Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Please.’

  ‘They’re not going to like that.’

  ‘I can send Lithpel to them. It may be less disruptive, and it shouldn’t take too long.’

  ‘Maybe Ulinda as well; those foreigners won’t understand a word Lithpel says,’ said Cupido.

  ‘I’m right here,’ said Reginald ‘Lithpel’ Davids, the lisping computer whizz van Wyk had recently poached from Forensics. Davids was small and frail, with the face of a schoolboy. He shook his big Afro hairstyle indignantly. ‘It’th sometimeth like I don’t exthitht to you.’

  ‘I rest my case,’ said Cupido.

  ‘I’ll phone Franschhoek so long,’ said Radebe and reached for a phone. ‘This is new, it’s the first time I’ve been an English interpreter for a coloured outjie.’

  ‘Jithith,’ Lithpel said, but he grabbed his worn old rucksack of computer equipment and stood up.

  ‘Anything on Paul Anthony Morris?’ Griessel asked.

  One of van Wyk’s researchers said: ‘We started with Google, Captain. It’s a relatively common combination of names, and there are quite a lot of references that don’t have photos with them. But we’re working on it.’

  ‘And the snake on the cartridges?’

  ‘That’s a difficult one to isolate in the database records,’ said van Wyk. ‘The query is still running, we might have to refine it. But nothing so far.’

  Nyathi walked in and the room fell silent. ‘Benny, the British Consul General’s office just called. She has news about the passport, we can go and see her now.’

  Eyebrows were raised. Cupido looked at his watch. ‘Twenty past seven at night? Maybe this Morris is royalty or something.’

  In the car Nyathi said, ‘I spoke to your sponsor. Thanks, Benny. I hope you understand.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ he said, because he did understand. The Hawks were a team environment. The weakest link determined their success. And at the moment that was what he was. The weakest link.

  ‘Everything else OK? Your health? The family?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  The Colonel nodded his bald head slowly and thoughtfully, like a man who has come one step closer to insight and truth.

  They drove in silence until they reached the N1. ‘Cloete has his hands full with the media,’ said Nyathi. ‘We need a break. Quickly.’ And then, ‘Do you think it’s about ransom, Benny?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have you investigated a kidnapping involving a ransom before?’

  ‘Three or four times, sir. But not where there’s a foreigner involved.’

  ‘I’ve never had one,’ said Nyathi.

  ‘They’re all bad news, sir.’

  They parked in Riebeeck Street and first had to search for the entrance to Norton Rose House, a tower block that was deserted at this time of the night.

  The British Consulate, with bullet-proof glass doors and a comprehensive security system, was on the fifteenth floor – Griessel and Nyathi had to identify themselves before a woman came to fetch them and escort them to the Consul General’s office.

  The dignified middle-aged woman introduced herself as Doreen Brennan. She was not alone. With her was a younger woman with dark hair cut short, black-rimmed glasses, and a pretty mouth. ‘This is one of our vice consuls, Emma Graber. Please, gentlemen, sit down.’

  When the courtesies were dispensed with, Brennan pushed the police photographer’s photo of the passport across the desk. ‘I’m afraid this is a forgery,’ she said apologetically.

  Griessel’s heart sank into his shoes. That meant they still did not know who Morris or his next of kin were.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘Yes. The passport number belongs to a seventy-six-year-old woman from Bexhill-on-Sea who passed away thirteen days ago. It might be her passport that was modified, but we’ll need to analyse the original to be sure.’

  ‘No, the passport is very new,’ said Griessel as he wrestled with disappointment.

  ‘Would it be possible for us to take a look at the document itself?’ asked Graber. ‘We have a comprehensive database of forgeries, which might help us trace its origin.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Nyathi. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged eventually . . .’

  ‘I see,’ said Graber thoughtfully. Then, ‘Of course, we only want to aid your investigation. As I understand it, the first seventy-two hours are usually crucial.’

  ‘Indeed. And your offer is much appreciated,’ said Nyathi.

  ‘We actually know very little about the crime that this person was involved in,’ said Graber. ‘Unfortunately, the detective who brought the photographs spoke to one of the clerks. Could you tell us more?’

  Nyathi hesitated, then smiled politely. ‘I’m really sorry, but the investigation is at a very sensitive stage. And now it seems as if Morris may not be a British citizen . . . I do hope you understand. . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ said Graber, and she smiled sympathetically. ‘We’re just trying to help. And I’m curious. Was it a robbery or something?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  Griessel wasn’t concentrating, and only became aware of the uncomfortable silence when Nyathi gave him a swift but meaningful glance. He finally grasped that there was something on the go here, a verbal chess game – Graber wanted very much to get her hands on the passport and to know more about the crime. Nyathi was most unwilling to share it with her. And he remembered Cupido’s reaction: Twenty past seven at night? Maybe this Morris is royalty or something.

  All at once he was alert, as if the fatigue had just rolled off him.

  There was a snake in the grass here. And the Colonel wanted him to help catch it.

  12

  He knew he must now ask his questions right. ‘Do you monitor missing persons?’

