Allegiance (31 page)

‘Hmmm . . . Listen, Rosetta, I need to go over the security plans. The cg needs feedback. She’s a little stressed out right now. I don’t want to keep you, if you need to get back to duty. I can find my own way back.’

Garcia shook her head. ‘Sorry, Imraan. No unescorted visitors, I’m afraid, it’s a standing order. Tell you what, I’ll rustle up a cuppa joe for you, so you do what you need to do. I’ll be around.’

Garcia marched off and Khalid mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. He’d always thought Garcia was a professional. Her guard was down – perhaps she was still under his spell. Or perhaps she remembered how many sections of the Code she’d broken when she was at the embassy annex in Kabul and he was the duty officer who had caught her. The hangar was cool but he felt the perspiration sticking his shirt to his back. What was he doing? How had it got to this point? The only thing he knew was that he had to ensure was that no one got hurt. The parcel had to be placed in such a way that it would create a spectacular news headline, but nothing more. Fulham would probably be fired, and that was good. He would have fulfilled his part of the deal and his blackmailer would be off his case. The weight of the parcel seemed to have increased tenfold in the last twenty minutes. What if it contained explosives? He had no way of knowing. It was such a small parcel, half the size of a shoebox. Perhaps he hadn’t thought enough about this point where he actually had to place the parcel. He had somehow managed to get it all the way in, past the most sophisticated security systems in the world, onto a
US
warship. It was ironic. He’d read the ship’s target acquisition system could simultaneously track fifty-four targets. Fifty-four. Yet, here he was, in the heart of the ship, untracked. Low-tech wins again. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps the Secretary of State needed a wake-up call. Perhaps he had been chosen for a reason. Still, he felt more like a terrorist. A traitor. He’d sworn to protect Americans from harm and to serve his country . . . but this was a ship which had dispatched soldiers to countries where they wrought havoc on civilians.
US
foreign policy had to be questioned, spotlighted and sometimes condemned. The rationalisations started sounding more reasonable. It was just a publicity stunt anyway; a way of drawing attention to a cause, like the environmentalists do.

The parcel. The briefcase clicked open and he hunched over it, sliding the package onto a metal ledge. Khalid removed the outer wrapping exposing the inner, waxy grey paper. He held it in his hand for a brief moment, trying to fathom why he was risking so much for this delivery. He’d made an irrational commitment to the stranger on the phone. Whatever the consequences of not acceding to the demands of the blackmailer, surely the delivery of this evil thing would bring consequences on a far larger scale? No, he couldn’t – wouldn’t – do this. A loud clunk echoed around the bay, a hatch opening and closing. Panic. Khalid fumbled and slid the box into a ventilation grid at his feet. He looked around, ready to make up something about stepping in a grease patch on the deck, but there was no one to be seen. He cursed himself for being so edgy. Relax and get the thing back. He reached into the space to retrieve it and realised the vent sloped downwards and the parcel had slid away and was gone.

‘What’s that?’ Durant asked as he entered Shabalala’s office.

‘It’s an apple, why?’

‘A real apple, one that grows on a tree standing in soil where there are millions of germs and fertiliser and . . .’

‘Very funny, Kevin. For your information, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.’

‘Whew. Did you make that up, because it sounds really scientific?’

‘Did you come here just to annoy me?’

‘No, I came to tell you that I think Mohammed is somehow involved in this thing. I just had a bad feeling about him.’

‘Okay. That’s good. Tomorrow’s the function on the ship and I’ll be happy once that’s all over with. Maybe we’ll have a quiet Christmas after all. I hope so, because I’ve got big plans for the New Year.’

‘You want to share something with me?’

‘No. Just making conversation.’

‘Marriage plans?’

Shabalala stopped peeling his apple, looked up, shook his head, and then continued. ‘Forget it. You already know too much. And one day you’re going to leak.’

‘To the boss? You’re crazy. I made you a promise.’

‘You’ll slip up. Say something you shouldn’t. He’s a smart man, he’ll pick it up.’

‘So you’re not going to tell me what the grand plan is?’

‘No.’

‘Fine then. I’ve also got plans for next year, huge plans that are going to affect you and change the way you work.’

