Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  ‘Yes,’ said Nyathi.

  ‘In June of 2006, the New York Times ran the first media exposé on TFTP, but the project survived, due to the public sentiment at the time, perhaps, but also because TFTP proved extremely useful right off the bat. However, being a US-only initiative, it was lacking in reach and scope. To be truly effective, it needed to go global. So, the USA invited the European Union to come on board. Of course, Europe was equally concerned about the terrorist threat, and keen to cooperate. But initially the European Parliament rejected an interim EU–US TFTP agreement, because they felt it did not offer EU citizens enough privacy protection. Are we still on the same page?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nyathi.

  ‘Good. This is where David Adair enters our story. He was invited to become a member of the EU evaluation team of the TFTP agreement, because of his expertise in database search algorithms. Adair took a long, hard look at the US system, and came to the conclusion that it could be vastly improved – not only in terms of privacy safeguards, but also in effectiveness. He then proceeded, as geniuses do, to write a vastly superior algorithm on a whim, and offer it to the authorities. Of course, they gratefully accepted, and in 2010 the EU announced their resumption of the TFTP. The so-called Adair Algorithm then became the standard methodology to sniff out terrorists in the international banking system. It has been responsible for the identification and subsequent termination of at least seven terrorist cells, and an impressively large number of senior al-Qaeda leaders and operatives.’

  Emma Graber leaned back in her chair, spreading her hands, palms open, as if she had nothing more to hide.

  ‘Gentlemen, the Adair Algorithm is one of the best-kept and most vital international security secrets in history. If it falls into the wrong hands . . .’

  She let the thought hang in the air for a minute, then she said, ‘Now please tell me about the nature of the kidnapping.’

  Griessel listened to Nyathi skipping over certain details of the investigation.

  With carefully chosen words and in perfect English, the Giraffe told Emma Graber about Adair’s initial contact with Body Armour, his arrival and stay on La Petite Margaux, the death of the farm worker and two bodyguards, and the signs of struggle in the master bedroom. He described the security measures, and how they thought the crime had happened.

  Graber asked Nyathi for the email address of the Paul Anthony Morris alias.

  He said he would have to consult their notes, but he would send it on. Griessel remembered the address well, but kept quiet.

  Nyathi said not a word about the cartridges with the snake and the letters NM engraved on them. Nor of the missing laptop, iPad, and possible cellphone – the Hawks’ only clues.

  Griessel suspected it was deliberate, but he wasn’t sure.

  When the colonel had finished, they negotiated a joint press release to quell the hunger of the media, and relieve the pressure on the families of the bodyguard victims and the wine-farm personnel.

  It would state that an unidentified man, presumably a European tourist, was missing after a guesthouse employee and two security officials were shot dead during a break-in. Missing and possible incorrect passport details had made the identification of the missing person difficult at this stage, but he was thought to be male and a British citizen. The Directorate of Priority Crimes Investigation was grateful for the willingness and cooperation of the British Consulate regarding this matter. As soon as a positive identification could be made with certainty, and the sensitivity of the investigation allowed it, the media would be fully informed. In the meantime, no stone would be left unturned to bring the perpetrators to book and to track down the missing person. Various leads were being followed.

  Nyathi told Graber they would have to inform one more Hawks’ colleague of the identity of David Adair: Major Benedict Boshigo, member of the Statutory Crimes Group of the Hawks’ Commercial Crimes in the Cape – their expert in financial affairs. But he could give her the assurance that Boshigo, just like them, would handle the information in confidence. ‘Until such time as we agree otherwise.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said amiably.

  They solemnly agreed to inform each other of relevant developments, as often as circumstances allowed.

  Graber walked them to the lift, where they said goodbye.

  Only once they turned into Buitengracht, in the direction of Bellville, did Nyathi speak.

  ‘I want you to call the Body Armour boss, Benny, and inform her that the British authorities might contact her. I want you to tell her that divulging any information to anyone other than the SAPS would constitute a crime . . .’

  ‘Sir, I think we should . . . She’s a tough one, it would be better not to . . .’

  ‘Threaten her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘See what you can do. But above all, ask her not to share Morris’s email address.’

  He rang. She answered promptly.

  He told her that the Hawks would issue a press release later that night that would relieve the pressure on the families of the two murdered bodyguards. He agreed to send it to her as well.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ she said.

  ‘There’s a possibility that someone from the British Consulate might contact you. We ask whether it would be possible to refer all their queries to us.’

  She remained silent for so long that Griessel thought the connection had been lost.

  ‘Hello?’ he said.

  ‘I’m here.’

  He waited.

  ‘Here’s the deal,’ she said. ‘I won’t tell them a thing. But you tell me everything.’

  ‘That is not possible at the moment.’

  ‘You are going to tell me everything when it is possible. I don’t want to read anything in the press that I don’t know, or I’ll phone the Consulate.’

  ‘All right,’ said Griessel, and rang off.

  ‘Mission accomplished?’ Nyathi asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well done. You’re pretty good with people, Benny . . .’

  He didn’t know what to say to that.

