Thirteen Hours (37 page)

'Bill!' she shouted, her voice shrill and frightened.

He came running and she hurried to the phone.

Rachel Anderson sat at the table where Piet van der
Lingen's laptop and a myriad reference books and papers were strewn across the table.
In her ear the phone kept ringing on another continent - far too long, she
thought, what was her father doing?

'Rachel?' Her mother said suddenly, anxious and out of
breath.

'Mom!' Rachel was caught off guard, expecting her
father's calm.

'Oh, my God, Rachel, where are you, are you all
right?' She could hear the underlying hysteria and fear.

'Mom, I'm fine, I'm with a very kind man, I'm safe for
now ...'

'Oh, thank God, thank God. We've spoken to the police
over there, we've spoken to the Ambassador and the Congressman, it's going to
be all right, Rachel. Everything's going to be ... Bill, she's safe, she's with
somebody, a kind man, Rachel, this is such wonderful news, I love you honey, do
you hear me, I love you so very much.'

'I love you too, Mom ...'

'Now, I'm going to put your father on, listen very
carefully, he's going to give you a number to call. Promise me you will do
exactly what he says, Rachel, please.'

'I promise, Mom. I'm OK, I know this must have been
really tough for you ...'

'Don't you worry about us, we are going to take care
of all this, honey, it's so great to hear your voice, I can't believe it,
here's your father, I love you, you hear, I love you very much.'

'Love you too,' said Rachel Anderson, and smiled
through the sudden tears of longing and gratitude. Her father came on the line:
'Honey? You're OK?'

'Yes, Dad, I'm OK, I'm with a very kind gentleman, I'm
sitting in his house, I'm perfectly safe.'

'I can't begin to tell you what a great relief that
is, honey, that's really great news.' Her father's voice was calm. 'We've been
pretty busy on this side, trying to get you help, I've spoken to the Consul
General in Cape Town, they are standing by, I'm going to give you their number,
but first, I'm going to give you the number of a police Captain. Now, I know
you said something about the police when you last called, but this man was
recommended by their top structure, and I spoke to him personally. He's in
charge of your case, and he gave me his word that he'll make sure you are safe,
OK?'

'Are you sure?'

    'Absolutely, even their Secretary
of ... their Police Minister knows about you, the Consul General is talking to
them, so this is very high level, nothing can happen to you. So can you take
down the numbers?'

She looked across the desk and spotted the end of a
yellow pencil under a printed document, pulled it out and turned over one of
the typed sheets.

'I'm ready,' she said with determination and
inexpressible relief. The nightmare was nearly over.

Mbali Kaleni parked on the Parade. In bright sunlight
she walked down the alley of flower sellers, past the old post office, between
stalls selling anything from shoes to packets of nuts. For a second she
contemplated buying some candy-coated cashews, but reconsidered, she wanted to
get to Upper Orange quickly. She just wanted to go back to that house ...

She walked faster, swinging her big, black handbag
with every stride.

'Just explain one thing to me,' said Griessel to
Oliver Sands. He was standing: Oliver sat at the table wide-eyed, as though the
attention was too much for him to handle.

'Why did the girls bring backpacks with them to the
club?'

'Those bags ...' Sands said. 'They never went anywhere
without them. It's a girl thing, I think. You know, make-up and stuff...'

Griessel considered the bag that Oerson had brought.
Small and compact. That made sense. He would have to sort through the plastic
refuse bag, but not here. He would have to go back to Caledon Square.

'Jeremy speaking,' Oerson answered his phone and
Fransman Dekker could tell he was a coloured man, and he was probably in a car.

'Bro', my name Fransman Dekker, I'm SAPS, howzit that
side?' he said, because Griessel had warned him the Metro officer was a
'difficult character'.

'No, things going with springs, and you?'

'Just so, bro', listen, there was a helluva surprise
in that bag of stuff your people found, a shoe, number ten and a half, if I can
just find out where it was picked up.'

'No idea, bro', but I'll get the men to come in and
tell me.'

'Many thanks, it's a murder case, I have to run, you
know how it goes.'

'I know. Give me ten minutes, I'm sort of tied up at
the moment.'

'Will you call me?'

'Daatlik
, bro'.'

Dekker rang off and knocked on the door of the
accountant, Wouter Steenkamp. There was no answer so he opened the door.
Steenkamp was on the phone, saying:'... fucking police will have to help, or
I'll have to make another plan.' He saw Dekker and said over the phone 'Hold
on,' then to Dekker: 'The press are blocking reception. You'll have to help control
them.'

'OK.'

'They'll help,' he said into the phone. 'Right, bye.'
He looked at Dekker expectantly.

'I will go and tell them to wait outside. It would be
best to lock the front door.'

'What a mess,' said Steenkamp.

'Just wait here, we need to talk some more,' said
Dekker.

'Now what?'

'New information,' said Dekker before leaving to go
and manage the media. 'There are some who say you are cheating them.'

'Your people can go,' Vusi said to Galina Federova.

'So, you will not arrest anybody.' She was sarcastic,
cigarette between her fingers.

'No. They've been a big help.'

