Trackers (10 page)

He would ask how things were with her, and the Agency. She
would say things were going particularly well, thank you, Mr Minister. And
thank you for making time on such short notice, but I wanted to bring this to
your attention as quickly as possible. Especially in the light of recent
events.

She would wait for his reaction, for the raising of an
eyebrow and freezing of his smile. Then she would say, choosing her words carefully,
that it was a sensitive issue. Too ... awkward to discuss at the weekly
Security Meeting.

She would let that sink in. The Minister was a clever man. He
would draw the necessary conclusions. Perhaps she would help things along a
little by emphasising that only the PIA had access to this information (with a
nod in the direction of the file). That it was consequently safe.

And then she would tell the Minister that it had to do with
arms dealing.

She would depend on the baggage connected to the last term,
baggage that the ruling party and the candidate for the new intelligence
superstructure could not shake off. And on the latest controversy, so timeously
unleashed by the Opposition. That ought to make the Minister's heart rate speed
up. Janina Mentz was depending on it.

Again she would delay, before she made the next, complex
revelation.

Sir, there are Muslim extremists involved. And all
indications that they are planning an act of terrorism in Cape Town. Using
imported weapons ...

That would give him something to ruminate over.

We are going to focus all possible resources on this, because
we are so aware of what a difficult position this could place the President.

The Minister would understand what
the 'difficult position' meant. Given the arms sales to Iran and Libya.

And then she would slowly raise the
file from her lap and place it solemnly on his desk. As if she bore a great
weight.

Should you want to discuss this case
in any way once you have studied the detail, I am at your service twenty-four
hours a day.

Before the Parliament Street crossing Janina Mentz lifted her
briefcase to look at her wristwatch. A little too early. She slowed her pace,
holding the umbrella tightly while the cold front raged around her.

12
September 2009. Saturday.

'You
do
realise, we are
all rejects,' said Jessica the Goddess as she poured more red wine, her words
fuzzy from the alcohol. 'All those questions you answered during the
interviews, all the psycho-babble like "are you an ambitious
person?", it's all bullshit. All they wanted to know was, are you a
reject. They like that. A lost cause, an outsider. Damaged goods, well
isolated.'

Milla was hardly sober either. Her
nod was a bit too effusive.

'I mean, look at us. The rest of the
Agency is a model of affirmative action, a perfect reflection of the Rainbow
Nation, but we are all white, all over forty, and all fucked up. Theunie was
fired from a daily in Jo'burg because he plagiarised a column. Twice. That's
why his third wife divorced him. Mac used to be the arts editor at a Johannesburg
daily, until they caught him with the mail boy. In the mail room. And you're
the runaway housewife. And then there's me. Want one?' and she held out the
pack of long thin cigarettes to Milla.

'Thank you.'

Jessica lit her cigarette first,
concentrating. Then she raised her glass in a toast. 'To the Scandal Squad.'

Milla did the same, clinking her
glass against Jessica's. 'You had a scandal?'

'Oh, yes.'

It was the wine that gave Milla the courage. 'What did you
do?'

'You haven't heard?'

'No.'

'Strange.' The Goddess smiled through her perfect teeth.
'Mine being the more interesting, I would have thought Mac would have at least
hinted ...'

'Oh, no,' said Milla.

'Well, then, let me share,' said Jessica, and drew deeply on
her cigarette. 'I was the parliamentary correspondent for the
Times.
And then I went and fucked a very senior
government official... Don't ask, because I won't tell. Had an affair, for two
years. Until his wife walked in on us. Big scene. Hysterics, lots of throwing
of small household objects, the most charming death threats. She had me fired.
He organised the Agency job. Was a great fuck he was. Speaking of which, when
last did you?'

'Me?'

'You.'

'Have a great fuck?' The word surprised Milla as if she
didn't know it still inhabited her somewhere.

'Yes.'

'I don't know ...'

'How can you not know?'

'I don't think I've ever had a really great fuck.'

'Never?'

'OK, maybe not never ... the first time was pretty good.'

'With your husband?'

'My ex-husband.'

'You've slept with one man?'

'Well, you know ... I got pregnant, then we had to get
married ...'

'Jesus Christ.'

'I know ...'

'Why didn't you have an affair, for God's sake?'

'It.. .Well... I don't think ... I don't know ...'

'Never lived dangerously?'

'No ...'

'And now? You've been single for what, two months already
...'

'I've ...'

'You've been wasting time.' 'I suppose ...'

'Want me to introduce you to someone?' 'No!'

She examined Milla speculatively. 'I love lost causes. We
have a lot of work ahead of us.' Milla laughed.

'I'll have to introduce you to the pleasures of the cougar.'
'The cougar?'

'I am, dear Milla, a self-confessed, unabashed ... no, proud,
cougar. A ravisher of younger men. Early twenties. Lean, mean, hungry, NSA.'
'NSA?'

'No strings attached. Perfect solution. Hard young bodies,
stamina, so very enthusiastic. And a shared dislike of commitment. Love them
and leave them.'

