Thirteen Hours (32 page)

On the sixteenth floor of the apartment block, the man with
the trimmed grey beard stood etched against the bright city panorama, his hands
behind his back.

In front of him were the six young men. They looked at him,
not intimidated, expectant. Three black, three white, united by their youth,
leanness and fearlessness.

'Mistakes have been made,' the man said in English, but with
a distinctive accent.

'Learn from them. I am taking charge now. This is not a vote
of no confidence. See it as an opportunity to learn.'

One or two nodded slightly; they knew he didn't like
emotional display.

'Time is our enemy. So I shall keep it short. Our friend in
Metro will provide a suitable vehicle, a panel van that has been unclaimed in
the pound in Green Point for four months. Go and get it; Oerson is waiting at
the gate. Leave the bus in the parkade of the Victoria Junction Hotel.'

He picked up a shiny metal case from the floor and put it on
the table in front of him.

He looked at one of the young men. 'The Taurus?'

'Underwater in the harbour.'

'Good.' The greybeard undipped the case and swivelled it
around for all to see. 'Four Stechkin APSs, the APB model. The B stands for
Bes-shumniy
, the Russian word for
"quiet", because the barrel is bored out for low velocity and, as you
can see, they come with a silencer. These weapons are thirty- five years old,
but they are the most reliable automatic pistols on the planet. Nine millimetre,
twenty in the magazine; the ammunition is less than six months old. The
silencers don't mean that the weapon is completely silent. It makes a sound
equal to an unsilenced point-two-two pistol; enough to attract attention, which
we do not want. Only use it in an emergency. Is that clear?'

Everyone nodded this time, greedy eyes on the guns.

'Much more stopping power than the Taurus. Remember that. The
numbers have been filed off; they cannot be traced to us. Make sure you wear
gloves, and get rid of them if necessary.'

He waited another second to make sure there were no
questions. 'Very well. This is how we're going to do it.'

Inspector Fransman Dekker was on his way over to where
Natasha was sitting when the tall white man intercepted him.

'Are you from the police?'

'I am,' said Dekker. The face seemed familiar.

'I'm Ivan Nell,' he said with an inflection of the powerful
voice that said the name meant something.

'Weren't you on that TV show?'

'I was one of the mentors on
Superstars ...'

'You sing ...'

'That's right.'

'My wife watched
Superstars.
Pleased to meet you. You must excuse me - we're a little busy here this
morning,' said Dekker and began moving again.

'That's why I'm here,' said Nell. 'Because of Adam.'

Dekker stopped reluctantly. 'Yes?'

'I think I was the last person to see him alive.'

'Last night?' The singer had his full attention now.

Nell nodded. 'We were eating at Bizerca Bistro down near Pier
Place until ten o'clock.'

'And then?'

'Then I went home.'

'I see.' Dekker thought for a while. 'And Barnard?'

'I don't know where Adam went. But this morning when I heard
on the radio ...' Nell looked around at the people who were sitting too close
for his liking, at Natasha who had got up and come closer. 'Is there somewhere
we could talk?'

'What about?'

Nell came up close and spoke quietly: 'I think his death has
something to do with our conversation last night, I don't know ...'

'What did you talk about, Mr Nell?'

He looked uneasy. 'Can we talk somewhere else?' It was an
urgent whisper.

Dekker suppressed the impulse to sigh. 'Can you just give me
two minutes, please?'

'Of course. I just don't want you to think, you know ...'

'No, Mr Nell, I don't know,' said Fransman Dekker. He looked
at Natasha who was waiting patiently only steps away from them, then back at
Nell. 'Just give me a moment.'

'Of course.'

Benny Griessel was not good at sitting and waiting. So he
left the radio room, walked through the busy charge office and the security doors
out onto Buitenkant Street. His brain was busy and his courage was low. They
were not going to find her. He had fourteen patrol vehicles driving in a grid
pattern, and one was parked in Long Street with the men waiting at the Cat
& Moose. He had ten foot patrols, two of them searching the Company
Gardens. The helicopter had returned from Table View and covered the entire
bloody city. There was no sign of her.

Where could she be?

He walked to his car, unlocked it and took out the
Chesterfields from the cubbyhole, locked the door again and stood on the
pavement, holding the pack of cigarettes. What was he missing?

Was there something in the chaos of the morning that he had
missed? It was a familiar feeling. On the day a crime took place, there was so
much information, his head would be overflowing, the pieces unconnected and
crowding each other out. It took time, a night's sleep sometimes, for the
subconscious to sort and file, like a slow secretary working at her own
unhurried tempo.

He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips.

He was missing something ...

He slid the box of matches open.

The Field Marshal. Jeremy Oerson and the search for the
rucksack.

He began to walk hastily back along the pavement, putting the
matches in his trouser pocket, and the cigarettes back in the pack. He went
into the police station. Was that the only item knocking at the door of his
consciousness?

In the radio room he asked a uniformed policeman where he
could get a telephone directory.

'Charge office.'

Griessel fetched one, paging through it as he walked back.
The local government numbers were all right at the back. He found Metro and put
the book on the old government-issue table of dark wood, next to his maps,
notebook, pen and cell phone. He kept a finger on the number and phoned. Two
rings and a woman's voice said: 'Cape Town Metropolitan Police, good afternoon,
goeimiddag.'