Griessel thought Vusi was too polite; he should tell
the fucking foreigner he would throw her ass in jail if she wanted to be funny.
He realised his patience was worn thin. He had to get out of here, away from
the smell of alcohol and the sight of bottles. The fucking thirst was just
below the surface. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to do next. They
knew the girls had been here, they knew there had been discussions and
arguments. They knew two men had left shortly after the girls and they knew
there had been a chase down Long Street, but all of that helped fuck all,
because it could not tell them where she was. And then his cell phone rang and
he plucked it out angrily and said: 'Benny Griessel.'

'I've been to see Alexa Barnard, Benny,' Doc
Barkhuizen said.

'Is she OK, Doc?'

'She's pumped full of medication, but you know what
lies ahead for her. She's a strong woman, Benny. Beautiful too. I can see why
you're so concerned about her.'

'Fuck off, Doc.' As Doc Barkhuizen chuckled on the
other end, he heard the beep of another incoming call.

'She said when you have a chance, she would like to
talk to you. Something to do with her husband.'

'Doc, I've got another call, it's a bit crazy right
now, thanks for going to see her. We'll talk later,' he said and accepted the
other call.

Griessel said his name and a woman with an American accent
asked: 'Is that Captain Benny Ghree-zil?' He thought, wasn't that what I just
fucking said, but he answered civilly: 'Yes.'

'My name is Rachel Anderson. My dad said I should call
you.'

The name burned right through him, through the
disappointment over Mat Joubert, through the frustrations of the day and the
desire to drink, jolting his body as he said: '
Jissis.'
Then 'Yes, yes, are you safe,
where are you?' Adrenaline and relief washed through him, he took two steps to
Vusi's shoulder and put an urgent hand on it. His black colleague looked around
and he said: 'Rachel Anderson,' and pointed at the phone. Vusi's whole face lit
up.

'Yes, I'm with a Mr Pete van der Liengen, the address
is ...' Griessel heard a man speaking in the background. Then Rachel's voice
again:'... Number six Upper Orange Street... In Orainisiegh?'

'Yes, yes, Oranjezicht, Six Upper Orange, just stay
there, I'm on my way, don't open the door for anybody, I will call when I get
there, please, Miss Anderson,' he pleaded. Dear God, this was good news.
Griessel gestured to Vusi that they must go, jogged out the door and headed for
the alley, faster and faster, hearing Vusi's shoes on the floor behind him.

'I'm not going anywhere,' said Rachel Anderson, and
her voice sounded cheerful, as if she was looking forward to his arrival and
Benny was out the back door, into the alley and running as fast as he could.

Barry stood on the back of his bakkie and watched the
driver of the delivery vehicle get in and start the engine. He looked to the right
where the upright, bold silver Peugeot Boxer panel van stood waiting. His phone
was ready in his sweaty hand. He pressed the call button and held it up to his
ear.

'Yes?' said the man with the grey beard.

'The truck is leaving.'

'Good. Can you see the panel van?'

Barry looked at the dirty, dusty Peugeot. 'Yes,
they're moving.'

'Jay is going to call Eben, they will cover the back
door. Then he'll turn the van around and come back to the front gate in Upper
Orange, so the nose is pointing towards the city. When they get out and go
through the front gate, you tell me.'

'Right. Stand by.'

Piet van der Lingen stood next to his big work table.
'The police are on their way,' she said, 'Captain Benny Ghree-zil.' The old man
witnessed a transformation - her eyes brightened and the tension melted away.
He smiled at her with his white false teeth and said: 'We will have to teach
you proper Afrikaans pronunciation - it's Griessel.' 'Gggg ...' she tried it,
sounding as though she was clearing phlegm from her throat.

'That's it,' he said. 'And roll the "r" as
well. G-riessel.'

'Ghe-riessel.'

'Almost. Ggg-rrriessel.'

'Griessel.'

'Very good.' They laughed together. She said: 'How
will I ever be able to thank you?'

'For what? For brightening an old man's day?'

'For saving my life,' she said.

'Well, when you put it that way ... I demand that you
come and have lunch again, before you go home.'

'I would love to ...'

She saw him look up and away, at the window, with
sudden concern shadowing his face. Her eyes followed his and she saw them, four
men coming up the garden path. 'Oh, my God.' she said because she knew them.
She got up from the chair. 'Don't open the door!'The fear was back in her
voice. 'They want to kill me - they killed my friend last night!' She ran a few
steps down the passage, a dead end. She heard someone wrenching at the front
door and spun around in panic.

Then the leaded glass of the front door shattered. She
sprinted back across the hall on the way to the kitchen, the back door. A hand came
through the gap to unlock the front door from inside. 'Come on!' she shouted at
van der Lingen. The old man stood frozen to the spot, as though he planned to
stop them.

'No!' she screamed.

The door opened. She had to get away and ran through
the kitchen, hearing a shot in the hall. She whimpered in fear, reached the
back door and spotted the long carving knife in the drying rack. She grabbed
it, tugged open the back door, and stepped outside in sudden dazzling sunlight.
There were two more between her and the little gate in the corner, charging at
her, black and white, with determined faces. Urgent footfalls behind her, she
had only one choice. She ran at the one in front of her, the white man whose
arms were spread wide to seize her. She whipped up the knife, stabbing at his
chest with hatred and loathing and shrill terror. He tried to pull away, too
late, the knife piercing his throat. His eyes filled with astonishment.