‘You’re emigrating,’ Shabalala said nonchalantly, carefully carving a brown spot out of the apple’s white flesh.

Durant closed Shabalala’s door. ‘How did you know that?’ he whispered loudly.

‘I heard you talking to Stephanie on the phone. And I saw a photocopy of a removal firm’s quote. And someone called from the doctor’s rooms. The doctor only does medicals for people who want to emigrate.’

‘My goodness. Is nothing sacred around here any more? Are there any secrets left in this place?’ Durant asked, a slight smile indicating he wasn’t too annoyed at Shabalala’s detective work.

Shabalala nodded. ‘Yes, mine.’

‘So . . . what’s your opinion?’

‘On your emigrating?’

‘Obviously. Are you okay with it?’

Shabalala put the apple on a plate and looked up for the first time. ‘Look, Kevin, you’ve obviously got your reasons, it’s not for me to judge you. I can’t talk you out of it if you’ve made up your mind. Personally, I think it’s a big mistake, but that’s just an opinion.’

‘Does Mr Masondo know?’

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t tell him. He’d be devastated. You’re his blue-eyed boy. Literally.’

‘No I’m not. He mustn’t know. Not yet. It’s not cast in stone yet. Anything can happen.’

‘I know. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’

Durant awoke with a jolt. A thin line of cold sweat ran down his cheek. Another nightmare. He couldn’t remember the details. Just vague flashes of Splinters falling beside him, a Christmas tree, and Alexis calling his name. ‘Daddy, Daddy, wake up!’ A tugging at his T-shirt. It felt so real. He rolled over to escape the nightmare and opened his eyes. There she was. Alexis. Her face lit up. ‘It’s Christmas, Dad! Hurry, let’s go to the lounge!’

He tried to smile. It was meant to be a happy day, but sadness flooded him. A year ago he was lying in the
ICU
at Westville hospital while his family contemplated a possible life without him. A lot had happened in the year following. And with the identification of Frost, there was a chance he could put the pain behind him. It would have been better if he’d been shot on some arbitrary day that could pass by without him having an annual reminder; every Christmas from now on for the rest of his life would bring back bad memories.

Shabalala woke up and sent Christmas text greetings to a few people, including Durant. He noted that fewer people had sent him text wishes this year, a phenomenon he first attributed to economics and not his falling popularity, but then realised many of the people in his directory he hadn’t maintained contact with since he started seeing Nandi. His workload and secret relationship had taken their toll on his social life, a life that wasn’t even that social anyway. It was worth sacrificing the braais and parties where he always brought his own packed salad and freshly squeezed fruit juice and where he always felt like an outsider. He didn’t particularly enjoy kwaito or beer or even crude jokes. He sometimes felt he was only invited to socials as a sideshow, an aberration on display, because he always had a comment about the effects of meat and beer on the human body and although people laughed, they were actually laughing at him. He thumbed through the names in his phone directory and deleted seven people he knew he didn’t want to see again. He didn’t need shallow friends, he had Nandi now and she meant everything to him. She even agreed with him on some nutrition and health issues, and she was a doctor.

He sent a special message to Nandi from his private cellphone and signed it ‘Sandy’, a precaution in case Masondo checked her phone – a very likely possibility, he thought. In the message he reminded her it was only a few more days to their very special day that he’d been preparing for months. She replied that she was just as excited and looked forward to seeing him that evening when her dad went to the function.

Masondo spent the latter part of the afternoon organising access into the Secretary’s reception. His old comrade Njabulo had organised a shallow cover for him to give him access to the ship. He was posing as an unarmed vip protector for the Minister of Safety and Security, which would get him into the function and close enough to observe any activity which could be regarded as threatening, something which he felt he should oversee himself. He hadn’t been operational for a while and he looked forward to some real excitement again. The analysts had raised the threat level of the event to high and there were senior managers not having a merry Christmas at all in the operational centre at the provincial office. Here all the incoming information from the field units was fed to analysts who packaged it into relevant topic products and delivered it to various clients. He clipped his photo accreditation card onto his jacket pocket and a South African flag button onto his lapel. The Americans took their security precautions seriously. That ship was probably the safest place on earth tonight. Federal agents,
US
marines, SA navy, SA police. Everything would be fine. It was Christmas Day. His only real worry remained Nandi. And what she was up to.

