Allegiance (7 page)

‘Splinters is a good man.’ Durant felt life coming back as he spoke about work issues. He opened his filing cabinet and shook his head. ‘Where’ve all my files gone?’

‘I’ve made some improvements to your systems around here. This is the twenty-first century. We don’t do paper any more.’

‘They let you into my office?’

‘We weren’t sure you were going to make it, Kevin, I’m sorry. The work had to continue.’

‘You thought I’d die. And you didn’t water my plant.’ Durant pulled his hand through the shrivelled plant and then scattered the crushed leaves on his table.

Shabalala put his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable at Durant’s reaction. ‘I’m sorry about your plant.’

‘It’s completely dead. And my cup was dirty. You couldn’t have just taken it to the kitchen for me? You thought, “He’s dead anyway, who cares about the cup?”’ Resentment permeated Durant’s voice.

‘That’s not true, Kevin. I couldn’t touch that dirty cup. You know it. Don’t take it personally.’

Durant slammed the steel drawer shut. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. So – my files?’

Shabalala held out a memory stick. ‘I scanned them all onto this. No more paper. The Amazon’s disappearing too quickly, somebody has to stop it.’

Durant frowned and then put his hand on his forehead and sank into his office chair. ‘I don’t know whether to thank you or slap you.’

‘Rather thank me, because if you slap me it could have career implications for you. And also, I’m a lot bigger than you and never pick on someone bigger than you.’

Durant laughed. He was feeling better already. ‘You’re okay, Cedric, you know that.’

Shabalala smiled. ‘I want you to get back into your work as quickly as possible and I’ll help you. I’m told you love your job.’

The job. It wasn’t the job that had nearly got him killed. It was his own recklessness and careless disregard for the rules. Perhaps he needed a Shabalala to rein in his cavalier attitude to a dangerous occupation.

‘Anything more on the guys that did this to me?’ he asked, his voice upbeat.

‘Well, Splinters is working on it. He’s quite connected so I’m sure he’ll come up with something eventually. I’ve briefed him.’

‘The guy that he brought to our meeting, the Filipino guy who died – anything on him?’

‘That’s a dead end. I think he just ran into the wrong people at the wrong time. They probably didn’t trust him, followed him, saw you and thought they’d just wipe out the whole lot.’

Durant shook his head. Shabalala’s summary of the event bore little resemblance to Durant’s experience of it. But then again, Shabalala seemed to see everything more clinically and clear cut than he did. ‘Splinters needs to stay away from that crowd. They might’ve identified him already. They might try to kill him again.’

Shabalala sighed. ‘We’re paying Splinters to be an informer. Let him inform. He doesn’t have to get close to them, he just has to speak to people, keep his ear to the ground. He can do that.’

‘I’ll set up a meeting with him, have a chat, and see what he can do.’

The
US
consulate office in central Durban commands a great view of the coastal resort city. The building is one of the tallest in Durban and the view extends from the Bluff in the south to Umhlanga Rocks in the north, and on a clear day you can see ships at the outer anchorage in the Indian Ocean. Imraan Khalid looked through the big windows of the consul-general’s office at the yacht basin and the sea. It reminded him of Miami. Durban was a playground: cosmopolitan, gritty, sizzling hot. He’d only been in the city for a few hours and he liked it already. Sure better than his last posting. His thoughts were disturbed as a tall and elegant woman he guessed to be about 50 entered. The consul-general, he had heard, ran a tight ship and her appearance reinforced this perception. Her eyes held his gaze and the tight-lipped smile gave away some of the reservations she might have about the new member of her staff. She’d obviously read his personal file. The confidential annexure that followed him from post to post. He knew it was there, a scar that wouldn’t fade. The case was dismissed years previously, yet he still struggled to shake the label: ‘womaniser’.

‘Maia Berkeley,’ she said and shook his hand firmly. ‘Welcome to the Durban mission.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. I am honoured to be here. Great posting.’

‘Jerry Wilson, our previous
RSO
, had a blast here.’ The
RSO
, or Regional Security Officer, was the diplomatic officer charged with the responsibility of securing the consulate and
US
interests in the area. Essentially, this meant that Khalid worked for the
US
State Department internationally, forming a vital component of the Homeland Security network.

She surveyed his
CV
.

‘Impressive, Imraan. You’ve served in Afghanistan.’

Khalid stood erect, almost as if at attention. ‘I volunteered, ma’am.’

Berkeley smiled. ‘Well the next four years in Durban should be a breeze for you after Kabul.’

‘I’m happy just not havin’ to wear body armour every time I go outside. Gets mighty hot out on the frontier.’

‘It gets pretty hot here in summer too.’ The
CG
gave Khalid a sideways glance. ‘You’re not married?’

‘No, ma’am. Tried it once. Worst year of my life. Married to the State Department now.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I think a work–life balance is important. Well, we have a few dozen people here who’ll be looking up to you and expecting you to keep us secure. I guess you’ll be running random office checks and personnel searches?’

‘Of course.’

The
CG
frowned and smiled. ‘And no fear or favour, so you’ll check me as well?’

‘It’s a given.’

‘Good. I’m so sorry to ask, but your faith is Muslim, isn’t it?’ His file said so, but she didn’t know how else to ask. In a city of hundreds of thousands of local Muslims, having a contact network was crucial.

‘It is indeed.’

‘Sorry if it seems forward, but maybe chat to Cheyenne Ford. She’s the Political Officer. I’m sure she could use some help in the Islamic field, if you don’t mind, of course. Durban has a huge Muslim community and we need some contacts.’

Khalid grinned widely. Contacts? The new posting was getting better by the moment. He could tap into the local female fraternity, and it would be official too. ‘The Political Officers always want to be my best buddy. Sure I’ll help out.’

