave him a description of my people who would meet him. That was the sum total of my communication with him. Fikter and Minnaar went to meet him at the airport on Friday afternoon – he was on flight SA337 from Johannesburg which landed at fifteen ten. They—’

  ‘Johannesburg?’ asked Cupido. ‘So he didn’t fly out of England?’

  ‘It’s possible that he flew from the UK to Johannesburg, and caught a connection to Cape Town. I can’t confirm that.’

  ‘OK. Proceed.’

  ‘Fikter sent me a SMS on Friday afternoon at fifteen hundred seventeen to confirm that Morris had arrived safely, and another at sixteen hundred and fifty-two that they were at La Petite Margaux guesthouse and that everything was in order. They took the night shift that Friday night, and Stiaan Conradie and Allistair Barnes the day shift. Every team reported via SMS at the beginning and end of each shift. There were no problems. On Sunday morning, at the end of the night shift, I had a telephone conversation with Fikter to check on how things were going. He said Morris was a very courteous and refined man, and that he appeared relaxed and jovial. Conradie and Barnes are here at the moment, down at the gate. They are ready to talk to you as soon as the SAPS allow them entry to the farm.’

  ‘So let me get this straight,’ said Cupido. ‘All that you know, is that this ou is a Brit with a fancy accent and seventy thousand to burn. No address, no job description, nada. For all we know he could be a serial killer.’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘But you are happy to sell bodyguard services to such a person?’

  ‘Captain, if you have cash and you want to buy a new car, the dealer doesn’t ask you if you have a criminal record.’

  ‘A cop with cash for a car? Fat chance. And it’s not the same.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Bodyguard services are sort of personal, don’t you think?’

  Louw began to lean forward again, and Griessel asked: ‘When you spoke to him on the telephone – did he sound scared? Anxious?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. During the conversation I drew only two conclusions. The first was that he had not used this sort of service before, and the second was that he wanted to reveal as little about himself as possible.’ She looked at Cupido. ‘And that’s not unusual. Personal security services are by their very nature discreet. The majority of our clients are businessmen who don’t want it trumpeted about—’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘A need to maintain a low profile. And I think that’s also because they don’t want to offend their hosts. They come to do business with local companies, and the very public display of security gives the impression that they believe South Africa is a dangerous place.’

  ‘Then why do they use the service? There’s just about no crime against tourists.’

  ‘It’s a general misconception among foreigners—’

  ‘Which you are happy to indulge. Could you see from the email address where he works? What was the domain name?’

  ‘It was a Gmail address. And the name was Paul underscore Morris fifteen or something.’

  ‘And the payment of the deposit? EFT?’

  ‘Yes. From a Swiss bank, Adler, if I remember correctly. I will confirm that.’

  ‘Ma’am . . .’ began Griessel.

  ‘Please. I am not a ma’am. Call me Jeanette.’

  ‘The two bodyguards in there . . .’

  ‘B. J. Fikter and Barry Minnaar.’

  ‘Yes. How long ago did they leave the SAPS?’

  ‘About seven, eight years . . .’

  ‘How long have they worked for you?’

  ‘For the same time period. I can assure you the attack had nothing to do with—’

  ‘No, that is not what I’m getting at. How . . . good were they?’

  She grasped his meaning. ‘I only appoint the best. And for the sort of work they do, there is annual refresher training and testing, and the standards of fitness, weapon handling, and self-defence is high. We even do six-monthly drug tests. I can assure you Fikter and Minnaar were outstanding operators.’

  ‘And yet . . .’ said Cupido sceptically.

  Jeanette finally lost her control. She planted her feet apart, leaned forward, put her elbows on her knees. ‘Let me tell you, if you weren’t a policeman, I would bliksem you right now.’

  The young woman, not much older than Tyrone Kleinbooi, looked at the pile of notes, and then at the computer screen. ‘You still owe seven thousand rand,’ she said, each English syllable precise.

  ‘Why do you gooi English at me – I thought this was supposed to be an Afrikaans university here,’ said Tyrone. ‘This is all I can pay now. One thousand two hundred and fifty.’

