Cobra (15 page)

(Translated by P. A. Shilling, Interpol, 15 September 2010)

With reference to the series of nine murders in the European Union

(2006−2010) where bullets recovered from the various crime scenes indicated a Heckler & Koch MK23 and Cor-Bon ammunition (45 ACP +P 230 grain), and shell casings were engraved with the likeness of a snake with flared head and the initials/letters NM (capitalised, no full stops): A theory might be formulated that the snake engraving represents the Mozambique Spitting Cobra:

1. The engraving shows a high likeness for Mozambique Spitting Cobra – also the scale and the size of the hood.

2. The genus name of
Naja mossambica
corresponds with the initials NM.

3. Interpol Intelligence Reports Cobra/B79C1/04/03/2007/19/03/2009 and Cobra/B79C1/04/03/2007/27/06/2010 indicate a credible link between the suspected hired assassin ‘The Cobra’, and Joaquim Curado, a Mozambican and French national.

4. It is believed that ‘The Cobra’ is mulatto in complexion. In every homicide where his involvement is suspected, the victims suffered at least one shot between, near, or through the eyes. Note the behaviour (accuracy
,
eyes as target) and the colouring (tawny brown) of the Mozambiqu
e
Spitting Cobra
:

(Source, quoted verbatim:
http://www.africanreptiles-venom.co.za
/
mozambique_spitting_cobra.html
)

The colour varies between olive-grey, tawny brown or grey, with th
e
scales in-between a black colour. The distribution includes Natal, Lowveld
,
south-eastern Tanzania and Pemba Island, and west to southern Angol
a
and northern Namibia
.

Behaviour:

This snake is a nervous and highly strung snake (sic). When confronted at close quarters it can rear up to as much as two-thirds of its length, spread its long narrow hood and will readily ‘spit’ in defence, usually from a reared-up position. By doing this the venom can be ejected at a distance of 2–3 metres (5½–8¼ feet), with remarkable accuracy. The spitting cobra does not often actually bite despite its aggressive behaviour, and also displays the habit of feigning death to avoid further molestation.

Venom
:

This is probably the most dangerous snake, second only to the Mamba
.
Its bite causes severe local tissue destruction (similar to that of th
e
Puff Adder). Like the Rinkhals, it can spit its venom. The venom is ejected from two small holes near the tip of the teeth, usually aimed at the eyes. The effect is instantaneous causing intense smarting and inflammation and if not washed out with milk or water will cause permanent blindness.

The photograph of Joaquim Curado was small, scarcely two by three centimetres. It was printed in colour, but faded.

The face that stared out at Griessel was somewhere between boy and man. His hair was cropped very short, the features almost feminine in their refinement – high forehead, even, strong jawline, big dark eyes, straight nose, full lips, in the photo completely neutral. It reminded Griessel of a police drawing. There was no emotion – it was a face waiting to be filled in by life. But by no means the ‘cold eyes’ the Italian informant had speculatively described.

And there was something about the width and musculature of the neck that created the impression of an athlete.

Nearly 1.9 metres. Just under 100 kilograms. And that was before he started training with the French Foreign Legion. He would be a handful to arrest now.

‘Can we make a bigger photo?’ he asked van Wyk.

‘Not without losing resolution. Maybe a centimetre or two . . . It’s thirteen years old, Benny.’

‘I know . . .’

He had that light-headed feeling that came with only three hours of sleep, his thoughts erratic, flitting and floundering.

He wanted to read all the Interpol documents carefully. Then he wanted to compile a time line of Adair’s last week. He wanted to consider how the photo of the Cobra could help them.

He wanted more sleep.

He looked up at van Wyk, now pale, his bloodshot eyes weary. ‘Phil, I want to work through this stuff carefully first. You should go home now.’

‘OK, just two more things. Lithpel and the guys came back just after twelve. We managed to isolate Morris’s computers from the other farm people by the IP address . . .’

‘Computers?’

‘Technically speaking. It’s an Apple computer, and an iPad. Lithpel said Morris visited a lot of financial news websites.
The Economist, Financial Times, Bloomberg
. . . And then he was on his Google mail at least five times. Lithpel says you must talk to him when he gets back; he might be able to get into the emails.’

He nearly said ‘Adair’s email?’ Stopped himself in time and said ‘Morris’s email?’

‘That’s right. Lithpel says there is a way.’

‘But not through the channels?’

‘No.’

He sat in his office and started with the documents, right from the beginning.

He read the summary of each of the Cobra assassinations – sixteen since 2006 – concise descriptions of the victims and murder scenes. Some reports contained notes by ‘MCA’, whom he subsequently realised must be Marie-Caroline Aubert.

She sometimes speculated about the possible motive behind the murder, made comments about the quality of the investigations, and carefully suggested theories.

Slowly, he gained respect for the way her head worked. Griessel picked up his pen and circled two of her notes. The first was an insert, in brackets, to the murder of the American billionaire in New York in 2011:
(Note MCA: One possible consideration is that the Cobra does not brand all his hits with the marked shell casings. If one takes into account the fact that he has averaged only two assassinations per annum since 2006, for an assumed (relatively modest for his skills and talents) yearly income of €200,000, there is the distinct possibility that he has completed other contracts on a more anonymous basis. An Interpol database search on H&K MK23 murders in Europe since 2006 shows eleven unconfirmed and forensically unmatched possibilities. For further investigation.)

