Allegiance (11 page)

Durant thought it was more than good, it was a breakthrough. Closure was perhaps in reach for him. He could put this whole shooting thing behind him, carry on with life as it was before. There was excitement in his voice. ‘Well, the obvious question is, what’s his name and what hospital is he in?’

Splinters needed that cigarette lit badly now.

‘Can’t rush it, Kev. Give me a few more days; I’m working it with everything I’ve got.’

And that was good enough for Durant.

A vacuum cleaner whined into life behind them and neither man flinched.

Durant met Tanveer at a street café in Florida Road. The sign outside said ‘Café Parisienne’, although there was nothing French about it. ‘What happened to you?’ Durant asked as Tanveer sat on the bench beside him.

‘Shafiq,’ he said, involuntarily touching the swollen, bloodied crack on his lip with his finger. ‘He wasn’t happy with the amount I gave.’

‘You might need a stitch in there, it’s nasty. We’re working on Shafiq and the people he’s involved with. It might take some time.’ Durant flipped open the menu. ‘Do you know Ali Babar?’ he asked, without looking up.

‘I’ve heard the name. It’s a big name in our community, but we don’t talk about him in a bad way.’

‘Maybe you should. Looks like he’s the guy sending these gangsters to do the collecting.’

Tanveer shook his head. ‘I always thought he was doing good work among our people. We never question him. I know he is a wealthy man.’

‘Well, ja, he’s stealing your hard-earned cash, of course he’s wealthy.’

Tanveer touched a handkerchief to his mouth as the cut started bleeding. ‘He’s connected to Sheikh U-Haq; the man’s a philanthropist.’

‘Where’s the sheikh, here in Durban?’

‘Yes, he’s the Director of the Islamic Africa Centre.’

‘Sounds familiar. I’ve heard of him.’

‘You’re thinking of Al Haq perhaps, the human rights organisation in Palestine. But it’s not a Muslim organisation – it’s got Arab Muslims and Arab Christians working for it. Sheikh U-Haq is a person.’

‘I get it. Look, we’ll try to find someone close to Babar so we can understand what he’s up to. Give us some time. How’s Mariam?’

‘She’s okay. Looking for work. Her sister’s helping her.’

‘Nothing dodgy, I hope. And, by the way, I found someone who’ll look after Siraj during the day.’

‘Bless you, David; you are a saviour and so kind.’ Durant thought he saw sadness in his eyes and felt lifted. At least he was giving back something. He was afraid he was becoming cold and emotionless.

A waitress came to take the order. ‘We’re here to look after each other, Arshad.’

‘Siraj?’ Ahmed Yusuf sighed without looking up from his laptop, which he had open on the dining room table. ‘You’re getting involved again. Why can’t you just walk away from Durant and that lot?’

Amina tightened the apron string around her waist and opened a recipe book. ‘I said I’d do it for him. He’s a little boy who maybe needs some love and attention.’

‘You must stop this doing your own thing. Why didn’t you ask me?’

Amina flipped through the pages of the book. Maybe crumbed steak. ‘I
am
asking you.’

‘No, you’ve already made up your mind. You’re doing this to punish me.’Yusuf’s fingers fell hard on the keyboard.

‘Don’t be silly, Ahmed. Why would I want to punish you?’

‘You know how much I want a boy of my own.’ He slipped a notebook from his shirt pocket and entered something into the laptop.

‘It’s fine, he’ll be in the crèche, you’ll be at work. You won’t see him.’ The steak strips looked appealing. Her husband loved steak.

‘So, from when?’

‘Soon, I think. Maybe next week. I’m going to meet his mom on Friday. Mariam, she’s from Chatsworth originally.’

‘It’s the father I’m worried about.’ Yusuf looked up from the screen. ‘A Pakistani.’ He said the words scornfully.

‘It’s fine, relax, I’m not dealing with the father, only the mother.’ The steak strips it was then. She’d baste them in olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

Yusuf sniffed and shook his head. ‘Hey, I don’t know. Sometimes you do things I don’t understand.’

Amina kicked her shoes off. ‘So do you.’

‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply.

‘Well, for one, going out at night, almost every night.’

‘The machines break down, they run 24/7, I need to check on them.’

Amina’s voice had an edge as she tossed the raw steak onto a board. ‘But three times a week? And I don’t even know what time you get back in.’

‘What’s your point, actually?’ Yusuf huffed.

