by Deon Meyer
Part of his smugness was because he had started to run with the big dogs then. The living legends, the guys whose investigations, breakthroughs, interrogation techniques, and witticisms were passed on in seminars, tearooms and bars, with an awed shake of the head. They were his role models and his heroes long before he joined them – in the beginning he was wide-eyed with respect and awe.
But the longer he worked with them – through intense days and nights, weeks and months where he learned to know them as they really were – the more he realised they had feet of clay. Each and every one of them. Everyone had weaknesses, deficiencies, demons, complexes, and syndromes that were laid bare by the inhuman pressure, the violence, the homicides, the powder keg of politics.
It was a depressing process. He had tried to fight against it, rationalise and suppress it. Later he realised that it was partly out of fear of the greater, inevitable disillusionment: if they were fallible, so was he.
And so was the system.
He remembered having a moment of insight, after a few years with Murder and Robbery, when his drinking was still under control and he still spent time pondering such things: life is one long process of disillusionment, to cure you of the myths and fictions of your youth.
Mbali was going through that now, and there was not much he could do.
But she would handle it better than he did. Women were stronger. That was another lesson he had learned over the years. And Mbali was one of the strongest of them all.
Cupido knocked on the door of Room 303 of the Protea Hotel Fire & Ice! Not loudly, not urgently; he wanted it to sound like room service.
In case Lillian Alvarez was there. Which he very much doubted.
They stood and waited in silence. He kept an eye on the peephole for a movement, a shadow.
Nothing.
Cupido raised his hand to knock again, perhaps a little harder. Then something moved in front of the peephole, and it went dark. A voice, female and frightened, said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Miss Alvarez?’ asked Cupido.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m Captain Vaughn Cupido of the Hawks. We would like to talk to you, please.’
‘Of the who?’
‘The Hawks. The elite investigative unit of the South African Police Service.’
The peephole went light again. Bones and Cupido looked at each other. Cupido thought, it’s the third floor, and the way he pictured it, there were no balconies or places to climb down, surely she wouldn’t . . .
The door opened.
There she was, the woman from the Facebook photo and the Waterfront video. She was in her late twenties, sultry and beautiful, far more striking face to face.
She looked at them with big, dark eyes, from the lean marathon athlete to the tall, broad-shouldered Cupido. Emotion marred the beauty – her generous mouth twisted, her eyes red and tearful.
‘Please tell me you really are from the police.’
‘We are,’ said Bones.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because of David Adair, and what happened at the Waterfront this morning.’
‘Is he OK? Please tell me he is OK.’
‘We are trying to find him, ma’am. That’s why we’re here. We hope you can help us.’
‘Oh God,’ she said. And then her face crumpled and she began to cry. When Bones put his hand out to touch her shoulder in sympathy, she moved instinctively forward so he could hold her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
‘Don’t be sorry. It must have been a rough day,’ Bones comforted her and gave Cupido a meaningful look.
‘I’m so glad you came,’ she said, and began to sob.
Cupido thought, fuck, why wasn’t he the one who’d put his hand on her shoulder?
The Sunwind restaurant was small. Griessel didn’t know what the name had to do with a hospital, or with food. It was probably meant to refer to the Cape. But not this sunless winter.
They studied the menu at the self-service counter. Decided on the Grilled Beef or Chicken Burger, for only thirty rand. He chose the beef, Mbali asked for the chicken, ‘But no rocket, please, and the chips must be hot.’ But with less authority than usual.
While they waited for the food, he said, ‘I want to test my theory on you.’
‘Please, Benny.’
He said he thought she was correct: Lillian Alvarez had brought something from England that the Cobras wanted from David Adair. She would have handed it over to them at the Waterfront, but Tyrone Kleinbooi stole it. They knew the Cobras had been at the Schotsche Kloof house. Perhaps they had followed the pickpocket there, but then he managed to get away, with the stolen article still in his possession.
Mbali nodded. She was still in agreement.
He said there was a university account in Tyrone’s room with Nadia’s address on it. But the Cobras did not kidnap her at her fl at, it had happened on campus. That didn’t make sense. The only thing he could think of was that the Waterfront gunman left with Tyrone’s rucksack. Something in that rucksack allowed them to identify Nadia, and to track her down on campus.
‘It’s possible,’ said Mbali.
‘And once they had Nadia, they knew how to contact Tyrone. To set up a meeting and an exchange: the article for his sister. That happened at the Bellville train station. And in the process, she was shot.’
‘Yes.’
‘It means they now have what they want, Mbali. They have no further need of Adair.’
Again she nodded, despondent. Then she said, ‘We have the name on the passport for one of them. If he keeps travelling with that passport, we might be able to apprehend him at an airport.’
‘Perhaps we should let the SSA know. They probably have better systems for tracking travellers.’
‘No, Benny, don’t do that,’ said Mbali quietly, as their burgers arrived.
42
Cupido asked Lillian Alvarez to accompany them to the hotel lounge, knowing that an average hotel room was not designed to seat three people comfortably.
She asked them to excuse her for a moment, disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.
