They knew about Lillian Alvarez. That was how they found out precisely where he was, because they had tapped Alvarez’s cellphone. And like a fool, he had phoned Alvarez last Friday night from the Franschhoek guesthouse.
‘They also used her to convince me to hand over the data. They said they would kill her. And that I had to call her, to bring the memory card.’
‘What was on the card?’ asked Nyathi.
‘A lot of data,’ said Adair.
‘What kind of data?’
‘The monetary evil that men do.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘How much time do we have?’
‘All the time we need.’
‘Well, there is the data on possible terrorists. And possible spies. And possible organised crime money laundering. By organised crime, and by the banks. Damning evidence of dirty banking hands. Not murky little banks in banana republics. Continental, international banking colossi. And then there’s the quite impressive and intimidatingly long list of corrupt government officials . . .’
‘South African government officials?’ asked Mbali.
‘I’m afraid so. But let me hasten to add that the data also includes government officials from thirty-nine other countries. My own included. And the evidence is quite conclusive.’
‘Can you tell us which South African government officials?’
‘Quite a few. MPs. Ministers. Your president, I’m sorry to add.’
Mbali made a small despairing sound.
‘That’s how they got the SSA and CI involved,’ said Nyathi.
‘Who?’ asked Adair.
‘Your MI6 got our State Security Agency and Crime Intelligence Unit involved in the investigation, in the quest to find you.’
‘I see. No stone unturned. How comforting. But yes, you might be right. I did mention the corrupt politicians list to my friends at MI6.’
‘Who do the Cobras work for?’ asked Griessel.
‘The who?’
‘The people who kidnapped you. Do they work for the CIA?’ asked
Cupido. ‘
Good heavens, no. They are working for the banks.’
61
They didn’t believe him.
David Adair explained. He said he knew he would only get one chance to go fishing for all manner of evil in the SWIFT system with his extensive new protocol, because he had always been very open about his political and ethical standards. There were so many factions watching him, all waiting to see what he wanted to do with the system – and suspecting that he might be looking for ammunition for his crusades.
So he wrote the programming in such a way that he could slip in a digital Trojan horse afterwards, when everyone was satisfied that the protocol would not be damaging to them.
And the end result, when the data began coming in, was mind-boggling. There were the spying details, the corruption of politicians, the massive extent of large, well-respected international banks looking the other way and cooperating in the laundering of billions for organised crime. But what took him completely by surprise, was a conglomerate of international banks manipulating the financial system: to evade taxation, to fix rates, to tamper illegally with share prices and exchange rates, and to continue to trade in derivative instruments – indecipherable and complex derivatives, despite the huge risk it posed to the world economy.
Executives of banks and financial institutions enriched themselves on a massive scale, at the expense of common people. He was totally unprepared for the greed, the sheer extent of the machinations.
‘The problem is, what does one do with such information? To make it public is an act of potential financial sabotage. The system, still very fragile after the meltdown, might well collapse. Or at least trigger a new international recession. The big losers won’t be the banking fat cats, but the very people I had hoped to protect. The public. So, just after my dialogue with MI6, I made the mistake of calling the CEO of a very big international bank. Just to tell him that it might be a good idea to start winding down all the illegal and dangerous activities. Or run the risk of being exposed. Yes, it was blackmail, but the cause was good and just, I thought. Soon after, I became aware of a series of strange occurrences. I thought I was being followed, I was pretty sure someone had been in my office and my house. Perhaps to plant bugs? So I took a few precautions. I flew to Marseilles to get myself a false passport, and I put a considerable sum of money away in a new account under the false name—’
‘Where would a university professor get a considerable sum of money from?’ asked Cupido.
‘The European Union has been rather generous in remunerating me for my work.’
‘OK.’
‘I packed a suitcase, just in case. And when I got home from Lillian’s place last Monday night, and I saw that my home had been ransacked, I knew. And I ran.’
‘But how do you know it was the banks?’
‘I speak French,’ said Adair. ‘I understood what one of my abductors was saying over the phone to the people who hired them. There is only one conclusion.’
They concealed one vehicle behind a shed a hundred metres away from the farmyard. Cupido, Fillander, Mbali, and Ndabeni stayed behind, since the Cobras’ luggage, a few firearms, and travel documents were still in the house.
Griessel and Nyathi took Adair to the city: he’d asked to be taken to Lillian Alvarez as quickly as possible.
Griessel sat in the back of the big Ford Territory, with his and Nyathi’s assault rifles beside him on the seat. Adair sat in front beside Nyathi, who was behind the wheel.
On the R304 Nyathi said, ‘You realise you are still in danger?’
‘I do. But as soon as I’ve seen Lillian, I will rectify the matter. I will Skype the editor of the
Guardian
. He is a man of the utmost integrity, and I will make a full confession, and give him access to the data.’
‘But the memory card is gone.’
‘Good.’
‘Wasn’t the data on the memory card?’
‘Of course it was. I was hoping against hope that, if I gave them the data in a tangible format, they would not kill me. But they would have, I’m sure. The data also lives in the cloud. Two or three places. They’ll find it, eventually, I suppose. One always leaves tracks . . .’
On the N1, just before the Lucullus Street off-ramp, Adair said philosophically, ‘Of course, one contemplates one’s own demise, under these circumstances. And then you keep hoping that all the lies, all the deceit, will somehow be uncovered. That the truth will set us all free. But you know, it is such an imperfect world, and it is getting more imperfect every day. So, thank you . . .’
Griessel looked out of the window and thought about Mbali, who had also spoken about how liberating the truth could be. His mind was so filled with the question of secrets and lies that he was barely aware of the white Volkswagen Amarok double cab drawing up beside them.