‘Ahmed, my point is you want a child but you’re not making much of an effort to actually make one.’ She pounded the steak, the tenderiser making thumping noises on the red flesh. She’d had this fight before. It was becoming a routine event that had the same result every time. It was all so predictable.

Yusuf stood up. ‘I can see now, it’s all my fault. Thanks for clarifying it.’ He pushed the chair back, walked to the cabinet and took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘Don’t question me, that’s all I ask, Amina, just don’t question me.’ He walked briskly to the balcony.

Amina shrugged her shoulders and put the steaks back in the fridge.

Masondo’s house in Westville could have been an extravagant mansion if he’d wanted it to be, but it wasn’t. It was big, and stately, but in an understated way. It needed maintenance and the garden wanted a touch of attention. It was clear the Operational Head preferred the indoors. It was the first time Durant had been to Masondo’s house and it was exactly as he’d expected it to be. Masondo wasn’t showy at all.

The evening function was a big affair in terms of numbers, and Durant didn’t know most of the people there. There was no one else present from the office and he couldn’t help feeling a sense of pride that Masondo thought him worthy of an invitation. Many of the guests were youngish, and Durant guessed they were friends and fellow graduates of Nandi, Masondo’s 25-year-old daughter.

‘Uncle Kevin!’ Nandi exclaimed and, before he could defend himself, she was on him, hugging him and pulling her shy-looking friends closer to introduce them to him.

‘The last time I saw you, you were still at school, I think – and look at you now. Doctor Nandi Masondo. What an achievement!’

‘Well, my dad’s in seventh heaven. It’s a dream for him. Come, Uncle Kevin, there’s plenty of food and drink, please have fun and I hope you’ll dance later!’

Durant smiled shyly. ‘Only if you stop calling me uncle, geez man, I’m not that old.’

Masondo was a proud man and Durant hadn’t seen him this relaxed in years. He smiled when he saw Durant and shook his hand, pulled him in and gave him a bear hug. ‘Kevin, thanks for coming, so good to see you here. Did you see Nandi?’

‘I did, Chief, she’s beautiful, she’s just turned out so well, you’ve done a great job.’

‘Can you believe she’ll be a medical doctor? I still can’t. Njabulo, come and meet Kevin Durant.’ Durant recognised Njabulo as a high-ranking political figure and councillor.

Durant shook hands with Njabulo while Masondo called over a waitress. ‘Cindy, please fill this for me,’ he asked, handing the young woman his glass. ‘Make it a double. Glad Shabalala’s not here; he’d have a lot to say about that one hey, Kevin, ha ha ha!’

The faint sound of a cellphone ringing. ‘Um, excuse me, that’s my phone.’

Masondo stepped away, spoke softly on the phone and then returned. He looked shaken. ‘That was the
DG
. He said last night a truck load of heavy calibre weapons was hijacked just outside Pietermaritzburg. The whole load’s gone and he wants to know where it is.’

Amina was outside the crèche when the bus stopped fifty metres up the road. Mariam’s bus. A warm morning, a long night, with little sleep. The thought of Siraj had troubled her. Poor child. A loveless home, a mother who could go to jail and a father who used them to get permanent residence. Mariam was probably streetwise and battle hardened; that tired, frazzled wife and mother who’d screwed up her life at a young age and who was paying the price. As long as she was looking after the child and he was clean and dressed warmly, it didn’t matter how Mariam was. If the child looked neglected, she would surely say something to the girl, no matter how uncomfortable it would be. A tall and well-dressed woman alighted the bus, a fold-up pram in one hand and a small child in her arm. From a distance Amina noticed the woman walked confidently, her long black hair in a pony tail which swung from side to side. The child was dressed in a white sailor’s outfit and wrapped in a knitted blanket. Amina felt ashamed. This was a normal, loving mother and dedicated wife trying to improve the lot of her child. ‘Mariam, I’m Amina, hi, and this must be Siraj, aw, he’s so cute.’

‘Salaam, Amina, I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. Thanks so much for agreeing to take him in. You’re a blessing; we really appreciate what you’re doing.’

Amina smiled. ‘Here I treat each child like it’s my own. I’m sure Siraj will be a happy little guy.’

Mariam took Amina’s arm and looked into her eyes. ‘I hope it was mentioned we can’t pay anything now, perhaps in a while—’

‘That’s not for you to worry about, girl. You just go out there, see if you can find some work and leave this little fellow to me.’

