Cobra by Deon Meyer

waited for Griessel to explain. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Organised crime . . . Bones, when they order a hit, they want to make a statement. They would have left him dead at the guesthouse.’
    ‘No, Benny, not in the current political climate. Then the British press will say Adair was right, there will be big pressure on government to institute the Protocol. The way I understand this whole thing, nobody knows for sure that Adair came to South Africa. If they can make him disappear, nè , no names, no pack drill . . . Problem solved. And maybe they want him to suffer first, Benny. You know how the gangstas are.’
    ‘Maybe,’ said Griessel, because aspects of the argument did make sense. ‘But for that reason they could have murdered him here, and then the media would have said: Look how dangerous South Africa is . . .’
    Nyathi’s phone rang. The colonel answered, listened, said a few times: ‘Yes, sir’, and then: ‘I’ll wait for him.’
    After putting the phone down, he looked at Benny. ‘That was our Hawks commissioner, in Pretoria,’ he said. ‘He asked me to receive a representative of our very own State Security Agency. To share the details of the case.’
    ‘But how did they know . . . ?’ asked Griessel.
    ‘They monitor the Consulate, of course,’ said Nyathi. ‘Probably their telephones too.’
    ‘All cloak and dagger, nè . Dis ‘n lekker een dié , what fun,’ said Bones. ‘Colonel, thanks for including me. Much more exciting than investigating pyramid schemes. Let me go do a little digging on Adair . . .’
    When Cloete came in, Griessel went straight to his office to send Emma Graber the incorrect email address for Paul Anthony Morris/ David Patrick Adair. The one that Cupido had confirmed was [email protected]. He thought for quite a while before deciding on a false address. Nyathi had asked for a typing error, something that could be explained as a simple error, should Graber realise the address was false. One possibility was to swap letters around, but that was too easy. The one he eventually sent to the British embassy was [email protected] – making him feel ever so slightly like a spy.
    Then he walked back to IMC.
    Captain Philip van Wyk said they had searched the national databases and there were no references to bullet cartridges with snake engravings or the letters NM on them. And all the other processes were still running.
    At twenty-two minutes past ten, Griessel sat down in his office, bolt upright, so that the fatigue and despondency would not overcome him too quickly.
    In truth, they had nothing.
    If you thought about it.
    Now that they knew who Morris truly was, the cellphone and computer records wouldn’t really help.
    And if Bones was right, that meant Adair was already dead, and the murderers would likely feed his remains to the sharks, or bury them.
    Once again foreign mischief brought over here. Just what this country needed.
    Seven detectives, Forensics, IMC, and Nyathi’s whole day dedicated to something that would come to nought, he knew it already.
    Maybe the Spooks of the SSA should take over the whole thing.
    He should rather just go to sleep.
    But he didn’t want to. That fokken snake on the cartridge, that was the thing that had snagged his attention, that would not let go.
    What sort of fool made a stamp of a spitting cobra, and then marked his ammunition, every round? Which would take a hell of a lot of time. For what?
    Leaving them on the crime scene like a visiting card . . .
    With the letters. NM. Initials? Nols Malan or Natie Meiring or Norman Matthews, like the pretentious number plates of the rich that said ‘look how fokken common but cute I am’.
    Then he made the international connection, and he got up and he walked back to IMC, his brain back in gear again.
    ‘We will have to do an Interpol enquiry,’ said Griessel to van Wyk. ‘About the cobra and the letters.’
    ‘Good idea.’ Van Wyk halted. ‘You know