Trackers (38 page)

I told Jessica I wanted to do things, to experience. I wanted
to live. I thought my new beginning, my new job, my dance classes and plans for
a book constituted life. And then I compared it with the life of one Lukas
Becker and I knew then that my switch was not yet on.

2 October 2009. Friday.

When Baboo Rayan's Elantra disappeared around the corner of
Chamberlain Street, the Telkom bakkie stopped at number 15 - right opposite the
front door.

Two technicians got out, one with a small toolbox in his
hand, the other with a larger bag and a roll of telephone cord. They went in
through the gate and walked purposefully up to the front door.

One technician began unrolling the telephone cord while he
examined the wall of the house speculatively as though he intended to install
something there. The other crouched down at the front door, his back to the
street so that passers-by could not see what he was doing. He opened the
toolbox and took out the fibre optic scope. It was a long, thin tube, called a
snake cam at the PIA. He slowly pushed the end of the fibre optic scope under
the front door, his eyes on the colour screen in the box.

Then he moved the point of the scope back and forth to see as
much of the interior as possible.

'Shit,' said Rajhev Rajkumar.

He and Quinn sat watching the monitor in the Ops Room. It
showed an enlarged image of what the snake cam recorded in Upper Woodstock.

'These guys are paranoid,' said Quinn. The living room of 15
Chamberlain was a model of security - contact alarms at the doors and windows,
motion sensors in two corners - and a CCTV camera in another corner.

'You can't blame them,' said Rajkumar.

'That's enough,' said Quinn over the radio to the
technicians. 'Let's get out of there.'

Rajkumar got up with difficulty. 'Well, there goes the mike
op .. .You know, I've never seen this ...'

'The security?'

'That too. But this streak of bad luck. Never seen it this
long, so much of it. Fluke. The good news is, it will have to change, sooner or
later.'

At the Arthur Murray Friday social, Milla Strachan saw Lukas
Becker walking across the dance floor towards her.

She was seated at a table with other students, old and young,
waiting for the music to begin, making the usual chitchat 'Where are you
from?', 'How long have you been dancing?' The lights dimmed, only the dance
floor left brightly lit, and the movement caught her eye, so that she looked up
and saw him.

Her first, instinctive, impulse was to wave at him, since she
knew him. Then she placed him, the circumstances dawned on her and her heart
shuddered.

The music began. A foxtrot.

'Shall we dance, Miss Strachan?' Mr Soderstrom, her instructor's
voice beside her. She sat dumbstruck for a second. Then she stood up.

The 'bus stop' was designed to allow the Arthur Murray
students to dance with multiple partners. The women lined up, the men came past
and took the first woman for a circuit, then came back for the next one.

Milla was intensely aware of Becker. Aware of his presence,
his dancing ability, his gallantry. And of everything she knew about him. She
tried not to look at him.

The timing of the first bus stop ensured that she didn't
dance with him. Twenty minutes later, halfway through the second, she was at
the front of the row. He approached her, that photo smile on his face, fine
perspiration below the hairline of his brush cut, a small bow and then they
were dancing and he said, 'I'm Lukas.'

'Milla,' but it came out too quietly. She was weak with
nerves, and struggled with the dance.

'Millie?' He was a head taller than her, looking down at her.

'Milla.'

'Milla,' he repeated it, as if he wanted to remember it.

She smelled him. She realised she wasn't dancing well. 'I'm
still learning,' she said, apologetic and shy.

'Me too.'

That was the sum total of their first conversation.

'And now, an American line dance,'
said the announcer.

Milla hadn't learned it yet. She
remained sitting. The music began to play. 'Cotton Eye Joe', country music. She
saw Lukas Becker standing in one of the rows with his back to her.

She watched him, saw he was a bit
rusty, made a couple of errors. And then it was as if he began to remember, and
he danced with more abandon, with pleasure, carefree, near exuberance.

She could recall his scent.

At the end of the line dance he
caught her eye and smiled at her.

She looked away quickly.

Photostatic record:
Diary of Milla Strachan

Date of entry:
2
October 2009

Should I report it?
What would I say to Mrs Killian? You'll never believe who came waltzing into
the Friday night social?

And then? Then they
would send people around to talk to the Arthur Murray studio, like they talked
to Christo before? No thank you.

Ten to one I will never see him again in my life.

3
October 2009. Saturday.

Crazy Mamma's Pizzeria and Restaurant
in Walvis Bay is a cheerful place on a Saturday night, packed and noisy.

Reinhard Rohn walked in and saw the
woman sitting at the long counter at the back of the restaurant. There wasn't a
chair vacant near her, so at first he found a place at a table.

He ordered a beer and a pizza,
keeping a careful eye on her. She didn't look any better than her photo, late
forties, slightly overweight, the hairstyle not flattering.

But she was alone.

Later a chair beside her became
available.

He stood up, took his second beer and
the half-eaten pizza along.

'May I sit here?' he asked her.

