Cobra

by Deon Meyer

  57

  Griessel was still waiting at Cape Town Station for train 2319.

  On his cellphone, Bones said, ‘Tyrone has just sent the Cobras a message. It says: “Card hidden on train now. Let me know when money is at Maitland Station.” And the Cobra said: “OK.” But there’s a problem. I could not reach Vaughn in time, he says there was no signal. So he missed Mbali’s train.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Can you tell me where Tyrone is now?’

  ‘He is still at Salt River Station.’

  ‘Tell Vaughn to get off there.’

  ‘OK, Benny.’ He rang off.

  On platform 7, Griessel saw his train’s doors open at last. He jogged up and got in.

  He stood, holding on to the metal rail near the roof.

  Mbali was going to have to confront one of the Cobras all on her own – the one who would go to find the memory card under the seat as soon as he got on, probably at Parow. There was no time, no one else to help. He would have to warn her now.

  Vaughn Cupido got off the train at Salt River Station, and within seconds he spotted Tyrone Kleinbooi sitting on a bench beside the platform.

  The pickpocket had a phone in his hand, and all his attention was focused on it.

  Cupido walked calmly down the platform, called Dave Fiedler, and told him.

  ‘Hang on, china,’ said Fiedler.

  Cupido heard Fiedler and Bones talking.

  ‘Captain Griessel will be there in five minutes,’ said Fiedler eventually. ‘He wants you just to keep an eye on Tyrone.’

  Griessel called Nyathi and explained to him that Mbali, due to an unexpected confluence of events, was alone on a train where, just after Parow Station, she would be confronted by a Cobra who would want that card.

  ‘Sir, if you could just wait for the train at Bellville – we have no other backup.’

  ‘I will take Ulinda with me,’ said Nyathi. ‘How much time do we have?’

  ‘Not more than ten minutes.’

  No anxiety, no reproach, just: ‘We’ll be there.’

  Beyond Maitland, Mbali sat with the memory card held between her fingers, wondering what disastrous data was stored on it. Information that was responsible for the death of at least nine people, and very nearly a tenth as well, an innocent young student.

  She stowed the card carefully in a side pocket of her big handbag. She rolled the chewing gum between her fingers until it was one big ball again. She stuck it back precisely where it had been when she found it.

  From her handbag she took a little bottle of waterless hand cleaner from Woolworths, and a tissue. She cleaned her fingers thoroughly.

  Then, with both hands hidden in the darkness of the handbag, she took her Beretta pistol and made sure it was cocked.

  She took her left hand out, but her right hand remained hidden in the depths of the bag, gripped around the pistol.

  Benny Griessel had said that a Cobra would get on at Parow Station, and would come looking for the memory card.

  And she would be ready for him.

  Benny Griessel got off the train at Salt River and phoned Cupido.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On the platform.’

  ‘I can’t see you.’

  ‘Platform 11.’

  ‘OK, I’m on the other side, I’m coming. Can you see Tyrone?’

  ‘He is ten steps away from me. He’s texting on his phone.’

  ‘I’ll be there directly.’

  Griessel walked hurriedly down the stairs, heading for the other side of the railway line.

  Bones would phone at any moment with news about the text that Tyrone was sending.

  If the pickpocket was still here, that meant that he was going to receive the money here.

  Good news, because he and Cupido were both here. One to catch the Cobra, and one to follow Tyrone and the money.

  The ZTE rang, as he had expected.

  ‘Cobra texted to say he has passed Maitland, then Tyrone answered with this: “When train stops at Salt River, wait until just before doors close again. Throw out money. Don’t get out. Stay on train. Just throw out money bag. If money is good, I’ll send card details.”’

  ‘Have they answered?’

  ‘No . . . yes, just came in. Just “OK”.’

  ‘How long before that train comes in at Salt River?’

  ‘Three minutes.’

  Griessel began running. ‘OK, I’ll call you when I have news.’

  Cupido saw Griessel running towards him, coat flapping, hair ruffled by the wind. He walked to meet him.