Amina had collected everything she needed: documents, photographs and samples, and packaged them into one envelope. She sealed the envelope and attached a label with a name and address on it. She would hand it over when she saw him again. Ahmed was out, but she was happy to be alone. Siraj was sleeping. From her balcony, she could see the ocean and it reminded her of freedom and escape.

Fulham was exhausted. It was getting dark and the ship looked spectacular, both inside and out. She was ready to receive the Secretary and he would be glad when all of this was over. This hadn’t been part of his brief; it had been imposed on him by people who didn’t know the real reason he was in Durban. It was beyond his call of duty. He took a minute to stand on the deck and look out towards the lights of Durban and breathe in some fresh sea air. He was far from home and he missed his wife and kids. Overseas duty at this time of the year when he should be with his family. He wanted this thing wrapped up soon. He had enough information, he just had to compile the report and send it to his director. His deadline was 12 January and if he typed fast enough, he could have it done by the 6th.

He didn’t care much for Khalid as a diplomat, but felt empathy for him as a fellow human being. He’d made some bad choices; women, a dangerous weakness when you’re in the diplomatic service, and soon there would be consequences for him. It would be done discreetly and sensitively as State always did. Quiet, early retirement, no shot at the consultancy circuit, no government contracts. He would just disappear from American public life and even his ex-colleagues probably wouldn’t want much to do with him. And with no profile, no status and not much of a pension, the women wouldn’t exactly be tearing up his home street either. He snapped back from his thoughts as his cellphone trilled in his pocket. The screen said ‘unknown number’. He hesitated momentarily; he didn’t routinely receive anonymous calls and rarely answered them, but this one he did. The voice wasn’t familiar and the message was short and unambiguous. ‘Ask Mr Khalid about Mariam.’

‘Please don’t go out tonight,’ Stephanie said, and Durant knew she was feeling that same unnatural fear that he was feeling, that something bad was going to happen.

‘I’m not planning to. I’m hoping for an early night, actually.’

‘Last year it was you, and now this year it’s Mom. She was so reluctant to go for those tests. She said they wanted to put more microchips in her. It’s terrible.’

‘Well, the doctor said dementia may be treatable, so hang on to that. Maybe it’s the shock of the emigration thing that brought it on.’

‘I don’t know. Sometimes she’s so fine. And even when she says all these crazy things, she still seems fine – I mean she says it like she really believes it.’

‘But she does believe it. To her, it is real. And if we don’t go along with her stories, she thinks we’re part of some conspiracy against her.’

‘The doctor says distraction works the best.’

‘We’ll figure it all out, Steph. The British spy story is actually quite sweet. She even had me going for a while with Jamaal and the safe house in Kabul.’

‘I hope some medication helps, I really do. Lexi’s ready for bed if you want to go and tuck her in.’

Durant leapt onto Alexis’s bed and roared, ‘Here comes Mushkie Bear! You’d better run!’ Alexis tried to, but the bear had her in a gentle hug and tickled her neck until she giggled so much Durant had to stop.

‘Stop it, Mushkie Bear,’ she said. ‘Bad bear!’ She grabbed her dad’s shirt and pulled it. ‘I’ll pull your fur off!’

‘Ow,’ said Durant as a button popped off. ‘Mushkie Bear doesn’t like pain, have mercy, little girl. I’m a friendly bear, I like hugs!’

She gave the bear a hug and Durant rolled over onto his back and Alexis sat on his stomach.

‘Is that sore, Dad?’ she asked.

‘Not really,’ Durant lied.

‘Show me your bullet holes, I want to feel them.’

Durant rolled up his shirt and showed her the dark purple scars left by the bullets.

‘Was it sore when you were shot?’ she asked.

‘A little. It looks worse than it is, though.’

‘Why did the bad men want to shoot you?’

‘They didn’t know me. I think if they knew me, they wouldn’t have shot me. Who’d want to shoot old Mushkie Bear, anyway?’

‘What would have happened if you died?’

‘You can’t kill Mushkie Bear, he’s tough. And your old dad’s tough, so don’t worry.’