Later he would not remember whether it was an odd movement, the sun reflecting on a gun barrel, or the vaguely familiar face of the man. Something suddenly made him focus, triggered the alarm in his head. In one move he grabbed the rifle on the seat next to him and shouted, ‘Sir!’
It was too late.
The shots boomed beside them, the bullets punched through him, and through Nyathi. Shreds of fabric puffed from the headrests, the wind was suddenly loud in his ears, and a bloody mist, entire droplets, seemed to hang suspended in the interior of the car.
Griessel felt the exploding pain of bullet wounds, the terrible violence of lead slamming, tearing into his body.
Nyathi lost control of the Ford, the vehicle zigzagged across the road, skidded, overturned, and rolled. Griessel tried to hold on. Airbags exploded. He had his seat belt fastened, that was his only thought, he had his seat belt fastened, now he could tell Fritz it was proof that that was the right thing to do.
Just before everything went black, he saw the body of Zola Nyathi, still buckled into his seat, but strangely uncontrolled. Only the laws of physics in charge of his body now, tugging it back and forth. And he thought: how fragile a person’s body is. Nyathi had always seemed so indestructible.
There was a moment when he recovered consciousness, as he was suspended upside down in the wreckage, watching his blood flow from his body and pooling on the roof of the Ford. A moment when he was aware of the man who rifled through his pockets, hastily and roughly, but thoroughly. The face was devoid of emotion. It was one of them, one of the men on the O. R. Tambo photos. The man’s hands searched through all his pockets, coated in his blood.
A shot cracked, one last time, in the shattered space.
Then everything went quiet.
62
He saw Alexa beside the hospital bed, in the middle of the night. She was sleeping awkwardly in the chair. He tried to say something to her, but he was so very tired, he could scarcely open his mouth. His parched mouth.
He was awake. He was at Alexa’s house, in the sitting room. His arm was gone. Completely. Alexa said don’t worry, there are bass guitar players with only one arm. She puffed on a cigarette.
He dimly realised someone else was here too. Strange, it was daytime now. He opened his eyes. It was his daughter, Carla. She sat hunched over, her elbows on the bed, her face close to his, her expression intense, as if willing him not to go. He saw her mouth move, forming the word ‘Papa’, but he didn’t hear it. He was drifting away from everything. But both his arms were here.
Fritz sat in the chair beside the hospital bed. His son, with a guitar. His son sang to him. It was so incredibly beautiful.
He had a conversation with Nyathi and Mbali. They spoke Zulu and Xhosa, and to his surprise so did he. Kaleni said, Isn’t it wonderful?
Yes, said Nyathi.
What? Asked Griessel.
There’s no corruption here, said Mbali. Look, Benny, none. It wasn’t for nothing after all.
Cupido and Bones and Mbali stood beside his bed, their faces grim.
‘Vaughn,’ said Griessel.
‘
Jissis
,’ said Cupido and stood up, looked at him.
‘This is a hospital. Watch your language,’ said Mbali.
‘Get a nurse, he’s awake,’ said Cupido.
And then Griessel was gone again.
They only told him Nyathi was dead after he had been awake for two days. Nyathi and David Adair.
‘They thought you weren’t going to make it, Benny,’ said Alexa, her tears dripping on the sheet. She held his left hand tightly, the one on the arm that was still reasonably whole. ‘They brought you back from the brink of death twice. They said you had no blood left. None.’
Two wounds in his right leg, one in his upper right arm, his right shoulder, his left wrist, two bullets through his ribs and his right lung. But everything would heal in time. There would be stiffness in the limbs, the surgeon said. For many years. He had been in a coma for sixteen days, they said. And he thought to himself, that was the easiest sixteen days off the bottle he had ever added to his tally.
Cloete came and sat with him. ‘CNN, the BBC, Sky News and the
New York Times
are all asking for interviews, Benny. Are you up to it?’
‘No.’
Superintendent Marie-Caroline Aubert phoned him from Lyon. She sympathised with the loss of his colleague. She congratulated him on the arrest of Curado. She said the one he shot dead was the only French citizen, one Romain Poite. The others that they identified were all Eastern Europeans, but also former members of the French Foreign Legion. ‘We are trying to track them down, thanks to your good work.’
Jeanette Louw, the owner of Body Armour, came to sit with him too. He told her everything.
Alexa was there every day, in the morning, afternoon, and evening. Carla came to visit. Fritz. His colleagues. Doc Barkhuizen. His fellow Rust band members. And Lize Beekman, once. ‘I’m sorry about your concert,’ he said.
‘It won’t be the last one,’ she said. ‘Just get better.’
He had done a lot of thinking, in the hospital. When Alexa came to fetch him and take him to her house, his words were ready.
Tired and weak, he climbed into the double bed in Alexa’s bedroom. Then he said,‘Come sit here, please. There is something I have to talk about.’
She sat down, concerned.
‘I love you very much,’ he said.
‘And I love you, Benny.’
‘Alexa, I didn’t know what to say, because it’s a difficult thing. But someone said: the truth makes us free . . .’
‘What truth, Benny?’
‘I can’t . . . you know . . .’ and all his planned words and phrases, practised in his mind, over and over, deserted him.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Before this thing . . .’ And he indicated the last of the bandages. ‘I couldn’t keep up. With the . . . sex. I’m too old and too fucked-up, Alexa. I can’t do the thing every day any more. You are very sexy to me, my head wants to, but my . . .’ He pointed at his groin.
‘Your rascal,’ she said.
‘Yes. My rascal can’t keep up. Not every day. Maybe every second day. We can try.’