Allegiance (12 page)

Cheyenne Ford liked his style. He wasn’t afraid of people in power; he fed off their arrogance and extravagance and smiled when they pulled their jackets to hide their faces on the court stairs. He was a soldier of truth, but not an idealist, and not foolish. He was cautious, professional. The type the
CIA
should fund for their propaganda operations. Perhaps they were funding him. She didn’t know. It didn’t matter. She first met him at a Fourth of July celebration at the consul-general’s residence. The press was invited and the Public Affairs Section didn’t expect Dos Santos to come. He, like any good investigative journalist, had immediately begun networking at the function and sought out influential people whom he could develop into confidential sources. Ford had paid only a passing interest in Dos Santos at the July reception; there were too many other people demanding her attention. As the political officer, she also had to ensure she was mixing with the local politicians and government officials and building her own network. She had nevertheless taken Dos Santos’s business card and slipped it into her card holder. Ever so often she would read one of his articles in the
Informed Nation
and consider calling him and engaging him on the topic, but she never had. Until the consulate got a phone call in October. It lasted about fifteen seconds and the consulate switchboard operator wrote down what the caller said: ‘We are not afraid to die. Your time as crusader-aggressors is at an end. Afghanistan occupation will be revenged! Victory is certain. Allahu Akbar!’

When Maia Berkeley called the senior staff to a meeting and relayed the threat, Ford felt angered. New security measures were implemented, extra security patrols brought in, delays at every turn. All because of one phone call, her comfort zone had been disturbed. And this was South Africa after all. They certainly couldn’t rely on local law enforcement to protect them. Dos Santos’s articles regularly painted a bleak picture of corruption, nepotism and inefficiency in the civil service. And in the absence of any effective law enforcement tackling the threat, it would remain there and her life would be disrupted, possibly for months. The
RSO
had said at the meeting that they were following up on certain leads, but that’s what security people always say. The only leads Khalid was following were those leading to women’s beds. The whole thing was a crock. The
CG
was weak, Khalid wasn’t interested and the local police were useless. It was perhaps a moment of weakness, or of strength. Whatever it was, it was wholly unprofessional and a total breach of security, but by the time she’d reflected on these things it was also too late. She’d already made the call to Dos Santos and told him the United States mission in South Africa had been threatened by Islamic terrorists barely eight months before the World Cup kick-off.

‘Come in, Kevin, have a seat.’ Masondo sat behind his desk and put his head in his hands. ‘The dilemma now is whether we target this organisation, the
IAC
, merely based on information the Americans have given us or if we start from scratch and try to figure out whether we would’ve targeted it anyway. It’s a catch-22 situation, isn’t it?’

‘Absolutely. We can’t target them until we know they’re up to something and we won’t know they’re up to something until we target them.’

‘And we can’t target them without authorisation. And they’ll be guided by our assessment of the merits of targeting. I don’t know, Kevin, what’s your gut telling you?’

‘My gut? Well, the threat call was made to the
US
consulate. May I?’ Durant pointed to the whiteboard and Masondo nodded. ‘The trace pinpoints an area the threat call was made from.’ Durant stood and drew a circle the size of a soccer ball on the whiteboard. ‘It’s a relatively rural area and no major roads run through it. The cellphone mast is here, the
IAC
is here.’ He drew two X-marks, one in the centre of the circle, another fifteen centimetres below the first. ‘This is a storage facility, and this is a convent.’ Another mark twenty centimetres above the first X. The cross was to the left of the first mark, on the edge of the circle.

‘A convent?’

‘Sisters of Mercy Convent is about two kays from the
IAC
,’ Durant ventured cautiously.

‘What are you suggesting? I hope it’s not to target the convent?’

‘The nuns are prone to violence, aren’t they?’ There was more than a hint of playfulness in Durant’s voice.

‘No place for levity here, Durant. This is serious business.’

‘Sorry. Look, we both know there’ve been red flags regarding the
IAC
before. The sheikh’s from Saudi Arabia and wealthy. I mean, these are all things which obviously worry the Americans because, well, of their experiences of terrorism. Yet, considering the assessment of the area, the
IAC
seems like the only plausible target. Maybe we’re a bit too naïve or accommodating. I don’t know, it’s a tough one.’ Durant sat down again.