  ‘The first thing you have to understand about the intelligence community is that they only tell the truth if it serves a purpose. Their purpose, mostly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Graber is most likely MI6. Also known as the Secret Intelligence Service, or SIS. She is probably working closely with MI5, the British national security service, which hunts terrorists inside the UK, amongst other duties.’

  ‘Sir . . .’ He couldn’t sit on it any more. ‘You seem to know a lot about all this?’

  Nyathi laughed, and Griessel wondered whether it was the first time that he had seen the colonel do that.

  ‘Twenty-six years ago I was recruited for MK Intelligence, Benny. Because I was a schoolteacher, they thought I was intelligent. And I worked in London for a while . . . What I’m trying to say is that lying is part of that profession. And I think she is lying to us. Or at least not telling the whole truth.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Two things, Benny. The first one is that she tried very hard to have us believe that this is about terrorism, but she never actually said it. Her problem is that she is working in a foreign country, and she has to tread very carefully not to lie directly. Very bad for diplomacy, should things get out of hand later. She has to keep the back door open, the one that allows her to say: “Oh, you must have misunderstood, would you like to listen to the recording again?”’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘The second is the channel she’s chosen. If this were purely about a potential terrorist act, their High Commissioner in Pretoria would have approached our Minister of Security. Musad and I would have been called by him, not by them.’

  Burly Brigadier Musad Manie was the commanding officer of the Hawks in the Cape.

  ‘You think this is about something else, sir?’

  ‘All I know is that Adair probably is who she says he is. As for the rest, we’ll have
to see.’

  Griessel began to understand. ‘Is that why you did not just send me and Vaughn when they called, sir? You knew, when they called this late on a Monday evening . . .’

  ‘I suspected something might be brewing.’

  ‘And that’s why you did not tell her everything, sir?’

  ‘Yes, Benny. When you’re working with intelligence people, you should always have an ace up your sleeve. Always. We have a few, and I want to keep it that way. So, the first thing you do, is send her the wrong email address for Paul Anthony Morris. Just a small typo . . .’

  He wondered whether he detected a note of nostalgia in Nyathi’s voice.

  Griessel had always experienced him as a fair, thoughtful man, but quiet and modest, largely unreadable and enigmatic. Tonight he had also discovered a keen intelligence, a feel for this strategic game that Benny would have trouble matching.

  The colonel had enjoyed himself in the Consul General’s office, that was clear to see. And now, here in the car, there was enthusiasm, a sparkle that he had not previously detected in the Giraffe. How had it felt after the adrenaline and excitement of spying in London, to fill a senior command – really mainly personnel management, administration, and strife from the higher-ups – in the SAPS?

  Did he enjoy his job?

  When they had gone past Canal Walk, Nyathi asked him to call Cloete, the liaison officer, and ask him to come in. And also Major Benedict ‘Bones’ Boshigo. ‘Tell Bones to come directly to my office, and not to talk to anyone.’

  When that was done – and Bones had responded with a ‘that’s never a good sign, hey’ – he and the colonel decided what they would say to their colleagues.

  14

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Cupido in the big IMC room. ‘They let you ride all the way, this time of a Monday night, jus’ to tune you the passport is a fake? They could have told you that over the phone.’

  ‘It’s called diplomacy,Vaughn,’ said the much older and more experienced Frankie Fillander. ‘You should try it some time.’

  ‘Show me some love, Uncle Frankie. I smell a rat.’

  ‘What kind of rat?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘This was a professional hit, pappie, and jy wiet who sanctions professional hits. Gangstas and governments.’

  ‘That’s true . . .’

  ‘Any news?’ asked Griessel, to change the subject.

  ‘Nothing yet,’ said van Wyk. ‘And we’re still waiting for Ulinda and Lithpel. It’s going to be a late night.’

  ‘Then you’d better go home so long,’ said Griessel to the Violent Crimes detectives. ‘I’ll call if there’s anything.’

  They murmured their thanks. Only Cupido stood a while and looked at Griessel. Then he nodded and left.

  ‘Ja, I know about the Adair Algorithm. Maar dit maak nie sense nie, nè, it just doesn’t add up,’ said Bones Boshigo in his characteristic mix of languages, after they had told him everything. He owed his nickname to the fact that he was mere skin and bone, thanks to his murderous marathon-training programme. He was also one of the most intelligent detectives that Griessel knew, a man with a degree in economics that he had earned at the University of Boston’s Metropolitan College.

  Behind his desk, Nyathi just raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Kidnap him, Colonel? Why?’ asked Bones. ‘Everyone knows what the algorithm does, even the terrorists, and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it. Al-Qaeda must have figured out long ago that moving money through conventional banking channels is pretty stupid. Last I heard about TFTP is that it helps to nail a few small operators. I think this is really about the Adair Protocol, nè?’

  He noticed his two colleagues hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about.

  ‘They didn’t tell you about the Adair Protocol?’

  ‘No,’ said Griessel.

  ‘Nogal funny. This ou, David Adair, he wrote a paper on the use of his algorithm, about two years ago . . . early 2011, just after the EU joined TFTP. He basically said the scope of the programme was too small, and that his algorithm had the capability to do much more – the authorities had a moral obligation to employ it. He published the paper in a scientific magazine, and it became known as the Adair Protocol.’