'Aaa ...'

'I'm
going to set you up ...' 'No, Jess. No, no, no ...'

Operation Shawwal

Transcription:
Audio surveillance, M.
Strachan. No
14
Daven Court, Davenport Street,
Vredehoek

Date and Time:
7
October. 23.32

MS:
Christo was handsome. You know how it is, at that age, if a good- looking young
man with confidence picks you out from all the rest, and your friends 'ooh' and
'aah'. I had issues with my self-image, I was just so - relieved that he showed
interest in me.
So .. . grateful ...
He was
so
...
He seemed to be worldly wise, so easy with himself. I don't
know if I was ever in love with him. Maybe I'm lying to
myself...
I was drunk that night. It was
Rag Week. Everyone was drunk. That's no excuse, I would have slept with him
some time or other, I was ready for it, I wanted to know what it felt
like ...

13
September 2009. Sunday.

It was after ten before Milla woke from her drunken slumber.

Fragments of the previous evening milled in her head.
Jessica's sensual, drink-befuddled voice:
We are all rejects. You're the runaway housewife.
You've slept with one man? Never lived dangerously?

Lord, had she really taken part in that conversation? She
had, and more. She had told her story, late in the night, the whole truth, in
drunken melancholy, and Jessica had held her hand and wept along with her. It
was all coming back, and mortification descended on her in waves.

And the worry: how on earth had she got home? She couldn't
remember.

She jumped up and looked out of the window and saw her
Renault Clio parked there, a small relief, because suddenly the headache began
to pound. She climbed back into bed, pulled the covers over her head. She had
driven home in her drunken state, she could have caused an accident... She
could have been locked up, how Christo would have enjoyed that. How could she
do that to her son? 'Was that
your
drunken
mother in the newspaper? The one who ran away?' She couldn't do that sort of
thing.

She lay there feeling guilty until she could stand it no
longer, got up gingerly, put on her dressing gown and slippers, and shuffled
off to the kitchen to get the coffee machine going.

And
then thought, well, last night she had lived a little. Of all that she had
lost, she had regained at least a little piece.

Transcription:
Audio surveillance, J.L. Shabangu (aka 'Inkunzi') and A.

Hendricks,
telephone conversation

Date and Time:
13 September 2009.
20.32

S
:
I have a message for Inkabi.

H:
What is the message?

S
:
The export
deal...

H:
Yes.

S:
The guy who wants to buy the goods, you know? He is in Cape Town. He
is an Inkosi...

H:
I don't understand Inkosi.

S:
Inkosi is a big man. A chief. You know . . . of a . . . company. How can I say?
We are in the same business, this buyer and I. . . But his business is in Cape
Town...

H:
OK.

S:
We have heard that his name is Tweety the Bird.

H:
Tweety the Bird.

S:
That is what we have heard. So we think you can help to find him.

H:
OK.

S:
And we think the goods are going to travel at the end of the month. Any time
from the 24th.

H:
Do you know more about the transport and the route?

S:
We think it will be by truck, but the route is not certain. That is why you
must find this Tweety the Bird. He will know the route. You must make him tell
us.

H:
OK.

S:
I will give you a number. The number will change next Sunday, and then I will
call you again.
H:
What is the number?

14 September 2009. Monday.

At
6.46
when Quinn was having breakfast
with his wife and two teenage sons in their house in Nansen Street, Claremont,
he received an SMS. He glanced at the screen of his cellphone, excused himself
from the kitchen table, went into the bedroom and phoned Advocate Tau Masilo.

'Osman is at the airport, on his way to Walvis Bay,' he said
when Masilo answered.

'What time does his flight leave?' 'Probably within the
hour.'

'Then we better get cracking.'

'We only have one operator in Namibia. In Windhoek. I will
phone him now and hear how soon he can be in Walvis Bay.'

'Thanks Quinn.. .Walvis Bay? What would the Supreme Committee
do in Walvis Bay?'

'Why Walvis Bay?' Janina Mentz asked at 8.41 at the round
table in her office.

'Import harbour. For the weapons.' Tau Masilo said.

'You're speculating.'

Masilo has prepared. 'Occam's Law. The simplest explanation
is usually the right one. After the Ismail Mohammed debacle, the Supreme
Committee will want minimum attention drawn to the Cape, they are warier than
ever. They know it will be hard to land the weapons here, and if things go
wrong, the focus will be on them. Give them credit. Walvis Bay is a clever
move. Low security, cheaper bribes, good transport links via the Trans Kalahari
corridor to Gauteng. And if some error slips in, there is little evidence of
their involvement.'

Mentz considered that viewpoint and nodded. 'Could be. What
do we do?'

'Osman's flight is via Windhoek, where he must change planes.
We have only one operative there. He is already on his way to Walvis by road,
and he ought to be there an hour before Osman.'

'What time is Osman arriving there?'

'One o'clock this afternoon.'

'How good is our man in Namibia?'

'His name is Reinhard Rohn. Thirty years' experience. An old
fox. His reports are always thorough. Prompt.'