They waited patiently.
‘She’s very beautiful,’ whispered Bones.
‘Yes,’ said Cupido. ‘But you’re a married man.’
‘And she smells nice.’ Teasing, because he was the one she had embraced, and he had seen what an impression that had made on his colleague.
‘You paid a big lobola to your wife’s parents, pappie. Don’t make me phone her,’ said Cupido.
‘But I’m allowed to look, nè. And allow myself to be hugged.’
‘Strange accent,’ said Bones. ‘She’s not English.’
‘She looks like a South American.’
‘Latin American,’ Bones corrected him in his schoolteacher voice. ‘When I was studying in the States . . .’
‘Here we go again,’ said Cupido, teasing, because Bones was known for being eager to talk about his time there – he was very proud of the B degree in Economics from Boston University’s Metropolitan College.
Bones grinned. ‘Ja, ja. But seriously, in Boston there were lots of Latin American chicks. They were all stunning. And I wasn’t married then . . .’
The bathroom door opened. Alvarez appeared. Her hair was brushed, her make-up and her self-confidence were restored. She was even more breathtaking now.
‘Let me just get my bag. And my phone,’ she said with a small, self-conscious smile when she became aware of their undisguised admiration.
‘In case Professor Adair calls,’ she said when she returned, putting her phone away in the brown leather handbag.
In the lift she asked, ‘How did you find me? I mean . . .’
‘We’ll explain everything in a minute.’
‘God, it’s nice to get out of that room.’ Her earlier emotions had subsided, and her relief was palpable.
‘You’ve been in your room all day?’ asked Cupido sympathetically.
‘Yes. I
didn’t know if David – Professor Adair – would call . . .’
‘Shame,’ said Cupido, resting his hand gently on her shoulder.
She just smiled gratefully at him.
While Mbali ate, Griessel’s burger and chips grew cold. Because his sense of duty made him call Nyathi – he knew he could not postpone it any longer.
He brought the colonel up to speed with the afternoon’s events. The Giraffe clicked his tongue when he heard about Nadia Kleinbooi, and he said he would personally phone the commanding officers of the Stellenbosch and Bellville stations to ask them to keep the engravings on the cartridges quiet.
‘I think they now have what they want, sir,’ said Griessel. ‘All we can do is to try and apprehend them if they attempt to leave the country through a major border post. If we can get a bulletin to Customs Admin. We have at least one possible passport we can track.’
‘I’ll do it myself, Benny.’ A brief silence, and then a deep sigh. ‘The question is, will they now kill Adair?’
‘Yes, sir.’ He knew they were thinking the same thing: if Adair’s body was found somewhere in the Cape, there’d be hell to pay with the media. And if they started digging, and found out about the SSA’s bullying tactics, and the Hawks’ attempts to suppress evidence, everyone’s name would be stinking mud, at home and abroad, all over again. And it always came out, because when there were slip-ups, there were always scapegoats and blame, to save other arses and reputations and careers.
‘Thanks, Benny. I’ll be here when you get back.’
They looked for a quiet corner in the lounge, on the modern sofas and chairs, and asked Lillian if she would like something to drink.
‘Oh God, yes, a whisky, please.’
Cupido beckoned a waiter nearer, and ordered the drink for her, and coffee for them.
‘We know you’ve been through a lot, Miss Alvarez,’ Cupido said sympathetically, as he took his notebook and pen out of his inside pocket.‘We know what happened this morning at the Waterfront. We know you work for David Adair, at the university. And we know he has gone missing. But we would like you to tell us . . .’
‘He’s gone missing? I mean, I know something’s not right, but I thought . . .’
She appeared agitated and looked to Cupido for an explanation.
‘If we can hear your side of the story, we might be able to explain,’ he said. ‘Could you tell us, please?’
‘You don’t know where he is?’
‘Not at this time. But perhaps you can help us find him. Please. Tell us what happened.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘I . . . Professor Adair called me on Monday morning, very early . . .’
‘Ma’am, sorry, could you start with your . . . you work for him, is that right?’
‘Yes. I’m his assistant.’
‘Like a secretary?’
‘No, no, I’m his research assistant. I’m doing my Masters Degree in Applied and Computational Analysis. I’m a research fellow at the Department of Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics, where Professor Adair teaches. He’s my supervisor. But I also do research for him on some of his projects.’
Cupido noticed her leaning forward, focused and serious. And a little bit tense. And he thought, she keeps referring to the man as ‘Professor Adair’ in such a pointed way, every time the inflection just a little bit over-emphasised and forced. Or was that his imagination?
‘You don’t sound British at all,’ said Bones.
‘Oh, no, I’m from the United States.’
‘Where in the US?’
‘Kingsville in Texas. Small town, nobody’s ever heard of it. It’s near San Antonio.’
‘I ran the Rock ’n’ Roll Marathon in San Antonio,’ said Bones. ‘Pretty place. But the heat . . .’
‘You know it?’
Cupido knew Bones was going to use the opportunity to bring up his studies again. He pre-empted him, ‘If we can get back to Professor Adair?’