  He noticed that the Consul General waited for Graber to answer.

  ‘Well, only if they’re reported missing, and are presumed to be travelling, of course. There is a process . . .’

  ‘Was a Paul Anthony Morris reported missing?’

  ‘Not that we know of,’ said Graber.

  ‘Someone of his age and description?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. The info you have provided is rather sketchy. If we could analyse the original document?’

  ‘Do you have any idea who this Paul Anthony Morris might be?’

  ‘Well, it’s quite a common name. As you can imagine, it is going to take some time to scour the Home Office database, which might turn up nothing.’

  It was almost as though she was encouraging him to ask the right question, but he didn’t know what that was. ‘But do you . . . have you got any idea?’

  ‘What we do know, is that no person by that name has been reported missing in the United Kingdom in the past fortnight.’

  Griessel tried to understand the game. She wasn’t giving him a direct ‘no’. Why not?

  ‘Are there any other persons who were reported missing that you think he might be?’ Not entirely correctly phrased, she was clever, he would have to think carefully.

  Without hesitation Graber said, ‘The Metropolitan Police in the UK run a database called Merlin, which, in addition to other information, also logs missing persons reports. We have to assume that the age indicated on the passport is more or less correct, because it has to correspond to the photograph. And of course the photograph must bear a close enough resemblance to the man who entered this country last week in order to fool customs. Now, I can tell you that Merlin provided absolutely no data on persons generally resembling this photograph, and in this broad age bracket, that have been reported to UK authorities over the past fortnight as missing.’

  Why was she going on about ‘fortnight’?

  ‘And in the past six to twelve months?’

  ‘In the previous fiscal year, Merlin logged more than forty thousand records of missing persons. That type of enquiry might take several days before I could answer with confidence.’


  ‘Ladies, with all due respect,’ said the ever-dignified Zola Nyathi quietly and courteously, ‘there is a man’s life at stake here.’

  ‘I can assure you, Colonel, we’re doing everything in our power to help,’ said the Consul General.

  ‘Is Morris’s life at stake?’ asked Graber. ‘Or is he a suspect in a criminal case?’

  ‘You know who he is,’ said Griessel, because now he was sure.

  They looked him in the eye, calm and direct.

  ‘Captain,’ said Doreen Brennan, measured and diplomatic, ‘I receive Foreign Office bulletins about persons of interest on an almost daily basis. To be absolutely honest, this Paul Anthony Morris could be one of at least twenty British subjects of concern to our government. But at this stage – with no certainty as to his real identity, and with you not being very forthcoming about the details of the criminal incident – speculation will do more harm than good.’

  From a thousand interrogations of suspects Griessel knew that when people began to use phrases such as ‘to be absolutely honest’, they were lying through their teeth. He suspected the two Brits had conferred at length before he and Nyathi arrived, and they knew exactly what they would say.

  But before he could respond, Nyathi said, ‘I’m reading between the lines that you are willing to trade information, should we be willing to divulge details about the case.’

  The Consul General got up from her chair.‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to call my family to tell them I’ll be home soon . . . No, please sit down, gentlemen . . .’ She walked slowly to the door, and closed it behind her.

  Maybe he should hold his tongue and let Nyathi talk, since he had missed the subtle message entirely.

  ‘I have to tell you that the Consulate cannot officially comment on an identity based on a fake passport, unless we’ve had time to thoroughly examine the document in question,’ said Graber.

  ‘And unofficially?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘I’ve been known to speculate, should a conversation catch my interest . . .’

  ‘And how do we obtain your interest?’

  ‘That would depend.’

  ‘We’d consider lending you the passport, in a day or two . . .’ said Nyathi.

  ‘I’d surely appreciate that, but . . .’

  ‘You want it sooner?’

  ‘That isn’t my strongest need.’

  ‘You want details of the case?’

  ‘Now that would be immensely helpful.’

  ‘We could provide them, if we were properly motivated,’ said Nyathi with a faint smile, and Griessel realised the colonel was good at this sort of thing. The rumour was that he had been in the intelligence wing of Umkhonto we Sizwe, in the old days. Perhaps it was true.

  ‘I’m a firm believer in motivation,’ said Graber, ‘but as you know, speculation is not fact. And the idea of speculative information reaching our friends in the media is too ghastly to contemplate.’

  ‘I absolutely share that fear,’ said Nyathi. ‘That is why, despite tremendous pressure, the media is still very much in the dark about the details of this case.’

  ‘How do we ensure that it stays that way?’

  ‘By giving you our word that Captain Griessel and I will not divulge any speculative information, unless third parties are mutually agreed upon.’

  ‘Does that include your colleagues at the Directorate of Priority Crime Investigation?’

  ‘It does.’

  Graber gave a slight nod. ‘Has this “Morris” committed a crime?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has he been the victim of a crime?’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘We have a very strong suspicion.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The photograph.’

  ‘He resembles someone your government is looking for?’

  ‘He does indeed. Is he the victim of a crime?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘A serious crime?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Has he been killed?’