  Griessel waited until he was beside his colleague and then explained quietly and breathlessly what was going to happen. ‘I’m going to get on that train,Vaughn. You follow Tyrone and the money. If the Cobras are tracking his cellphone too, he’s dead. Protect him.’

  ‘Got it,’ said Cupido.

  Then Griessel walked away, towards the platform.

  The money train was visible, a kilometre away.

  Tyrone hid behind a pillar, his heart beating wildly. He had put the rucksack down on the concrete and now he looked up quickly to see if someone could see him, put his hand in the rucksack and pulled out the pistol. He pushed the pistol under the purple windcheater, closed the bag, swung it up onto his back.

  It was the moment of truth, now.

  Maybe they would try to shoot him.

  Maybe they would just throw the money out.

  Either way, he was as ready as he was ever going to be.

  It’s worth it, it’s worth it, his sister’s future . . .

  He took the cellphone, typed the message in: Card is in carriage 3, 3rd class, stuck in the middle of middle bench, table mountain side.

  He would send it when he was sure the money was correct.

  The train came in.

  He stood ready, behind the pillar, peering at the train.

  It stopped.

  A few people approached.

  A few people got off.

  A few people got on.

  The train stood there.

  The whistle blew.

  His eyes scanned up and down, up and down.

  A rush of air as the doors closed.

  Where was the money?

  Right at the back, the furthest from him, the rucksack bounced once, twice across the platform.

  The train was leaving.

  Tyrone waited.

  No one else got off.

  His eyes followed the train.

  There through the glass, he saw Black Beanie, the man’s eyes searching.

  Instinctively,Tyrone ducked behind the pillar.

  He waited.

  The train was gone.

  The rucksack lay there.

  He looked around.

  There was a tall coloured man in a coat, some distance away, with his back to Tyrone. Looked like he had a phone in his hand.

  Tyrone waited.

  The rucksack lay there.

  The coloured man in the coat began to walk away.

  Tyrone flew out from behind the pillar and ran to the rucksack.

  He grabbed it, raced back to the pillar, opened it.

  The money was there.

  He sent the text.

  58

  Benny Griessel made a fatal error.

  The chaos of the morning was to blame, the many threads that he had to hold on to and manipulate like a puppeteer, the adrenaline and crazy pace of the chase, the determination to bring the Cobras to book.

  He should have stood still for a moment and thought, but he didn’t.

  Instinctively he shifted his service weapon into easy reach. And he stormed through the train carriage.

  He had been standing at the window of the middle carriage, and saw where the rucksack was thrown out. Now he threaded his way between the people in the compartment, to get there, two carriages down. He didn’t see the notice stuck in big cartoon strips above the door.

  Trav
elling between coaches is illegal.

  Do not board train when full.

  Do not hold doors open when train is in motion.

  Nobody stopped him when he went from the middle carriage to the next. He saw the Cobra, the one from the photo, with the black cap and the blue windcheater, on the other side of the last door. He put his hand on the Beretta on his hip, pressed the safety off, focused on the man who was staring intently out of the window.

  Griessel was unaware of the middle-aged ticket inspector approaching, only noticed him when the man reached him and said, ‘You can’t travel between coaches.’

  ‘I’m from the police,’ said Griessel so as not to attract attention, especially not from the Cobra.

  Griessel walked past the ticket inspector. The train was noisy and he didn’t hear whether the man said anything in response. Griessel raised his left hand to open the door between the carriages.

  The ticker inspector grabbed his right shoulder, to stop him. The man said, ‘You can’t go through there, it’s against the rules.’

  ‘I’m a policeman,’ said Griessel, loudly and impatiently this time.

  The Cobra saw the movement, turned his head, looked at him.

  Griessel jerked the door open with his left hand, pulled out his service pistol.

  The ticket inspector shoved Griessel’s shoulder, pushing him off balance.

