Trackers (39 page)

'What do you do?' he asked her.

'I allow stalkers to buy me mineral water and sushi.'

'Touche. What line of work are you in?'

'I'm a professional journalist. I work for the Government
Department of Communication, for a newspaper called
News This Week.
If I resign tomorrow, the government will collapse. And
you?'

'I've been overseas. For about thirteen years.'

'What were you doing over there?'

'The first seven years, archaeological digs. From 2005 I was
in Iraq. Small boat training on the Euphrates. For the Iraqi government.'

'When did you come back?'

'About three weeks ago.'

'Why?'

'It's a long story.'

'Then
we had better order sushi.'

Photostatic record:
Diary of Milla Strachan

Date of entry:
5
October 2009

He was genuine. Honest. And so very at ease with himself,
with me, with the waitress (he called her 'ousus', and the wine waiter
'ouboet'), he didn't try to impress anyone, he didn't try to be overly clever
or serious, he talked easily about himself and he showed an easy interest in
me. i like his voice.

I
gave him my cellphone number.

'I came back to buy a farm.' 'In the Cape?'

'No. In the Free State. Between
Philippolis and Springfontein.' 'Why there?'

'That's more
or less where I come from - and it's a pretty farm. It's the landscape I love.
The South West Free State, grass veld and hills, thorny thickets, a stream with
willows ...' '

But what are
you doing in the Cape?'

'You
are
an
inquisitive woman.'

'That's what
my father taught me: if a man is stalking you, find out as much about him as
you can.'

'Your father
is a smart man. I'm in the Cape to retrieve some money that someone ...
borrowed from me. I need it to pay for the farm.'

'Is that why
you went to work overseas? So you could buy a farm?'

'That was one of the reasons.'

6 October 2009. Tuesday.

Milla slid her identity card through
the slot of the security door, listened to the click of the lock, and went in.
She looked up at the CCTV camera in the corner, and felt a prickle of guilt.

If these
people only knew...

For just a
second she considered the possibility that someone might have seen them last
night. Her heart began to race, it made her suddenly aware of the few people in
the corridors, on their way to the office. She searched for signs of interest,
or disapproval, from her colleagues as well.

They greeted
her with the usual rituals.

'Good
morning,' said Mac, his nose pressed to his computer screen. Oom Theunie looked
up from cleaning his pipe and smiled at her. 'Carmen. You look particularly
lovely this morning.'

And Jessica
was late. Like every morning.

Milla
gradually relaxed.

Maybe the
profile was all they wanted. Maybe Lukas Becker had been forgotten already.

Quinn didn't recognise her in the photo because the light was
poor: Becker and the woman on the restaurant balcony at night.

It was only once he had read the report of the surveillance
team, the registration details of the white Renault Megane, that he saw the
name. Milla Strachan. It sounded familiar.

He had to think hard to place the name: at the top of a few
recent PIA reports, if he remembered correctly.

He looked it up on the computer, saw it was indeed the same
name as the new woman on the Report Squad. Coincidence, he thought? It wasn't a
common name, he had better make sure. Wouldn't that be something, wouldn't that
let the fox into the hen house?

He called up the PIA personnel record of Milla Strachan, and
the car and colour and registration number were identical. He looked at the
head-and-shoulders picture, compared it to the woman on the balcony of the
restaurant.

It was her.

He asked the database to display the reports that she had
worked on.

Lukas Becker's was the most recent.

Quinn didn't say anything, just blew through his teeth, a
hiss of astonishment, and a kind of amazement at fate, which just would not
leave Operation Shawwal alone.

'Quinn called in the surveillance team and interrogated them
thoroughly,' Tau Masilo said to Mentz. 'They say Becker waited for her,
outside the shopping centre. There was a gymnasium and a dance studio, she could
have been at either of the two. When she came out at 20.00, he began talking to
her. Then they walked to the restaurant where they ate and talked until 22.40.
After that he went back to the guest house. There weren't enough men to follow
her.'

Janina Mentz sat and stared at the opposite wall for such a
long time that Masilo said: 'Ma'am ... ?'

She got up swiftly, angrily, walked around her desk and sat
down at her computer, did something with the mouse. She looked intently at the
screen. Masilo saw a blush slowly spread across her face.

She looked at him. 'CIA,' she said, as though the word were a
curse.

Masilo,
trying to keep up, admitted defeat. 'I don't understand.'

'Did you read his profile? He works for the damn CIA.'

Masilo recalled Becker's conversations with Inkunzi Shabangu,
how he had been looking for his money after a hijacking. 'I'm not sure I
agree.'

'Put it all together, Tau. What do Becker and America have in
common?'

He tried to remember what was in the reports, but she
answered the question herself. 'Israel, Egypt, Jordan, Iran, Turkey. And now
Iraq. Doesn't that tell you something?'

'CIA hotspots ...'

She shook her head, picked up the photograph, the one of
Becker and Milla on the balcony. 'Look at her, Tau. Look at the way she looks
at him.' The Deputy Director sank slowly back into his chair. 'I am very, very
disappointed in her.'

Masilo and Quinn were behind the closed door of the
Advocate's office.

