Thirteen Hours

They had wanted to put the sirens and lights on but he had said: 'No, please don't.' He wanted to arrive at J. M. de Klerk's house without fanfare, surround it quietly and then knock on the door. The Inspector said he knew where the address was, one of the crescents in Parklands, a new residential area where the white and up-and-coming black middle classes lived shoulder to shoulder in apparent harmony; the new South Africa successfully practised.

At a set of traffic lights they turned right into Park Road. Shopping centres, townhouse complexes, then left again down Ravenscourt, right in Humewood. These were not the linear street blocks of Mandela Park and Harare in Khayelitsha, but a maze of crescents and dead ends. Vusi looked at the Inspector.

'It's just up front here, first left, second right.'

Houses, townhouses, flats, all neat and new, gardens in development, with small trees or none at all.

'We mustn't park in front of the house,' said Vusi. 'I don't want to scare him.'

'OK,' said the Inspector, and showed the Constable which way to drive. Eventually a road sign said 'Atlantic Breeze'.

Townhouses. The numbers on this side were in the forties, big complexes behind high walls. 'Are they all townhouses?' asked Vusi.

'I don't think so.'

But Number 24 was. They stopped some way off. 'Let me get out,' said Vusi. The Inspector opened the door and slid out.

There was a high white wall with spiky metal deterrent on top and large painted numbers, a two and a four. In the centre was a large motorised iron gate and townhouses behind in a countrified style, blue and green shutters alongside plain- coloured window frames, and an A-frame roof. Yet another quick property speculation that would become stale and uninspiring in five years' time.

'Ai,' said Vusi. This was not the way he had visualised it. He beckoned to the vehicle with the two other uniforms. They got out and everyone came over to stand with him. 'The jackets,' he said. The Inspector opened the back of the police van. The bulletproof vests were no longer in the tidy pile they had been earlier. Vusi took one, pulled it over his head and began to buckle it up. 'You too. Wait here while I have a look, and have the gate opened.' They nodded enthusiastically. He crossed the street and walked alongside the wall. There was a panel at the closed gate with a grid for a speaker, call buttons, some with names alongside. He scanned them and saw no de Klerk. On the top left was one labelled Administrator. He pressed it. An electronic beep sounded. Then nothing.

He pressed again. No answer.

He looked through the railings of the gate. The drive ran straight in - then turned ninety degrees to the left and disappeared behind a block of townhouses. He could see no sign of life. He pressed the button, without hope.

The speaker crackled and whistled briefly. A monotone woman's voice said: 'What do you want?'

Sixteen storeys above the bustling crowds of Adderley Street, the man stood at the window with his back to the luxury of the apartment behind him. He looked out over the city. In front of him was the Golden Acre, to the left the Cape Sun Hotel, behind that the tower blocks of the Foreshore area, a miscellany of architectural styles against the horizon. The blue sea was visible, though spoiled by the harbour cranes, two drilling rigs and the masts of ships.

The man's hair and full beard were trimmed short, sandy and prematurely greying - he didn't look fifty yet. He was fit and lean in denim shirt and khaki chino trousers with blue boat shoes. In the reflection of the high wide window the tanned face was expressionless.

He had one hand in his pocket; the other was holding a slim cell phone. He shifted his gaze from the view to the keyboard of his phone. From memory he typed in a number and held the instrument millimetres from his ear. He heard it ring once before Barry answered. 'Mr B.'

The man nodded slightly in satisfaction at the quick reaction time and the calm in Barry's voice.

'I'm taking control,' he said, his tone measured.

'Right.' Relief.

'Describe the house to me.'

Barry did his best, describing the single storey, the corner site and the position of the front door.

'Does the house have a back door?'

'I don't know.'

'If it has, it should be towards Belmont Avenue?'

'That's right.'

'OK. I'm going to send Eben and Robert to cover that angle. I am also working on the assumption that she has no need to leave through the back door, because she does not know that we saw her. Is that a fair assumption, Barry?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And she also does not know that we are watching the house.'

'Yes, sir.' 'Good. Let's keep it that way. I hear you saw only one occupant, an old man.'

'Right.'

'No evidence of others?'

'No, sir.'

'Good. Now listen carefully, Barry. You, Eben and Robert will have to be ready to move in case of an emergency. If you get the call, go in and get her, no matter what it takes. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, sir.'

'But that would be second prize, and only if she calls the cops. We don't know why she hasn't called them yet, but it can happen at any moment, and we will have maybe five minutes' warning. Which means you will have to be very quick.'

'Right.' Anxiety broke through his voice.

'And whatever you do, get the bag.' 'OK.'

'And we don't need witnesses.'

'I don't have a gun.'

'Barry, Barry, what did I teach you?'

'Adapt, improvise and overcome.'

'Exactly. But it might not be necessary, because we are working on first prize. It will take twenty or thirty minutes to put together, to make sure it's quick, quiet and clean. In the meantime, you are my main man, Barry. If we call, go in. If she leaves, get her. No mistakes. We can't afford any more mistakes. Do you understand that?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Are you sure? Have you thought of all the implications?'

'I have.'

'Good.'

As he put the cell phone in his pocket he saw the police helicopter flying across Table Bay directly towards him. He kept his eyes on it until it flew past, low over the city.

Chapter 27

The uniforms stood outside with machine pistols and bulletproof vests. Vusi alone was inside with the complex administrator. She reminded him of bread dough, pale and shapeless; even her voice had no character.

'De Klerk is in A-six. He is not a renter; he owns. I don't see him often. He pays his levy with a debit order.'

She had fitted out one room of her townhouse as an office. She sat at a small cheap melamine desk. There was a computer screen and keyboard in front of white melamine shelves for files, one of which was open beside the keyboard. Vusi stood at the door.

'Is he here now?'

'I don't know.' A bald statement of an uninteresting fact.

'When last did you see him?'

'I think it was in November.'

'So he was last home in November?'

'I don't know. I don't get out much.'

'Are there phone numbers?'

She checked. 'No.'

'Can you describe him?'

'He's young.' She put a podgy index finger on the document. 'Twenty-six.' She looked up at Vusi and saw the question on his face. 'Tallish. Brownish hair.'

'Where does he work?'

The index finger moved across the printed document in the file. 'It just says "consultant" here.'

'May I have a look, please?'

She shifted the file. He took out his notebook and pen, put them down on the file and studied the form. Initials and surname J. M. de Klerk. An identity number.

Unit: Two-Bedroom Duplex.

Status: Owner and occupant.

Sub-let: No.