Thirteen Hours (54 page)

'Bliksem,'
said the Commissioner. 'We better get people to that
hospital for the records.'

'Mat Joubert is there already, Commissioner. He's got
a big team with him.'

'So they bring people in and then they kill them?'

'Not always, Commissioner,' said Vusi. 'Apparently
that was the price the people were required to pay for a better life in South
Africa. They had to donate a kidney or a lung or part of their liver. Or part
of an eye, corneas, and bone marrow as well. I'm still trying to get my head
around it. Apparently you can donate a lot of your organs without the
consequences being too serious.'

'And the hearts?'

'We will have to see, Commissioner, because the
website talks about hearts as well. But the one Rachel Anderson saw, the one
that de Klerk and Chitsinga murdered at Kariba, he had AIDS. Smith says they
had test kits with them - before they loaded a person under the trailers, they
drew blood and then they tested it.

They realised that man had AIDS. So they took him out,
and they couldn't afford to just let him go.'

'What kind of people are these?' John Afrika asked.

'That's what I asked Duncan Blake,' said Griessel.
'And he said Africa took everything he had, all his dreams, Africa tore out his
heart. Why couldn't he do that to Africa?'

Griessel's cell phone rang shrilly. He looked at the
screen, got up and went aside to answer it.

The Commissioner leaned forward, looked at the
website, sighed deeply, listening to Griessel making noises of disbelief.

Benny Griessel came back to the desk. 'That was Mat,'
he said. 'Commissioner,
this
thing is going to get ugly.'

'Why?' There was a lot of worry in John Afrika's
voice.

'There's a government Minister in the hospital
records.'

'One of our Ministers?'

'Yes, Commissioner. Liver transplant.'

'Ag nee, liewe fok
,' said John Afrika.

Fransman Dekker had heard the coloured SAPS computer
specialist was genius. So he was expecting someone like Bill Gates. What he got
was a slightly built man with the face of a schoolboy, two missing front teeth,
a big Afro hairstyle, no sense of humour and a pronounced lisp. 'Thith ith
candy floth,' the genius said to Dekker in Wouter Steenkamp's office.

'Excuse me, bro'?' Dekker asked, because he couldn't
understand a single word.

'Candy floth.'

'Candy floss?'

'That'th right.'

'How so, my bro'?'

'Illusionth. A PDF pathword ith utheleth.'

'A PDF pathword?'

'No, a pa
th
word.'

'Password?'

'That'th right. People think if you have a PDF
pathword then you're thecure. But it'th not thecure.'

'So how did they do it?'

'Thith
ou ..
.' he pointed at the computer, which belonged to
Steenkamp, '... got the pathword-protected PDF'th for every thinger'th thaleth
from the dithtributor. By email. Lookth like it wath hith job to thend it on to
the thinger when the money wath tranthferred.'

'Right.'

'The thinger thinkth only he hath the pathword, tho he
thinkth the record company can't change the thtatement of THEE-D thales. He
thinkth he'th getting all the money.'

'Because it comes from the dith ... er, the
distributor?'

'Yeth, the dithtributor puth the pathword on, but
emailth it to thith
ou.
And thith
ou
emailth it to the thinger.'

'Right.'

'But look here ...' the computer boffin opened a
program. 'Thith ith thoftware, Advanthed PDF Pathword Recovery, Enteprithe
Edition, made by Elcomthoft. You can buy it from their webthite, the prithe ith
jutht under a thouthand rand, but then you can do what you like with a PDF,
even if it hath a forty- bit encrypthion with Thunder Tableth. It meanth thith
ith candy floth, any pathword protecthion.'

'So Steenkamp could get the singer's password and he
could change the statement?'

'Exthactly. He copieth and pathteth the PDF tableth
into Microthoft Exthell, changeth the tableth, maketh a new PDF, becauth heth
got Adobe Acrobat Profethional, the Thee Eth Four edithion, brand new, thtate
of the art, and he puth the thame pathword protecthion on again. Tho the
thinger thinkth it ith the original PDF, he doethn't know he'th been conned.'

'How much did they skim?'

'It lookth like it varieth, from ten to forty per
thent, depending on how much the thinger thells.The big guyth, like Ivan Nell,
they took up to forty per thent off him on hith latht THEE-D.'

'Fucking hell.'

'My thentimentth exthactly.'

Precisely thirteen hours since they had woken Benny
Griessel in his flat, around 18:37, he told John Afrika: 'Commissioner, I have
to be in Canal Walk by seven o'clock, please, will you excuse me?'

The Commissioner stood up and put a hand on Griessel's
shoulder. 'Captain, I just want to say one thing. If there was ever a man who
deserved promotion, it's you. I never doubted you would solve this one. Never.'

'Thank you, Commissioner.'

'Let Vusi finish up here. Go and do your thing, we'll
talk again tomorrow.'

'Thanks, Benny,' Vusi said from the table where the
contents of the file were beginning to swell.