Masondo’s office was on the fourth floor of the building, on the eastern, sea-facing side. The big windows provided breathtaking views of the ocean, the northern suburbs and an internationally acclaimed eighteenhole golf course. Except Masondo kept his blinds closed. In the years that Durant had known him, he’d never seen the view through those big glass windows. The setting was a distraction, Masondo said. They were there to work, not admire the view. Masondo motioned for Durant and Shabalala to sit. ‘Gentlemen, word from the
CIA
.’ Masondo flipped a sheet of paper to Durant, who opened it and read: ‘Our Service learned that a threat was made to the
US
Consulate in Durban from an unidentified caller who threatened retaliatory strikes against
US
targets in response to
US
aggression in Afghanistan. The threat was made from a South African mobile number. We would be interested to know the location of the cell on 21 October 2009 and any call records associated with the number.’

‘That’s it? You want me to check the number?’ Durant asked.

‘Of course.’

‘I’m sure whoever made the call wasn’t stupid enough to have a contract phone though.’

‘Just get back to me with the detail, Mr Durant. And Mr Shabalala, why are you looking so preoccupied?’

‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Good, then you help Mr Durant and get your mind off any plans you might be thinking of having with my daughter.’

Shabalala’s shoulders dropped. ‘Of course, yes, sir.’

Khalid lifted the page off the printer, closed and locked the door to the crypto room, and crossed the office to his desk. A minute later there was a brief knock on the door and Maia Berkeley and Cheyenne Ford stepped inside.

The consul-general spoke first. ‘Folks, let me give you a heads up, we’ve got quite a situation here. The threat against the consulate is apparently credible. The
CIA
sent through a document with details they got from the local boys on the cellphone used to make the threat. Can I see it, Imraan?’

Khalid passed the single page to Berkeley. She looked at it briefly and passed it to her Political Officer.

‘We’ve wanted to narrow the focus of the threat to a specific geographical area, and here we have it. Folks, the call was made in the vicinity of the Islam Africa Centre, so that’s got to be our target area. Imraan, what do we know about this place?’

Khalid shrugged his shoulders. ‘Ma’am, I just know it’s an Islamic Centre that does a lot of good in the community. I’ve spoken to people at the mosque, there’s nothing radical at all goin’ on there.’

‘Cheyenne, can you add anything?’

‘Just that there’s a Sheikh U-Haq there that I think we might need to look at. He’s never been on our radar, but he kinda fits our profile of someone we should be looking at. If someone at the centre made a call, then I guess we need to look at the whole thing.’

‘Aren’t we overreacting on this threat a little?’ Khalid asked.

‘No. You’ll hear it officially soon, it’s still pretty much corridor talk at State, but the Secretary of State for Africa’s visiting here around Christmas.

That just racks the threat level up through the roof.’

Khalid nodded. ‘That does. So what’s the plan?’

‘We need intelligence. Haven’t you got contacts in the area?’

‘I’ve got a lady, a local lady that I can perhaps use to infiltrate, but I don’t know if that’s gonna really do it.’

Berkeley shook her head. ‘Don’t second-guess yourself. We need this facility to be safe; it’s your job to make sure it’s safe. You represent Homeland Security so you need to really come to the party on this. Use every resource you have.’

Julian Dos Santos. A hated man. A loved man. Depends on where you stand. Dos Santos studied journalism at Rhodes and wrote a dissertation which he titled ‘Hostile communication: the art of intelligence-driven journalism.’ He took investigative journalism to a new level – far deeper than most journalists feared to go. And he practised what he preached. He’d made headlines for spending time in jail for not revealing his sources in a leaked intelligence report investigation. His deep sources were reliable, protected, and confident. He handled them like a spy would handle deep-throat agents – used dead letter boxes, safe houses, and intermediaries. Dos Santos’s exposés were dynamite – shot the ratings of
Informed Nation
to levels which made the number gurus shiver with excitement. Some said that without Dos Santos, the newspaper might as well shut down. Others said that Dos Santos’s budget ran into millions of rands per year, probably more than some small countries budgeted to finance intelligence-gathering. Yet Dos Santos was a humble man. Balding, although not even 30, with a propensity to wear worn jeans and a chequered jacket as a type of statement of eccentricity, there was nothing extraordinary about his appearance. But when he went to work, those in the corridors of power and privilege felt their jaws clench on Fridays when the
Nation
hit the newspaper stands.