The second was in the murder of an Iranian engineer in Warsaw in 2012: (
Note MCA: During a telephone interview with the investigating officer, it became apparent that the victim, Omid Rostami, was involved with the Iranian uranium enrichment project. It is suspected that Rostami was in Warsaw to seek a black market uranium or nuclear equipment contract. It is further suspected that this was a Mossad hit, subcontracted to the Cobra.)

It reminded him of Cupido’s words:
This was a professional hit, pappie, and
jy wiet wie
sanctions professional hits. Gangstas and governments.

Mossad. Intelligence Services. They knew about this hired assassin. And they were prepared to contract him.

What about other intelligence people? Such as Emma Graber of MI6?

Griessel pulled an A4 pad from his top drawer and paged past the

rough notes of his previous dossiers, till he had a clean page.

At the top he wrote
Morris/Adair
:

He consulted his notebook, then the calendar on his iPhone. He wrote:

Monday 24 June: Break in at Adair, Cambridge
.

Tuesday 25 June:Adair reported missing
.

Wednesday 26 June:Adair phones Body Armour (as Morris).

Thursday 27 June:Adair sends passport scan and flight number to Body Armour.

Friday 28 June:Adair arrives in Cape Town.

Sunday 30 June:Adair abducted/murdered, Franschhoek.

He sat staring at his timeline, trying to make sense of it.

So many things, such a short time. And his head wasn’t clear.

The break-in at Adair’s flat was just over a week ago.
A back door
was forced, and the interior left in complete disarray,
Graber had said.

That meant someone had been looking for something.

The room in La Petite Margaux guesthouse was in the same condition. As if there had been a search.

He made a note:
Who is looking for what?
Bones Boshigo said
everyone knows what the algorithm does, even the terrorists, and there’s nothing anybody can do to stop it.
Why then were people searching through Adair’s flat and guesthouse room?

Last Monday Adair had got away just in time before the burglary at his home. Or perhaps he hadn’t been there at the time, maybe he came home after the incident, saw the chaos and fl ed? Where to? And why?

He wrote:
False passport?
The question was: Did Adair already have one at his disposal? Or did he acquire one in haste between Monday and Thursday last week? Both possibilities had interesting implications. A Professor of Mathematics who kept a false passport handy? Or knew where to get one at short notice?

Didn’t sound right.

And then the big question: How did the Cobra – or the people who hired the Cobra – know that Adair was in a guesthouse on a wine farm in Franschhoek?

If they knew where Adair was before his flight to South Africa, surely they would have kidnapped or murdered him there?

But somewhere between last Monday and yesterday they found out where he was, and sent the Cobra from Europe to do his job.

If Adair was lying low, with his false name, false passport, and false email address, how did they know?

He put the pen down, opened his steel cabinet, and took out the rolled-up camp bed. He put it together, set his iPhone for seven, turned off the light, lay down on his back, and closed his eyes.

He only wanted a few hours of sleep so that he could think this through with a clear head, do what he needed to do. Such as, that he must get a bulletin out to all stations to let them know, should the body of a white man in his fifties be found somewhere. Such as, the fact that someone must sit down and compare all the video material from Oliver Tambo and Cape Town International Airport since Friday with the old photo of Joaquim Curado.

Perhaps luck would be on their side.

18

Tyrone Kleinbooi’s Casio G-Shock wristwatch woke him at 6.45.

He had stolen it one Sunday morning last year on the common in Green Point, from a mountain biker whose attention was distracted by his sexy cycling partner.

Tyrone tuned the radio to Kfm, because he wanted to hear the weather forecast. Isolated showers, clearing towards midday.

That was a relief. For his industry.

He made instant coffee. He ate Weet-Bix with milk and sugar. Brushed his teeth, showered, shaved, and dressed. Black, slightly faded Edgars chinos with deep open pockets. Old black T-shirt, reasonably new black polo-necked jersey.
Black is beautiful, Tyrone. Smart. And invisible. You can be anything in black.

He pushed up the sleeves of his jersey to just below the elbows, he could work better that way. He put the silver Zippo and the hairpin with the small yellow sunflower in his left trouser pocket. He picked up the light blue Nokia Lumia 820, put it in the small neat rucksack that he had bought, because the size and the material and look were important. It mustn’t rustle, mustn’t look cheap, and it mustn’t interfere with his hand movements. But it must be able to hold the loot, cellphone, and his rain jacket.

He had taken the Lumia out of a businessman’s pocket up in Kloof Street – the man had been occupied with his coffee and croissant at Knead, reading the sports pages of the
Cape Times,
did not look like the Windows phone type. And no self-respecting fence was going to pay for a Windows phone, zero second-hand value
,
so Tyrone just kept it for himself. So he could at least phone Nadia, and she him.

He locked his room and walked around the Slamse’s triple garage, along the wall to the gate. He typed in the security code. The gate clicked open. He walked out, to the city.

Weather looking OK.

He walked briskly. Tuesdays were not your best days of the pickpocket week, but the early bird catches the worm if you keep your eyes open between the suits in Strand, Waterkant, Riebeeck, Long and Bree, and you blend in with the office workers hurrying along in groups, late for work, take-away coffee in one hand, as you squeeze in through the doors with them, up the escalators or in the lifts.