'Jeremy Oerson, please.'

'Please hold,' she said and put him through. It rang for a
long time. A man answered.

'Metro.'

'Jeremy Oerson?'

'Jeremy is not here.'

'This is Insp ... Captain Benny Griessel, SAPS. Where can I
get hold of him, it's quite urgent?'

'Hold on ...' A hand was held over the receiver and muffled
words exchanged. 'He should be back soon. Do you want his cell phone number?'

'Please.' Griessel reached for his pen and book.

The man recited the number and Griessel wrote it down. He
rang off and phoned it. Oerson answered instantly.

'Jeremy.'

'Benny Griessel, SAPS. We talked this morning in Long
Street.'

'Yes.' A total lack of enthusiasm.

'Did you find anything?' 'Where?'

'In the city. The girl's rucksack. You were supposed to be
looking ...'

'Oh. Yes. No, there was nothing.'

Griessel was not impressed by his attitude. 'Can you tell me exactly
where you searched?'

'I'll have to check. I didn't do it myself. We
do
have work, you know ...'

'I thought that
was
your
work, fighting crime?'

'Your case isn't the only one we are working on.'

No, indeed, they had parking tickets to write, but he limited
himself to the subject at hand: 'And you are absolutely sure you found
nothing?'

'Nothing that belonged to the girl.'

'So you did find something?'

'The streets are full of stuff. There's a bag of junk in my
office, but there is no passport or a purse or anything that would belong to an
American woman.'

'How do you know?'

'Do you think I'm stupid?'

Jissis.
Griessel breathed deeply and slowly. 'No, I don't think
you're stupid. Where is the bag?'

Oerson waited before he answered. 'Where are you now?'

'No, tell me where your office is and I'll have it fetched.'

Natasha Abader unlocked Adam Barnard's office and said: 'I
will have to give you the password if you want to check his laptop.'

She went in and Dekker followed. There were large framed
photographs on the walls, Barnard and stars, one after the other, the men with
an arm around Barnard's shoulder, the women with an arm around Barnard's waist.
Every photo had a signature and a message in thick black marker. 'Thank you,
Adam!' 'Adam for president!!!' 'With love and thanks.' 'The star in my heaven.'
'You are my darling.' Hearts, crosses to represent kisses, music notes.

He looked at the desk on which, according to her personal
testimony, Melinda Geyser had been screwed. Apart from the laptop there was
nothing else on it. His imagination ran riot, Melinda lying on her back on the
wide wooden surface, stark naked, legs hooked over the shoulders of the
standing Barnard, her mouth open in ecstasy as Adam fucked her, the sounds
audible through the thin walls.

Dekker looked at Natasha guiltily. Her attention was on the
laptop, eyebrows raised in query.

'What?'

'Adam left his laptop on.'

Dekker walked around the desk and stood beside her. He could
smell her perfume. Subtle. Sexy. 'So?'

'He wouldn't usually do that. I switch it on when I come in,
so he ...'

The screensaver was on, the AfriSound logo like a small flag
fluttering. She moved the mouse, the screensaver disappeared, replaced by a
request for a password. Natasha bent down to type it in, her long nails
clicking on the keys and her neckline gaping. Dekker's view was good; he could
not look away. Her breasts were small, firm and perfect.

She stood up suddenly. His eyes slid away to the screen.
There were no programs open.

'I will have to look at his emails.'

She nodded and bent down again to work the mouse. Why
couldn't she sit down? Did she know he was looking?

'Where is his diary?'

'He used Outlook. Let me show you,' and she shifted the
mouse, clicking here and there. 'You can use Alt and Tab to change between
email and calendar,' she said, and then she moved away so he could sit down in
the large comfortable chair.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Can I ask you a few questions?'

She went over to the door. At first he thought she was ignoring
him, but she shut the door, came back and sat down opposite him. She looked him
full in the eyes.

'I know what you want to ask.'

'What?'

'You want to know whether Adam and
I...
you know . ..' 'Why would I want to ask
that?'

She shrugged dismissively. It was a sensual gesture, but he
suspected she was unconscious of that. She had a subdued air about her, sad.
'You're going to interview everyone,' she said.

Now he did want to know, but for another reason. 'Did you?'
His head was screaming, Fransman what are you doing? But he knew what he was
doing - looking for trouble and he could not stop himself.

'Yes.' She dropped her eyes.

'Here?' He gestured at the desk.

'Yes.'

Why had she given herself to a white man, a middle-aged white
man, when she was lovely enough for the cover of a magazine? He wanted to know
if that meant she was easy, accessible. To him.

'This morning I'm glad that I did,' she said.

'Because he's dead?'

'Yes.'

'There are stories about him ... and women.'

She did not respond.

'Did he force women?'

'No.' With an attitude that said she objected to the
question.

'Did you hear, yesterday? When Melinda was here?'

'Yes, I did.' Without blushing or averting her eyes.

'Do you know why he sent for her?'

'No. I only saw in the diary that she was coming.'

'But usually Josh is with her.'

Again the shrug.

'This is what I don't understand: there are three of you who
heard him ... "nailing her",' his fingers made quotation marks around
the words, 'a gospel artist in his office, and nobody thought it was strange.
What kind of place is this?'

That made her angry; he could read her body language, the way
she pulled her mouth, suddenly tight and sour.

'Come on, sister, think how it looks.'