  ‘The capacity to do much more what?’ Nyathi wanted to know.

  ‘Tracing other dubious financial transactions. His main argument was that the black market is worth about two thousand billion dollars per annum internationally, and tracking that money can have a huge impact on the containment and prosecution of organised crime.’

  ‘OK,’ said Griessel, struggling increasingly to keep up. The day was growing very long.

  ‘So they’re doing that now?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The banks didn’t like it, nè. And you can understand – they’re making big bucks from black market money and the whole laundering process. If TFTP starts looking at their organised crime clients, they will lose them all, quickly, to obscure little off-line banks in the Cayman Islands. So they pleaded invasion of privacy concerns, and the EU Parliament and the British government sang the same song.’

  ‘Bones, I don’t understand, if TFTP isn’t being used against organised crime, why can this kidnapping be about the Adair Protocol?’ asked Nyathi.

  ‘Adair is an agitator, nè. Baie liberal, baie vocal. Hy bly nie stil nie, he makes a lot of noise. Two months ago, he was saying in The Economist that the British Conservative Party is in cahoots with the banks and basically assisting organised crime. He’s canvassing, Colonel, all the time. I think the gangstas would maybe really like to get rid of him, before he gets public opinion on his side.’

  ‘So you think they killed him?’

  ‘Yebo, yes.’

  Jy wiet, who sanctions professional hits. Gangstas and governments, Cupido had said. But Griessel also knew that Bones was in essence a numbers guy, not a homicide detective. ‘No,’ he said.

  They waited for Griessel to explain. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Organised crime . . . Bones, when they order a hit, they want to make a statement. They would have left him dead at the guesthouse.’

  ‘No, Benny, not in the current political climate. Then the British press will say Adair was right, there will be big pressure on government to institute the Protocol. The way I understand this whole thing, nobody knows for sure that Adair came to South Africa. If they can make him disappear, nè, no names, no pack drill . . . Problem solved. And maybe they want him to suffer first, Benny. You know how the gangstas are.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Griessel, because aspects of the argument did make sense. ‘But for that reason they could have murdered him here, and then the media would have said: Look how dangerous South Africa is . . .’

  Nyathi’s phone rang. The colonel answered, listened, said a few times: ‘Yes, sir’, and then: ‘I’ll wait for him.’

  After putting the phone down, he looked at Benny. ‘That was our Hawks commissioner, in Pretoria,’ he said. ‘He asked me to receive a representative of our very own State Security Agency. To share the details of the case.’

  ‘But how did they know . . . ?’ asked Griessel.

  ‘They monitor the Consulate, of course,’ said Nyathi. ‘Probably their telephones too.’

  ‘All cloak and dagger, nè. Dis ‘n lekker een dié, what fun,’ said Bones. ‘Colonel, thanks for including me. Much more exciting than investigating pyramid schemes. Let me go do a little digging on Adair . . .’

  When Cloete came in, Griessel went straight to his office to send Emma Graber the incorrect email address for Paul Anthony Morris/ David Patrick Adair. The one that Cupido had confirmed was Paul_Morris15@gmail.com. He thought for quite a while before deciding on a false address. Nyathi had asked for a typing error, something that could be explained as a simple error, should Graber realise the address was false. One possibility was to swap letters around, but that was too easy. The one he eventually sent to the British embassy wa
s Paul_Morris151@gmail.com – making him feel ever so slightly like a spy.

  Then he walked back to IMC.

  Captain Philip van Wyk said they had searched the national databases and there were no references to bullet cartridges with snake engravings or the letters NM on them. And all the other processes were still running.

  At twenty-two minutes past ten, Griessel sat down in his office, bolt upright, so that the fatigue and despondency would not overcome him too quickly.

  In truth, they had nothing.

  If you thought about it.

  Now that they knew who Morris truly was, the cellphone and computer records wouldn’t really help.

  And if Bones was right, that meant Adair was already dead, and the murderers would likely feed his remains to the sharks, or bury them.

  Once again foreign mischief brought over here. Just what this country needed.

  Seven detectives, Forensics, IMC, and Nyathi’s whole day dedicated to something that would come to nought, he knew it already.

  Maybe the Spooks of the SSA should take over the whole thing.

  He should rather just go to sleep.

  But he didn’t want to. That fokken snake on the cartridge, that was the thing that had snagged his attention, that would not let go.

  What sort of fool made a stamp of a spitting cobra, and then marked his ammunition, every round? Which would take a hell of a lot of time. For what?

  Leaving them on the crime scene like a visiting card . . .

  With the letters. NM. Initials? Nols Malan or Natie Meiring or Norman Matthews, like the pretentious number plates of the rich that said ‘look how fokken common but cute I am’.

  Then he made the international connection, and he got up and he walked back to IMC, his brain back in gear again.

  ‘We will have to do an Interpol enquiry,’ said Griessel to van Wyk. ‘About the cobra and the letters.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Van Wyk halted. ‘You know they also have a database of stolen and lost travel documents. Shall I look up Paul Anthony Morris on that?’