'Did you discuss the Strachan event with anyone?' the
Advocate asked.

'Only the surveillance team.'

'Is there a dossier? Anything on the system?'

'Not yet.'

Masilo nodded in relief. 'Keep it that way. Quinn, this is a
very sensitive issue. There is a strong possibility that he targeted her. That
he isn't who we think he is.'

Quinn considered that. 'I would be surprised ...'

'We can't afford to make a mistake. The damage to the
Operation, the damage to the Agency's reputation ...'

He looked at Quinn, made sure it all sank in.

'The Director's orders are most specific. Nothing on the
system. Keep everything in your drawer. Strachan's name is not to be mentioned
anywhere. From now on she will be known to us as "Miss Jenny". That
is how all those involved will refer to her, that is the name that will be on
all instructions to other departments. From now on we drastically limit the
number of people who know - the Director, me, you, and a small task team that
you will put together immediately. A few operators you trust, Quinn, three or
four people with good judgement. Hand-picked. They must do the monitoring,
write the reports. Manually.'

'I understand.'

'We want her flat searched, we need microphones in every room.
Today. And only your task team listening in. And we want to know exactly what
she looks at on her computer, what material she requests here, digitally, or
hard copy. And we want to listen to her cellphone conversations.'

'Visual monitoring and tracking?'

'No. Keep the focus on Becker. And speaking of him: we want
you to trace the two Shabangu henchmen that Becker worked with ...' Masilo
consulted his notes. 'According to the transcripts Becker told Shabangu,
I have one of them here. He says his name is Enoch
Mangope, the one with the white eye. He says he works for you.
And the
other one's name is Kenosi, that's all we have. Find them, Quinn, we want to
know exactly what Becker said to them. Any questions?'

'No.'

'The next order is for Rohn in Walvis Bay. He will have to
exploit his resource ...'

'It might be too soon.'

'We don't have a choice. Seven days to go, Quinn. We don't
have more time.'

'I'll tell him.'

'That is all, thanks.'

Quinn stood up and walked to the door, where he stopped. 'Why
"Miss Jenny"?'

'It was the Director's idea. Apparently someone who spied on
the Americans. A long time ago.'

Quinn frowned.

'You'll figure it out,' said Masilo.

Mountain Street in Newlands was rich in trees, big houses,
high walls.

The operators who were watching Shaheed Latif Osman, did it
from a vacant bedroom on the top floor of number twelve, with the permission
of the mostly absentee owner. It wasn't the ideal vantage point, because
Osman's house was diagonally opposite, down the street, so that they could see
the entrance, part of the driveway, the garage, a piece of lawn and the front
door, just. But it was all they could get.

Just after nine they saw the white Toyota Yaris stop in front
of the entrance. The operator swivelled the powerful binoculars on the tripod
and focused on it.

He saw Becker get out and walk to the gate, where the
intercom was mounted on a shiny steel stand. Becker pressed a button. Waited.

Bent down to talk into the intercom. Straightened up again,
looked through the gate.

The operator swung the binoculars at the front door. Seconds
ticked by. Then it opened. Shaheed Latif Osman came out wearing his Muslim
robe, walked to the gate. With an attitude.

He said something to Becker, stopped in front of the gate,
but did not open it.

Becker talked back.

Osman shook his head.

Becker spoke again.

Osman said something, his body language aggressive.

Becker spoke.

Osman made a gesture with his arm that said Becker should go.

Becker said something again.

Osman turned and walked back to the front door. On the
threshold he turned, called out something, went in and shut the door.

Swivelled the binoculars back to Becker. The man stood still
a moment more, then walked to his car.

The operator swore he could see a smile.

The search team unlocked the door to Milla's flat at 14.03.
They were skilled and experienced. First they took digital photos of every
room, of every cupboard and drawer. Then they began to search.

The one who found the diaries phoned Quinn. 'There are twenty-four
of them. They date back to 1986, it's going to take a long time.'

'Photograph the last... six months' pages. We can copy the
rest bit by bit. From tomorrow on.'

Only once the search team had finished, at 15.32, every room
arranged as the original photos depicted them, did the technicians arrive to
plant the microphones.

At 15 Chamberlain Street in Upper Woodstock, the members of
the Supreme Committee began to arrive.

The operator opposite immediately notified Quinn, and made
certain all the equipment was working.

She sat listening, without much hope, to the concrete
microphone in the base of the satellite dish.

To her surprise, at 15.59, she heard the voice of Shaheed
Latif Osman, indignant: 'He said Shabangu told him I've got his money.
Tweetybird or me.'

'Take it easy, Shaheed, your heart... Did you get the car's
number?' the Sheikh, Suleiman Dolly, asked.

'I did.'

'Let's go and talk down below.'

He phoned her after six.

She was sitting in front of the laptop in her bedroom, thinking
of working on the book.

She didn't recognise the number. 'Milla,' she said, careful.

'The chips at Fisherman's Choice are always golden brown,
crisp and very hot and fresh, the hake just melt-in-your-mouth. And it's a
lovely evening.'

'What would a Free Stater know about hake that
melts-in-your-mouth?' 'Absolutely nothing, I had hoped my winged words, my
poetic touch would be irresistible.'