  ‘Who?’ Nyathi smiled again, as if he were really enjoying this.

  ‘Paul Anthony Morris.’

  ‘Is that his real name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who do you think he is?’

  ‘Has he been killed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is he in your custody?’

  ‘No.’

  That silenced her. Her face was expressionless, but Griessel could see the gears turning.

  ‘Who do you think he is?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘Do you know where he is at this moment?’

  Nyathi did not reply.

  ‘Has he been kidnapped?’ asked Graber.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘Colonel, I really need to know whether he has been kidnapped.’

  ‘We really need to know who he is.’

  She looked at the photo of Queen Elizabeth on the wall, then back at Nyathi. ‘We think he is David Patrick Adair.’

  Griessel took out his notebook and began to write.

  ‘Why are you so concerned about Mr Adair?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘Has he been kidnapped?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nyathi. ‘All evidence points in that direction.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Emma Graber with that mouth which Griessel found so lovely.

  She asked them to excuse her for just a minute.

  They stood up when she left the room, and sat down again when she closed the door behind her.

  Griessel looked at Nyathi. The colonel waved an index finger at the ceiling, then in a circular motion, in the end placing it in front of his mouth.

  Griessel nodded. He understood. They were probably being listened to.

  Odd world this. He wondered what Nyathi’s role in Umkhonto had been. And what Emma Graber’s job at the Consulate was. He suspected her interest was not criminal by nature, but political. He wondered who David Patrick Adair was, and why Graber was so careful – yet keen at the same time. And what she had gone to do now. Consult with the Consul General? Or with someone else who might have been eavesdropping on their conversation in an adjoining office? Or was she sitting there herself listening, in the hope that he and Nyathi would start talking?

  As if this case needed further complications.

  Seven minutes passed before she returned. ‘I do apologise,’ she said, and sat down. ‘Now, gentlemen, if you Google the name “David Patrick Adair” you will eventually establish that a man by that name is a King’s Fellow in Computer Sciences at Cambridge University, and Professor at DAMTP, the Department of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics, at the same institution. The DAMTP website will furthermore show a photograph of Adair which is almost identical to the one in the counterfeit passport.’

  There was a subtle shift in her attitude, businesslike, a greater urgency.

  ‘Last week Tuesday, Professor Adair failed to deliver his usual lecture at the Department. Because of his varied commitments and hectic schedule, this in itself isn’t unusual. But he has never failed to let his personal assistant know about such an absence before. She reported this to one of his senior colleagues. Upon investigation by this colleague, it was finally established that there had been a burglary at Adair’s house in Glisson Road in central Cambridge. A back door was forced and the interior left in complete disarray. Adair was nowhere to be found. Given the sensitive nature of his work, this colleague had the good sense to notify the right authorities, thereby keeping the matter contained . . .’

  ‘So it was never logged on Merlin,’ said Nyathi.

  ‘That is correct,’ she answered, without a hint of remorse.

  ‘What is the nature of his work?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘Therein, Colonel, lies the rub.’

  13

  ‘For starters, you should know that Adair has been divorced for nine years. He is completely estranged from his ex-wife. The marriage was childless. His next of kin is his younger sister Sarah, lecturer at the School of Mathematics a
t the University of Birmingham. By all accounts she is an extremely competent academic, but alas, not quite the genius her brother is. We have made highly discreet inquiries as to her knowledge of her brother’s whereabouts, and it is clear that she has not heard from him since his disappearance. In other words, there is no need for you to contact her.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Nyathi. ‘I’m assuming that you have also been . . . monitoring her communication channels since last Tuesday?’

  ‘We are positive that no attempt has been made to communicate with her about her brother since that time.’

  ‘May I ask to which “we” you are referring?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You said “we are sure” . . .’ said Nyathi patiently.

  ‘The British authorities,’ she said, with an ironic smile herself now.

  ‘And the nature of Professor Adair’s work?’

  She nodded. ‘Now please bear with me, because this gets a little complicated. But I want to get it right, not least so that you will also understand the great need for circumspection in this matter.’

  ‘Please,’ said Nyathi.

  Griessel said nothing, just listened.

  ‘An Internet search of his name will eventually lead you to the good professor’s responsibility for the so-called Adair Algorithm. To save time, and to enunciate the necessity for discretion, I would like to explain what that is. Have you heard of the Society for Worldwide Interbank Financial Telecommunication, or SWIFT?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Very well. Please allow me to elaborate: SWIFT is based in Belgium. It is a network that enables financial institutions across the globe to send and receive information about monetary transactions. Your bank, for instance, would have a SWIFT code, which is part of this system. Should you receive money from abroad, this code is used, and the information about the transaction is registered on SWIFT’s computers. Simple stuff, is it not?’

  They nodded in unison.

  ‘Now, shortly after 9/11, the CIA and the US State Department set up the top secret and pretty controversial Terrorist Finance Tracking Programme, also known as TFTP. In a nutshell, this programme provides US authorities with access to the SWIFT database, in order to trace financial transactions that might identify potential terrorist activities. You might have heard of it . . .’