  The Cobra was swift and practised. His right hand emerged from his windcheater, holding a pistol. He swung it towards Griessel as he moved forward. To the middle of the carriage.

  The door began to close automatically again.

  Time stood still. Griessel didn’t know how thick the glass was, he would have to shoot before the door closed, before the Cobra could fire at him, there was no time to aim. He jerked his shoulder forwards, and pulled the trigger.

  The deafening shot boomed through the train carriage. People screamed. Blood exploded in a fine spray around the Cobra’s head and against the window behind him. The Cobra collapsed. The ticket inspector dived at Griessel and tried to wrench the pistol away from him.

  Griessel aimed a punch at the man, the pistol was loaded and dangerous, what was the idiot doing? He hit the ticket inspector with an elbow somewhere in his face and the man fell. Griessel staggered forward, up to the Cobra.

  The Cobra’s lower cheekbone and nose was a bloody, gaping hole.

  ‘Fok!’ He wanted to know where David Adair was, he’d wanted to question the man.

  The ticket inspector tackled Griessel, and both of them stumbled over the Cobra.

  Griessel lost his temper, but he pressed the catch of the Beretta so the weapon was safe. Then he hit the ticket inspector angrily across the jaw with the pistol. The man fell down again. Griessel straightened up. He jammed the pistol against the ticket inspector’s cheek. ‘Are you fokken deaf? I’m a policeman.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the man, clearly confused.

  ‘Yes, what?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the ticket inspector, ‘I am a bit deaf.’

  Only then Griessel did notice the discreet hearing aid in the man’s ear.

  Someone pulled the emergency cord so that Griessel completely lost his balance and fell over, on top of the Cobra’s corpse.

  Mbali sat and waited. She felt no fear. There was just a tingling of adrenaline in her veins.

  Her hand was firmly on her service pistol, the barrel pointing straight ahead, even if it was deep in her cavernous handbag. Even though Bones had phoned her and said Benny Griessel asked that she should just watch the Cobra who came to fetch the memory card. At Bellville Station, Captain Zola Nyathi and Ulinda Radebe were waiting. Don’t confront the Cobra. Identify him, watch him.

  At Parow Station she looked out of the window, to see if she could spot a Cobra.

  There were too many people getting in and out of her carriage.

  Only once things had settled down, just before the door closed, did she become aware of him.

  It was the one from the Waterfront. She knew it, because she recognised the baseball cap, the slender grace of his movement, the shape of his face, the café au lait complexion. It was the one they believed came from Mozambique, Joaquim Curado, currently travelling under the name of Hector Malot.

  She admonished herself, inaudibly and in Zulu, to keep calm. Her heart began hammering in her chest, her hand perspired on the pistol butt.

  He was the one who had shot five people.

  The train pulled out of the station.

  She watched him count the benches. He came over to her.

  ‘Could you move?’ he asked, and pointed at the empty seats on either side of her.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  She looked into his eyes. She saw death.

  She didn’t look away.

  He hesitated. He stooped, his hands fumbling under the bench to the left of her. He straightened up. He moved to her right side, bent and searched again. He rose, and stood in front of her. ‘You will have to move. I lost something. I must find it.’

  She sat, a female Buddha, deliberately motionless and stubborn. She sighed deeply, as if it were a great sacrifice. She shifted to her right, slowly.

  He waited until she had the full weight of her body in the next seat. He bent down. He searched, until his fingers came to a stop.

  She pulled the pistol out of her handbag in one smooth movement. She made sure it didn’t hook on anything. His face was down near her thigh, while he was feeling about. He saw the movement too late. She pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the edge of the baseball cap, just above the man’s temple. She said, ‘If you make any movement, I will shoot you, because you are a killer. I am Captain Mbali Kaleni of the South African Police Services, and you are under arrest for the murder of five security officials at the Waterfront.’

  He sat stock still, both hands still under the seat. She knew he had his hands on the chewing gum. Let him think the card was still there.

  He said something, short and explosive, in a language she didn’t understand. She knew it was a swearword.

