Trackers (42 page)

'They have parked. They are going to walk up the mountain.
What shall we do?' the operator asked.

Quinn considered the risks. 'Stay with the car, let's not
take chances.'

'OK,' said the operator, thankful.

It was
the third night that Becker had taken her somewhere public, out in the open,
thought Quinn. Was he avoiding the flat? Did he suspect anything, that it might
be tapped?

They leaned against each other on a rock, each holding a
glass of champagne, the food laid out in front of them. The moon was a silver
coin above, Sea Point and Green Point spread out in front of them, the city to
the right, the N1 a worm of light creeping to the dark Hottentots Holland
mountains. There were other people with them on the crest, small groups that,
like them, spoke in muted tones.

He told her about the article in
Die Burger
, that morning, about the British scientist who believed that
mankind had reached the end of the evolutionary road, because there was no more
real natural selection. He said it was an interesting point of view, but not
one he fully agreed with.

Then he stopped talking and she wanted to ask him about his
day, what he had done, but he shifted away from her and said, 'Milla, there is
something I need to tell you.'

She saw how solemn he was. 'What?'
and reached for her cigarettes.

'I have to be careful how I say this, Milla, because I need
to get it right. I owe you that.'

'Just say it,' she said, suddenly worried about implications
of the word 'owe'.

He saw her discomfort and put out his hand to her, then let
it drop as though he had changed his mind.

'I went to draw money in Durbanville. I saw the sign for the
dance school. It's been five years since I last danced. I went to enquire and
they said there was a social, and I was welcome to come as a guest. And then I
saw you. And I danced with you. When I sat down, I thought... I wanted to dance
with you some more. So, on Monday, when I saw you, purely by chance ...'

'Why didn't you?' She suddenly understood, he wanted to back
off. Now. After he had slept with her. She couldn't keep the distaste out of
her voice.

'What do you mean?'

'Why didn't you dance with me again
on Friday?'

'That's what I wanted to explain to you. My circumstances
were not good ...'

'Circumstances? What circumstances?' She felt anger now at
his betrayal, his lame excuse.

He weighed his words. 'I see you misunderstand me. I don't
want to stop seeing you. I can't stop seeing you. It's the timing, Milla ...
It's because of these people that owe me money. It would be better if I didn't
see you for the next few days, and I want you to understand why. I don't want
to expose you to any danger.'

'It would be better ...? What
danger?'

'Can I tell you the story, from the
beginning?'

She looked at him, then at the pack of cigarettes she was
still holding in her hand. She took one out, lit it, drew deeply and exhaled
slowly. 'Tell me,' she said.

'Will you bear with me until I'm
finished?'

She nodded.

He put down his glass of champagne. 'Over the past few years,
I tried to spread my investments, not to have all the eggs in one basket. One
of my investments was with Northern Rock, the British bank that landed in
trouble with the credit crunch last year. When that happened ... I took a
flight to London, and I withdrew the full amount, because I wanted to wait and
see. So I had all this cash, and in Iraq ... all I could do was lock it away.
Until I landed here three weeks ago. With the money in my rucksack. That was my
first mistake. Then I made another one. In Johannesburg. I hired an expensive
car at Oliver Tambo Airport. I didn't plan to, it was a spur of the moment
thing, they offered me an upgrade and the roads of the Free State lay ahead. So
I took a Mercedes SL and drove to Sandton to find a hotel, to get some sleep. I
was hijacked. Four guys with guns, there was nothing I could do. The money was
in my rucksack, in the back. I asked them if I could take my baggage out...'

'So they stole the money?' The question burst out
involuntarily, she saw him smile at the interruption. 'Sorry,' she said.

'Yes. They stole the money. Forty thousand pounds sterling.
Half a million rand.'

Milla caught her breath, she suppressed her words with
difficulty.

'It was an interesting experience,' he said, 'to see them
drive away. I ran after them, for a few hundred metres ...'

Milla looked at him, in wonderment now. Her heart had slowed
down a bit.

'In any case, I reported the hijacking, waited a day or two
... No, let me backtrack a bit first, please be patient, this part is
important... for us. I want to explain to you why I have to do certain things.
It comes partly from my childhood, from my mother's illness, my father's helplessness,
neither one of them had control, Milla, circumstances overwhelmed them. I
remember how I experienced a sort of revelation at fifteen, that I didn't want
to live like that. That I could only truly rely on myself, with the ... absence
of both of them. At university I read Voltaire, where he said you can't choose
the cards life deals you. But it is
your
choice how you play them. If you want to win. I made up my mind then, Milla. To
decide my own fate ...'

She nodded, because she understood.

'When they stole the money ... I realised the police in
Sandton were dealing with two or three hijackings a day, they don't have enough
manpower, too much other crime ... and even if they caught the men, there was
little chance of getting the money back. I had to have the money to pay for the
farm, otherwise the sale would fall through. So I decided I would have to get
the money back myself. The first problem was to track down the hijacker. One of
them had a serious eye defect, a white discolouration of the cornea. I knew if
I described him to the right people ... It took a few days, I asked around, I
paid people for information, until I found him. And then, another day before
he told me who he worked for. And then I began negotiating with the boss,
Julius Shabangu ...'

It was the name that shocked Milla,
because she knew it.