'Be my guest.' Eyes summed him up, a
reflex, without much interest. She had finished eating, was drinking something
with Coke.

He sat down and ate.

She looked the other way.

'Good pizza,' he said.

At first she didn't realise he was
talking to her. 'Oh ...
Ja.'

'I usually eat pizza at La Dolce
Vita, in Windhoek, in the Kaiser Krone Centre ...'

She shook her head to say she wasn't
familiar with it, and evaluated him with more focus.

He pointed at the pizza in front of
him. 'This is just as good.' 'You're from Windhoek?' she asked.

'Ja.
Here on
business. And you?'

'Been here nine years already.'

'Oh? What do you do?'

'I work for a fishing company. Head
of Admin.'

4
October 2009. Sunday.

In the morning Milla Strachan sat at
the small writing table in her bedroom, in front of her laptop. She had
Microsoft Word open. She typed, a new title page:

At Forty

By Milla Strachan

She inserted a page break, then wrote:
Chapter 1

And underneath, the first two sentences of her latest
attempt, which she had pondered over for a long time - and still wasn't sure if
it would work.

Hannelie,
older and wiser, had often warned me: everything changes at forty. I didn't
believe her.

The head of Admin for Consolidated
Fisheries phoned Reinhard Rohn after eleven in the morning. He took the call in
his room in the Protea Hotel.

'It's Ansie.'

'Good morning.'

'What are you doing?'

'I'm sitting here working. And you?'

'I'm lying here remembering.'

'And what do you remember?'

'Everything.'

'You're a naughty girl.'

'And when will this naughty girl see you again?'

'What's
the naughty girl doing tonight?'

5 October 2009. Monday.

Janina Mentz's agenda for the day was peace. She walked into
Advocate Tau Masilo's office, sat down opposite him with a sense of purpose and
asked: 'What would you have done if you were in my position?'

He betrayed no surprise. 'I would have done everything in my
power to scuttle this terrorist act, even if it meant the amalgamation of the
PIA. I would have had understanding of and appreciation for the work my people
did.'

'Would you have considered searching for a solution that
would prevent the terrorism and ensure our future?'

'Of course ...'

In a soft voice she played her trump card. 'The Minister
announced this afternoon that the FIFA visit of October 12 would coincide with
a massive security exercise, to test the readiness of the SAPS, the Metro
police and certain elements of the Defence Force. He would request the public
to be patient in this regard as there would be extensive roadblocks and the
closing of certain routes could cause delays.'

Masilo tried to hide his relief. 'Thank you,' he said.

'For the record, Tau, I have great appreciation for the
enthusiasm and dedication of our personnel. But if it does not produce the
desired result, it is my duty and responsibility to say so. That is the most unpleasant
part of my job, but I do it with the same vigour and dedication.'

Masilo sank slowly back in his chair.

'Tau, I need you. I rely heavily on you. We may differ in our
opinions, but we must trust each other, in order to carry out our respective duties.'

He nodded. 'You're right.'

'Would you consider sitting at my table again?'

During her dance class at seven o'clock, something inside
Milla broke loose.

Maybe it was because she was late and distracted, didn't have
time to think, and just started dancing. Maybe it was that two months of dance
classes, theory, practice, determination and desire, eventually came together,
so that she moved without thinking, the music took control of her. And Mr
Soderstrom, her instructor, had the insight not to say anything before the end,
didn't make her do school steps, didn't give her pause to breath, or think.

Only once the hour was over, did he say: 'Miss Strachan, that
was magnificent.'

Milla, with the bloom of exertion and pleasure on her cheeks,
suddenly realised what she had achieved. 'It was,' she said. Emotion welled up
in her, euphoria. 'Thank you,' she added, 'do I say that enough?'

She took off her dance shoes, said goodbye, picked up her
handbag and walked out with an energetic bounce, the bag swinging gaily, down
the steps, through the banking corridor, out, the evening quiet and lovely. She
walked across the access road to her Renault.

Someone called her name.

She turned her head, her heart still light and full.

Lukas Becker walked across the tarmac towards her.

A laugh seemed to bubble up inside Milla, the knowledge that
this meeting was meant to be and that it was good and right, and she said,
'Hello,' and waited.

'I was just on my way to Woollies, and I saw you go in ...'

She just stood there smiling.

'So I decided to ambush you, in the hope that you would come
out thirsty, tired and vulnerable,' with enough caution
and
courage in his tone.

'You waited a whole hour for me?'

'Actually only the last ten minutes. There against the
pillar.' Boyishly embarrassed. Then he laughed.

She laughed with him. 'I am very thirsty. And a little bit
vulnerable.'

Photostatic record:
Diary of Milla Strachan

Date of entry:
5 October 2009

Dear Jessica

You
once asked me if I have ever lived dangerously. Tonight I did. A little. And it
was good.

In the Thai restaurant in Main Street, just a block away from
Arthur Murray, they sat on the balcony.