  Mbali banged the pistol muzzle hard against Joaquim Curado’s temple. ‘Profanity is the effort of a feeble brain to express itself forcibly,’ she said. ‘Don’t do that again.’

  She pulled the handcuffs out of the handbag with her left hand. She stood up carefully, without taking her eyes off the man or taking the pistol away from his head. The handbag slid down to the floor, but she left it. She pressed her knee and her considerable weight against Curado’s back.

  ‘Put your hands behind your back. Very slowly.’

  He didn’t listen.

  She pressed harder with her weight, and her knee clamped him against the bench. She banged the pistol barrel hard against the back of his head.

  He moved his hands behind him. She saw there was nothing in them. He would think the card was still there under the seat. She clicked the handcuffs first on his left wrist, changed grip and then on his right wrist.

  ‘You are not all that dangerous,’ she said, and bent to pick up her handbag. Time to report to her team leader, Benny Griessel.

  Tyrone ran across the bridge at Salt River Station, past the coloured man with the coat that flapped like Batman’s cloak in the wind. He must catch the train, to Bellville.

  His shoes clattered down the stairs, to the platform.

  The train wasn’t there yet.

  Relief.

  He realised his grip on the money-rucksack was so tight that his fingers were cramping.

  Relax, Ty, just relax. All that he could do now, was to get to the hospital. Extra insurance against an attack, but it shouldn’t be necessary. No reason for them to harm Nadia, they had the card, the correct file on it. He had the money. Two point four fucking mill. His struggles were over, Nadia had a future.

  The train came in. He walked, he had to sit down, he’d been on his feet since the crack of dawn, he was exhausted by all the worry, he just wanted to sit, just relax, enjoy the ride.

  There were a lot of e
mpty seats.

  He chose the one at the back, at the end of the carriage.

  He couldn’t help himself. He pulled the rucksack open again. Jirre, that was a lot of money. He pushed his hand in, pulled out a bundle of notes.

  Everything is legit.

  The dude with the Batman coat came in through the intersecting door of the carriage and looked round. Tyrone zipped the rucksack closed, fastened the buckles. Batman headed towards him. Sat just one seat away. Cellphone in his hand.

  Suspicious-looking motherfucker.

  Tyrone put the rucksack on his lap.

  The pistol was behind him now, in his belt, the butt pressed coldly against his ribs.

  Was he one of them?

  Or just a dude? Wouldn’t it be really funny if he got robbed now?

  He moved his hand very slowly, until he had hold of the pistol.

  Nobody was going to rob him now.

  Batman looked at him and smiled. ‘Wa’s jy op pad heen, my bru?’ Where are you going?

  Tyrone was so relieved about the Flats Afrikaans, the smile, the fact that Batman might be a nice ou, over the dreadful tension that was broken, that he laughed.

  ‘Na my suster,’ he said. ‘In Bellville.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Batman. The phone in his hand rang. ‘Sorry,’ he said, and answered: ‘Jis, Bones?’

  59

  Batman said ‘OK.’ and ‘Jissis’ and ‘Yes, everything is fine’ into his cellphone, and Tyrone tuned out and thought, can you believe it? He took a few deep breaths and exhaled. He felt light-headed, he wanted to laugh out loud. No, he wanted to dance, but that would all have to wait until he was dead sure the cops were looking after Nadia nicely. What he would do, he would phone them again, sommer netnou from Bellville, scare the bejaysus out of them: fifteen gangstas are on the way from the Plain to go and hurt that girlie in the hospital, get your SWAT team in, manne, call in the big guns, this is not child’s play. All his plans had worked out so well, the whole lot, after all his worries. And now there was the small matter of what he was going to do with his share of the two point four. Nadia had six years of study, about fifty grand a year, let’s make it sixty or seventy, let him maar let her have some luxuries too, some nice goeters. That’s more than four hundred thousand bucks, leaves them with another two million. Buy her a little car, nothing fancy, just a little Peugeot or something.