  She bristled a little. ‘It doesn’t matter what language a person says it in, mister, die rekening is agterstallig. You are in arrears. Results are only released when it is paid in full.’

  It was frustration that made him tease her. ‘You can gooi in as many fancy white Afrikaans words as you like, but I can tell you’re actually a Cape Flats girl.’

  ‘Ek kom van die Pniel af, I’m not from the Flats. And I can see you have more money in your wallet. Does your pa know what you’re up to?’

  ‘Jirre,’ said Tyrone Kleinbooi. ‘What name is there on your computer, dollie?’

  ‘“Nadia Kleinbooi”. And I’m not your “dollie”.’

  ‘Do I look like a Nadia?’

  ‘How should I know? There are some funny names on this computer.’

  ‘Nadia is my sister, dolly. We don’t have a ma, and we don’t have a pa. This is money that I earned with my own two hands, versta’ jy? And what is left in my wallet, I have to go and give to her to pay her rent on her flat. So don’t you sit there and judge me. Have a heart, we pay as we can, she worked flippen hard, those results belong to her, not you lot – so why can’t she see them?’

  ‘I don’t make the rules.’

  ‘But you can bend them, net ’n bietjie. For a brother.’

  ‘And lose my job? Not today.’

  He sighed, and pointed at the screen in front of her. ‘Can you see them there?’

  ‘The results?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Did she pass?’

  Her face revealed nothing.

  ‘Ag, please, sister,’ he said.

  She glanced around first. Then said softly and quickly: ‘She passed well.’ She took the money and began counting.

  ‘Dankie, sister,’ he said, and turned to go.

  ‘Jy kannie net loep nie, you must wait for your receipt.’

  ‘Sien jy, I knew you could gooi Flats.’

  4

  They felt the pressure, the urgency of time slipping away.

  ‘Cyril was a friend to me,’ said Marcus Frank, the German owner. ‘A valued employee.’

  Benny Griessel knew there was a risk that Cupido would say something like, ‘So why did you make him wear a slave uniform?’ and so he interjected quickly: ‘You have our condolences, Mr Frank. Now, one of the—’

  ‘Our reputation is in tatters,’ said Frank. ‘The media is waiting at the gate.’

  ‘I understand. But one of the guests is missing, and we have to move as fast as possible. Can you tell us what Mr January was doing at the guesthouse last night?’

  Frank made a helpless gesture in the direction of the still weepy Christel de Haan.

  The woman put on her glasses and said: ‘He cleared the dinner table,
and lit the fire.’

  ‘What time?’ asked Cupido.

  ‘At exactly nine o’clock.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘That was our agreement with them.’

  ‘The bodyguards?’

  ‘Yes. Breakfast at exactly eight o’clock, house cleaning at nine, lunch at one, dinner at eight p.m. Final clearing, and hospitality at nine. They are very strict, they have a lot of rules.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘They screened all our people. Only six were cleared to work when they rented the guesthouse, two for breakfast, two for house cleaning in the morning, and two for dinner and evening hospitality. It made things very difficult . . .’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because sometimes members of our staff are ill, or they want to take a vacation . . .’

  ‘So why did you rent the house to these people?’

  ‘They pay almost double the going rate.’

  Cupido shook his head again in amazement. ‘OK. So Cyril January was one of the cleared people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did it work? Did he have keys?’

  ‘No, no, if they wanted to enter, they had to call one of the guards when they were at the door.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With a cellphone. They had to say a code word. They had to say “breakfast in the green room” if it was safe, or “breakfast in the red room” if they thought there was danger.’

  ‘Jissis. And then the guard unlocked the door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you said there were two people serving dinner?’

  ‘Yes. Cyril’s daughter . . .’ De Haan’s eyes filled, and her voice became hoarse. ‘I’m sorry. His daughter, she’s only eighteen . . . She served dinner with him, and they cleared the table, and then she left with the trolley. Cyril was doing hospitality . . .’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Chocolates on the pillows, check the bathroom supplies, like soap and shampoo and shower gel and hand cream, and light the fire . . .’

  ‘Do you know what time he usually finished?’

  ‘Between nine and half past.’

  ‘And his wife thought he went to town last night?’