‘Sure. Where were we?’
‘How long have you worked for him?’
‘Since the beginning of the Lent term.’
‘When was that?’
‘This past January.’
‘And you see him every day?’
‘Well, not every day. He is a very busy man. Maybe two or three times a week, at the department.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘On the Thursday of the week before last.’
‘Where?’
‘At DAMTP.’
‘On campus?’
‘Well . . . yes, at his office.’
In his eleven years as a detective,Vaughn Cupido had questioned hundreds of people – first at the Mitchells Plain police station, later with the Organised Crime Task Force in Bellville South, and over the last few years with the Hawks. Thanks to this experience, and the many lectures and courses with the SAPS Forensic Psychology section, he had learned a great deal about the art of lying. He knew the ability to tell an untruth varied radically from person to person. Some did it so naturally, skilfully, and smoothly that you couldn’t help but admire them, even after you had arrested them. Others telegraphed all the predictable signs of lying with an astounding clarity and awkwardness, but so totally oblivious to what they were doing, that they were still highly indignant if you confronted them about it. And then there were those who fell somewhere on the sliding scale between the two extremes. Lillian Alvarez was not an accomplished liar, but for an amateur she wasn’t doing badly. It was not her eyes, her body language, or gestures that betrayed her, but the timing and tone of her words. That over-eagerness to be helpful, to please, that touch too much obvious sincerity: ‘Look, see how honest I am.’
The way to handle people like this was to pretend you believed them, give them more rein, let them paint themselves into a corner.
‘And he was . . . Did you notice anything different?’
‘Not at all. He was his usual witty self. He can be very funny – he’s always making mathematical puns . . .’
‘I see,’ said Cupido, as if he understood. ‘And he didn’t mention that he was going to travel?’
‘No.’
‘So, the next thing you hear from him, is the call yesterday morning?’
‘No, Monday ... Yes, yesterday! It seems longer ... Well, I had an appointment with him last week, Tuesday, for a progress report, but he wasn’t at the office, and nobody seemed to know where he was. But it’s not all that unusual. Because of all the work he does for the financial industry, and the fight against terrorism, you know . . .’
‘You mean his algorithm.’
‘Exactly. Usually he’ll send me a text or an email to cancel. But still, I didn’t worry too much.’
The waiter brought the whisky and coffee. Bones reached for his wallet, but Cupido was faster. ‘Keep the change,’ he said.
When the man had gone, Cupido said, ‘OK. And before his call yesterday morning, nobody contacted you about him?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Now, yesterday morning . . . You said it was very early. Can you remember the time?’
‘It was around three o’clock in the morning. Maybe that’s why it feels so long ago . . .’
‘UK time?’ Bones asked.
‘Yes.’
‘About five o’clock South African time?’ said Bones.
‘I suppose . . .’
‘The call, was it from his own phone?’ asked Cupido.
‘How do you . . . ? Oh, you mean, did it show on my phone that it was him?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s a good . . . I can’t remember. I don’t think I looked. It was . . . He woke me up, so I was a bit sleepy.’
‘Could you take a look now? On your phone?’
‘Sure, I should have thought of that.’ She opened her handbag and took out the phone. Her deft fingertips managed the screen with practised finesse, till she found what she was looking for.
‘No,’ she said in surprise. ‘It’s from a different number . . .
And it was at seven minutes past three in the morning.’
‘Could you read the number to me?’
She read out the number, which began with a +44. Cupido scribbled in his notebook.
‘Do you recognise the number?’
‘Not at all.’
‘OK. So what did he say?’
‘He apologised for the time of the call, and I said it’s not a problem. Then he asked me if I could do him a big favour . . .’
‘How did he sound?’
‘Apologetic.’
‘Not stressed?’
‘No, I wouldn’t say he was stressed out . . . He’s very calm, always, so I . . . No, not stressed out.’
‘OK. And then?’
‘Well, I said of course I would do him a favour. And he said he’s in a bit of a bind, it’s very embarrassing, so it’s a really big favour, and it’s going to mean I have to travel halfway around the world, but he’s asking me because I’ve said more than once that I would love to visit Africa, and if I don’t feel comfortable, I should just say so, he would fully understand. So I said, wow, that sounds exciting, when did I have to go? And he said he’s booked a flight for me . . . Well, you know, in that very polite British way, he actually said he really hopes I don’t mind, but he’s taken the liberty of booking a flight for me, and it leaves at seven thirty on Monday night, from Heathrow, for Cape Town in South Africa.’
43
Griessel was still eating, without enjoyment. Mbali pushed her empty plate away, wiped her fingers with the paper serviette, and said, ‘Bones has found something interesting about David Adair.’
‘Yes?’
‘It might not . . .I’m trying to figure out what it means. Adair apparently belongs to a group of British scientists who are starting a protest group against government secrecy, and invasion of public privacy.’
Griessel raised his eyebrows, and Mbali continued, ‘Bones and I thought it was strange too. Because Adair’s algorithm does exactly that. It infringes on the privacy of anyone who uses banks.’
‘They are planning to start a protest group?’