'Pleasure, Vusi,' and then he was out of there in a
rush. There was no time to change his shirt, but he could tell Anna the story
of how the hole came to be there. Then he remembered he owed his son a phone
call. Fritz, who had phoned him with the news that he was quitting school, that
their band, Wet & Orde, (with an ampersand), had got a fat gig, that they
were 'opening for Gian Groen and Zinkplaat on a tour, Dad, they are talking
about twenty-five thousand for a month, that's more than six thousand per out
and Griessel had said: 'I'll call you back, things are a bit rough here.'

He got into his car, took his cell phone's hands-free
kit out of the cubby hole, plugged it in and drove away to Buitengracht and the
Nl.

'Hi, Dad.'

'How's it going, Fritz?'

'No, cool, Dad, cool.'

'Six thousand rand for each
ou
in the band?'

'Yes, Dad. Awesome, and they pay for our meals and
accommodation and everything.'

'That's fantastic,' said Griessel.

'I know. A professional musician doesn't need Matric,
Dad, I mean, what for, why must I know about the sex life of the snail? Dad,
you and Ma must sign this letter, because I'm only eighteen in December.'

'Bring me the letter, then, Fritz.'

'Really, Dad?'

'Sure. A guy doesn't need more than six thousand a
month. Let's see, your flat will cost you about two thousand a month ...'

'No, Dad, I'll still stay at home, so ...'

'But you will pay your mother rent, won't you? For laundry
and cleaning and the food?'

'You think I should?'

'I don't know, Fritz - what do
you
think is the right thing to
do?'

'Sure, Dad, that sounds right.'

'And you will need a car. Let's say a payment of about
two thousand, plus insurance and petrol and services, three, three and a
half...'

'No, Dad, Rohan picked up a Ford Bantam for
thirty-two. A guy doesn't need a grand car to start with.'

'Where did he get the thirty-two?'

'From his father.'

'And where are you going to get thirty-two from?'

'I...
er ...'

'Well, let's say you save two thousand a month for a
car, then that's only fifteen months, a year and a half, then you'll have your
Bantam, but we are already at expenses of four thousand, and you haven't bought
any clothes, or airtime for your phone, strings for your guitar, razor blades,
aftershave, deodorant, or taken a chick out for dinner ...'

'We don't call them "chicks" any more, Dad.'
But the first signs of understanding crept into his son's voice and the
enthusiasm had begun to wane.

'What do you call them?'

'Girls, Dad.'

'When the tour is over, Fritz, where will the next six
thousand a month come from?'

'Something will come up.'

'And if it doesn't?'

'Why do you always have to be so negative, Dad? You
don't want me to be happy.'

'How can you be happy if you don't have an income?'

'We're going to make a CD. We're going to take the
money from the tour and make a CD and then ...'

'But if you use the money from the tour for a CD, what
are you going to live on?'

Silence. 'You never let me do anything. A dude can't
even dream.'

'I want you to have everything, my son. That's why I
am asking these questions.'

No reaction.

'Will you think it over a little, Fritz?'

'Why do I have to know about the sex life of the
snail, Dad?'

'That's a whole other argument. Will you think about
it?'

A slow and reluctant 'Yeeeaah, sure.'

'OK, we'll talk again.'

'OK, Dad.'

He smiled to himself in the car on the N1. His boy.
Just like he was. Lots of plans.

Then he thought ahead. To Anna. His smile faded. A
feeling of anxiety descended on him.

She was sitting outside where she could see the water.
A good sign, he thought. He paused a moment in the door of Primi and looked at
her. His Anna. Forty-two, but looking good. In the past months she seemed to have
thrown off the yoke of her husband's alcoholism, and there was a youthfulness
about her again. The white blouse, blue jeans, the little cardigan thrown over
her shoulders.

Then she spotted him. He watched her face carefully as
he approached her. She smiled but not broadly.

'Hello, Anna.'

'Hello, Benny.'

He kissed her on the cheek. She didn't turn her head
away. Good sign.

He pulled out a chair. 'You must excuse the way I
look, it's been a crazy day.'

Her eyes went to the hole in his breast pocket. 'What
happened?'

'They shot me.' He sat down.

'Lord, Benny.'

Good sign.

'Luckiest break of my life. Only an hour before, I put
a Leatherman in my pocket, you know, one of those plier thingies.'

'You could have been killed.'

He shrugged. 'If it's your time, it's your time.' She
looked at him, running her gaze over his face. He ached for that moment when
she would put out her hand, like in the old days, smooth his ruffled hair, say,
'Benny, this bush ...'

He saw her hand move. She put it down again. 'Benny
...' she said.

'I'm sober,' he said. 'It's been nearly six months.'

'I know. I am very proud of you.'

Good sign. He grinned at her in expectation.

She took a deep breath. 'Benny ... there's only one
way to say this. There's someone else, Benny.'