'... and the trail of my money led me to Cape Town, that is
why I am here. The trouble is these are difficult people, syndicates and
organised crime in Johannesburg, and PAGAD here in the Cape, I suspect.
Yesterday ... I think someone is following me. That's why I want to get this
thing sorted first. But I promise you, when I'm finished, I will come back ...'

'Wait,' she said. 'Tell the police. Now that you know who has
your money.'

'Shabangu
is dead, Milla. He was shot last week in his house. If I go and tell the police
that it was he that.. .You
do
understand?'

The realisation of her own dishonesty dawned slowly on Milla,
a dark stream flowing through her, pressure building up; she must tell him that
she knew about Shabangu, PAGAD, organised crime, and more - of the PIA profile
on him that she now began to vaguely understand.

But she couldn't, she would lose him.

The evil that lay just beneath the surface of her world
reached out now and touched her. She tried to force it back. She offered to
lend him the money. She tried to argue, tried to convince him that there would
be other farms, it was only money, it wasn't worth it. But he just shook his
head and reassured her and touched her gently saying, don't worry. He knew what
he was doing.

Finally, just before they had to go back, he put both hands
on her shoulders and said: 'Milla, I'm going to play this hand. I can't walk
away from this. That is not who I am.'

They walked down Lion's Head in silence, her heart heavy.

When they stopped in front of her flat she said: 'Stay with
me tonight.'

Half an hour after they went in through the gate, Quinn saw
Milla Strachan's bedroom light go on.

He stood up. 'Looks like he's going to stay. I'm on my way.'
'Sleep well,' said the female operator.

'If he moves, call me.'

'I will.'

They lay in her bed just before midnight, his arms around
her. She thought through everything. She compared Lukas Becker to her
ex-husband, thought about her struggle to direct her life, to gain control of
her destiny.

'Are you still awake?' she whispered at last. 'I am.'

'I understand who you are. And I don't want you any other
way.'

9 October 2009. Friday.

She slept fitfully, so terribly aware of him lying next to
her.

Some time after four she woke when he moved, she heard him
get up quietly and go to the bathroom. Then to the kitchen.

He spent some time there.

She heard him come back, get dressed. She felt the light kiss
on her cheek. Silence, a rustle beside the bed, before she heard his soft footsteps
leave the room.

The front door opened, and shut.

She lay there for another second, then leaped up and ran to
the window. She wanted to see him. She pulled the curtain aside, her eyes on
the security gate below.

He emerged from it, rucksack over his shoulders, and walked
purposefully down the quiet street without looking back. His pace accelerated,
he disappeared around the corner. She stood there until emotion overwhelmed
her. She had to lie down again.

She saw the letter on her bedside cupboard.

Her
name was written on the white envelope. She opened it.

Dear Milla

My head tells me it's too early to
say I love you, but my heart speaks another language. There is a cellphone
number below, in case of an emergency.

Lukas

She
read it three times. Then, knowing she would not be able to sleep, she sat down
at her writing table and reached for her diary. She began to write.

The
female operator saw Becker emerge from the security gate. Her drowsiness
vanished. She grabbed the radio, spoke urgently to the three teams: 'Becker is
on the move, he's out of the gate, walking in a westerly direction towards
Highlands Avenue.'

Silence.

'Are you there?'

It took a while before someone answered, a voice still croaky
with sleep, with a rushed 'We see him.'

'He's beyond my field of vision, tell me where he's going.'

'He's coming down Highlands, towards the city.'

'Don't lose him.'

'He'll see us. It's as quiet as the grave, nobody's moving,
just him.'

'No, he mustn't see you.'

'Now he's running. He's fucking running.'

At 05.19 the female operator phoned Quinn.

She could hear by the sounds that he was fumbling with the
phone. 'Just hold on,' he said in a muted tone. She heard his breathing, then:
'Any news?'

'We lost him.' Businesslike. She knew there was no way to
soften it. A long silence, then the barely audible sigh. 'Where?'

'In the Company Gardens. There were too many exits. They're
still looking, but I don't think they'll find him.'

'Did he see us?'

'We think so, sir. That was part of the problem.'

Quinn took it all in. 'I'm coming.'

Masilo presented the mitigating circumstances; the hour of
the night, the silent streets, the fact that he was on foot and must have
realised he was being followed.

Mentz was remarkably calm through it all. 'Does it really
matter? Now the CIA knows we know about him?'

'Probably not. What bothers me, is why he was still so eager
to shake off our tails.'

'The Americans have their own agenda.'

'Which I cannot fathom. I went through all the transcripts
and reports again and, in my mind, there is only one scenario that fits.'

'And that is?'

The Advocate referred to his notes. 'Their records show that
Becker flew from Baghdad to London on 12 September, and the same evening to
Johannesburg, where he landed on the morning of 13 September. The SAPS file
says his hired car was hijacked just before nine o'clock that same morning in
Sandton. He phoned Bull Shabangu for the first time on 18 September, and asked
for his money. That was the only subject of all their conversations. And we
have a recording from 6 October, when Osman told Suleiman Dolly in Chamberlain
Street that "Shabangu told him I've got his money. Tweetybird or me."
Now, let's assume the hijacking was genuine. And let us examine the manner of
his contact with Shabangu and Osman. There is only one conclusion we can draw.
There was something in that hijacked car. Something that Becker and the CIA
want back very badly. And it's not money.'