‘Let me make it easier. I’ll get the analysts to write a motivation and we’ll send it to the folks who make the targeting decisions. Let them use their infinite wisdom to decide whether the
IAC
is a worthwhile target.’

‘There’s probably pressure from the Americans that we look at it, so they’ll probably approve. But I agree, send them all the available information and let it be their call.’

Masondo gave an agreeing nod and dismissed Durant.

Khalid closed the hotel room door softly and motioned Mariam to sit on the couch that faced towards the windows overlooking the sea.

‘I’m uncomfortable here, Imraan. Why a hotel room?’

‘It’s a safe place to talk.’ Khalid parted the curtain and glanced at the blue waters of the Indian Ocean beyond the promenade. This was Paradise indeed.

‘Safe from what?’

Khalid sat beside her on the couch, sinking into a plush cushion.

‘I’m a diplomat. I’m an American. I can’t be seen talking to locals, the South Africans are watching me, I have to be discreet. I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

Mariam shrugged her shoulders. ‘That seems a bit dramatic, but I’ll humour you.’

‘Good.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Are you adventurous?’

‘What do you mean?’

Khalid stood up and walked to the minibar. ‘I’ve got money I need to spend to get something done. What can I get you?’

‘Nothing for me, thanks.’ She twisted herself in the couch to see him. ‘What do you need done?’ she asked.

‘You look eager, my sweetheart.’ Khalid watched the brown liquid twirl around the glass as he filled it. ‘Was it the money part that got you excited?’

‘As long as I don’t have to kill anybody,’ she laughed at the same time thinking Khalid didn’t come across as a cold-hearted assassin.

Khalid laughed. ‘You watch too many movies. It’s nothing big. It’s easy. Easy for you.’ He sat next to her again, this time closer. She felt his arm against hers. ‘You think you can use R5 000?’

She could pay Amina back. Get Siraj new clothes. Her face was expressionless. She could play this game. ‘Well, anybody could use that.’

‘Here’s the thing.’ Khalid paused and ran a thumb and index finger across his nose. ‘I have to know I can trust you, absolutely and totally without a shadow of doubt.’ Mariam watched the furrows on his forehead deepen. ‘This is serious business, in fact, it could even be called espionage, and in some parts of the world, they still kill you for doing it. So I need to know that you won’t betray me.’ His voice was a gravelly whisper and Mariam tried to hide her smile. This was getting interesting.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, you have my word.’

Khalid took his jacket off and sat on the bed. ‘I need more than your word, my dear.’

Durant watched as Shabalala cleaned first the chair and then the part of the table where he was sitting with a wet wipe. The customers at Horizons slid glances at him and chuckled.

‘They’re laughing at me, but I don’t care. I don’t want to sit on other people’s mess. I don’t know why I even come here. The kitchen must be filthy. Imagine the oil they fry those chips in? Really, Kevin, why do you bring me here?’ he said with his mouth curved downward in a look of revulsion.

‘This is tradition, Ced. Go with it. You don’t have to eat. The food here will probably kill you anyway. So you can watch me eat this greasy breakfast and thank the Lord you’re not me.’ Durant flicked a burnt leftover chip off the table with his fingers without flinching.

Shabalala shook his head. ‘I don’t know if I like you teasing me.’

‘Teasing you? If I wanted to tease you I’d ask you about Nandi Masondo.’

‘Nandi Masondo? What do you mean by that?’

‘Come on, Ced, I’m not an idiot. You were under her bonnet.’

Shabalala unwittingly broke eye contact. ‘You’re not making sense.’

‘Her car. You actually went down to the office car park and got your hands dirty for Nandi Masondo.’

‘That’s rubbish.’

‘I saw your hands afterwards. A smoking gun. You like her?’

‘Just forget about Nandi, okay? I have.’

Durant chuckled. ‘It can’t work. Not as long as you are working for her dad. But how was last night?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Last night. It was Wednesday, how was it?’

‘How was what?’

‘How was whatever it was you did?’

‘Who said I did anything?’

‘Come on, Ced. I know every Wednesday night you do something, because whenever I phone you, your phone’s off and nobody can find you.’

