Thirteen Hours

Chapter 28

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.'

'Don't "sister" me.'

He waited for an explanation, but she just sat there.

'Did Adam say anything about a DVD last week? Something that came in his post?'

'No.'

'Do you know who shot him?'

It took a while for the answer to come, reluctantly, more of a question: 'Josh Geyser?'

'Maybe not.'

She looked surprised, brushing long hair back over her shoulder in a practised motion.

'Why do you think it was Josh?'

'I saw him yesterday. He was angry enough. And he's ... weird.'

'Weird?'

The shrug again, which conspired to make her breasts move oddly under the tight, thin material. 'Gladiator turned gospel singer. Don't you think that's weird? Look at him ...'

'I can't lock him up because of the way he looks. Who else was angry with Adam Barnard?'

She made a wry noise. 'This is the music business.'

'And that means ...'

'Everyone is angry with everyone sometimes.'

'And everyone screws everyone else.'

She was indignant again.

'Who else was angry enough to shoot him?'

'I really don't know.'

He asked the question that fascinated him: 'Why were ... the women so crazy about him? He was over fifty ...'

She stood up, crossed her arms over her breasts, cold and angry. 'He would have been fifty-two. In February.'

He waited for an answer but none was forthcoming. He egged her on: 'Why?'

'It's not about age, it's about aura.'

'Aura?'

'Yes.'

'What aura?'

'There's more than one kind.'

'What was his aura?' 'You wouldn't understand.'

'Educate me.'

'He had an aura of power. Very strong. 'Then she looked into his eyes with a challenge and said: 'Women like the power of money, and he had that. And for many women he was the gateway to the stars. He could introduce them to the celebrities with money. But there is another power that is totally irresistible - the power to empower.'

'Now you've lost me.'

'Second prize is to have a powerful man in your life. First prize is to have the power yourself so you don't need a man. That was the kind of power Adam Barnard could give.'

'To the artists? He could give them fame and fortune?'

'Yes.'

He nodded slowly. She hesitated, then turned and walked to the door.

'But you're not a singer,' he said.

With one hand on the doorknob, without looking around, she said: 'Second prize is not so bad.'

She opened the door and went out.

'Send the Nell ou in, please,' he called after her, but he couldn't tell if she had heard him.