‘So what? I’ve got a life too, you know.’ He shrugged uncomfortably.

‘Ja, but only on Wednesday nights, it seems.’

‘Kevin, look, I know you don’t have a lot of work to do, but don’t target me, okay? Just let me be.’ Then he added tersely, ‘Let’s not have this conversation again.’

‘I’m just joking with you, man, lighten up. I was just curious, that’s all. It’s not like I’m spying on you or anything.’ Durant wanted to change the subject. This was starting to get uncomfortable, and even the sight of the greasy breakfast arriving did little to lift his spirits. Shabalala seemed stressed.

‘Well, bon appétit, if I may use such an elegant term for that,’ and he pointed at Durant’s sloppy plate of food. ‘Mr Masondo said we’ve been authorised to target the
IAC
. He wants me to try to spot someone there to recruit.’

Durant felt relieved. Their attention was back on work. ‘Oh, good luck. Being Muslim would have been a good start. No one there’s gonna want to work for you, Cedric. Unless you want to convert?’

Shabalala felt his stomach churn as Durant stuffed a fork of runny scrambled egg into his mouth. ‘Everybody’s recruitable; every man’s got his price. I’ll get someone in there. Proper target analysis. Easy. Watch me.’

Durant noticed confidence in his partner’s voice. Perhaps he would succeed. But right now, all that mattered to him was breakfast.

When you travel north on the M4, the iconic Moses Mabhida Stadium bears an impressive presence against the western landscape of upperclass suburbia. The massive Y-shaped arch hints at the design of the South African flag and can be seen from as far away as Waterfall, fifty kilometres away. It had taken only two and a half years to build the structure, which towers higher than the Statue of Liberty and is considered testimony to great engineering skill. The arch supports 700 tons of cable and holds huge sails which deflect the hot Durban sun off the grandstands below. Across the highway and on the beach side of the stadium, two men met.

Splinters eagerly took the hot chips from the mobile fast-food stand and turned to Durant.

‘Thanks, man, first good meal I’m eating today.’

‘Sure that’s all you want?’

‘Ja, got to watch what I eat.’

‘You’re starting to sound like Cedric! Let’s sit here.’

The bench faced away from the sea and they sat staring at the stadium.

‘I don’t know if Moses would be happy, Kev.’

Durant looked puzzled. ‘Moses?’

‘Mabhida. Hero of the working class, champion of the poor and oppressed. They’ve spent over three billion rand on this thing and put his name on it. How’d you think the working class feel?’

‘Quite a price tag for a month-long television show. So does that mean you’re not going to watch the opening match?’

‘Course I’m going to watch it, what do you think? We’re going to be busy. Lots of visitors with their foreign credit cards. I’m already excited.’ Tomato sauce oozed out of the handful of chips as he squeezed them into his mouth.

‘And of course those cards your mates lift, you’ll bring straight back to me, right?’

‘Kev? You disappoint me sometimes. We’re a team, brother. I want this World Cup to work as much as you do.’

‘We’re worried about the extremists. The event’s watched by billions, so it’s a huge opportunity for terrorists to make a point.’

‘Really? Do we have that kind of terrorist here, Kev? Our people aren’t radical; they’re all talk, no action.’

‘It won’t be people from here. They’ll come from other countries. They’re probably already here. While we’re making our security plans and trying to make this thing succeed, they’re making their plans to use the World Cup to showcase their work.’

‘Which is?’

‘To create as much mayhem, destruction and fear as they can.’

‘Nah, Kev. Not on our soil. I don’t think so. They’d have to get past you guys, get materials, get access.’

‘You know what, Splinters? If they’re determined enough, they’ll get past us. They plan these things years in advance; they have time, money and motivation. How do we compete? They’re willing to die. That’s the problem. Have you heard anything on the street, anything at all?’

‘Some foreigners will get robbed; there’ll be big opportunities, lots of cash floating around. The guys are talking about this everywhere, but no one’s mentioning terrorism. Nobody’s talking about it in the Pakistani or Somali communities and that’s normally where it starts, isn’t it?’ He paused, licking his fingers noisily. ‘Hey, anyway, remember Tamara?’ Another handful of chips went into his grotty mouth.

‘The girl in your block?’