‘Come on, Cedric, it’s a favour. Put your game face on. Stephanie won’t go with me and I don’t want to go by myself.’

The three months back at the office had been both difficult and good. Meeting agents again after being away had been difficult, especially the evening meetings, which had rekindled feelings of fear and insecurity. Masondo had been supportive and Durant’s workload was ratcheted down considerably. Shabalala had become more than a colleague, he’d become a friend. His obsessive behaviour had become a comic distraction to Durant. In the beginning, Durant was careful not to be politically incorrect or insulting. He would quietly tolerate the germophobia and try to accommodate his colleague’s obsession with cleanliness. After a few weeks, Durant realised he could tease Shabalala and he wasn’t easily offended. His crazy colleague’s obsessive-compulsiveness helped distract him from the issues he knew he had to deal with. Post-traumatic stress was also an anxiety disorder. They were good company.

Shabalala shook his head. ‘No, it’s a comedy show and I don’t like comedy. It’s not funny.’

‘This guy is, I promise you. And you get a meal. Man, it’s a bargain.’

‘It’s only a bargain because you got free tickets.’

‘Ja, but still. Food and entertainment for free, how can you resist it?’

‘Easy. Telling jokes isn’t theatre and the food’s probably bulk-made in a kitchen that doesn’t live up to the health standards.’

‘Hey, man, you’re crazy. It’s normal restaurant food. It won’t kill you. My digestive system is half the size it should be, yet I manage restaurant food.’

‘But you’re unhealthy,’ Shabalala chided.

‘Unhealthy? You’re kidding me! I should be dead.’ Durant tapped his stomach. ‘It’s because I’m in such good shape that I survived four bullets.’

‘Look, Kevin, I know you mean well, but I really won’t enjoy it. Please don’t be offended. Maybe see if someone else will go with you.’

‘Why are you like this?’ Durant asked, feigning irritation.

‘Like what?’

‘So fussy about things?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Shabalala fiddled with an imaginary piece of lint on his sleeve.

‘You’re not normal. Do you sleep in an oxygen tent at night?’

‘I don’t. For your information, I’m just careful. I want to look after myself, there’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘Why? You’re going to die anyway. Why not make the most of life while you’re alive?’

‘This is how I am making the most of it. Why do you think I’m not happy? I am happy. So you go and be happy your way and I’ll be happy my way.’

‘I was a bit like you a few months ago. I also used to be careful. Laid off the fried foods, wore a hat in the sun and I even put a smoke detector in the house. You know what, when those bullets hit me, I started seeing things differently. It’s amazing, you stop stressing about stupid little things and start living, I mean, really living.’

‘You don’t get it, do you? I am living. I
am
living.’ Shabalala sounded irritated. Durant thought he was pushing it a bit too far.

‘Okay, it’s fine, I get it. Sorry to be so, I dunno, finicky. As long as you’re happy, man. I’ll go and watch it by myself, don’t worry about it, you don’t have to go with me.’

‘Fine.’ There was a hint of sadness in Shabalala’s voice and Durant wondered if his colleague would ever open up to him.

It was 10 a.m. and already the wet heat hung over Umhlanga like a woollen blanket. Spring had come with a vengeance. Although Durban’s summer heat was a lure to those who loved the surf or the supertubes at the uShaka Marine World theme park, it was cruel to the working classes who laboured outdoors. Amina had spent a small fortune kitting out the crèche with a top-of-the-line air-conditioning system, remote-operated, ducted and eco-friendly, but the kids – being kids – still preferred to be outside in the play area. The children were in the shade, but the hot air infiltrated the shade too and there was no relief there. Not for Amina, anyhow. Her blouse was drenched and she felt uncomfortable. She looked up from the crèche playground straight into the eyes of her husband.

‘Ahmed, what are you doing here?’

‘You aren’t happy to see me?’

‘Happy? Of course I’m happy, darling, just surprised, that’s all. You never come here during the day.’

Ahmed Yusuf was still in his overalls and Amina knew there had to be a good reason why he’d left the printing presses to come and see her at the crèche.

‘It’s so weird, Amina. I just felt like coming here. I just felt like seeing the kids.’

Amina nodded and smiled. Perhaps it was just hot at the factory and he needed to get out a bit. ‘Look at little Jake,’ she said, ‘he’s covered in paint.’

‘Who’s that?’ Yusuf asked, pointing to a little boy sitting alone in the sandpit.

‘Zaakir. And look at Zahra. She’s such a little darling; she always shares with the other kids.’

‘This is too sad for me. Is it too much to ask of God for just one child?’

‘He knows best, Ahmed. He knows we’re trying and we’ll be blessed one day.’

‘It’s been so many years of trying. I used to think it was your job at Intelligence.’

Immediately Amina felt sadness. Her work at the
NIA
had been stressful, yes, but it surely hadn’t affected her ability to have children. And it was her husband’s constant biting criticism of her job that had caused the strain and then the anxiety which had led to her resignation. To please him.

‘What’s wrong with us? I’ll be an old man soon.’

‘Come on, Ahmed, we’re still young. There’s plenty of time.’

‘You’re surrounded by kids all day. Maybe you don’t feel it as badly as I do.’

Amina took her husband’s hand. ‘I feel it more. Every day I see other people’s kids growing bigger and it’s a punishment for me. I have to cope with the fact that I can’t fall pregnant while everyone else can.’

‘Our child will come.’

‘God willing.’

‘It feels like the name Yusuf will just disappear into history otherwise. And the business.’

‘God will find a way, Ahmed, trust Him.’

Alfred Masondo tapped his fingers on his desk. For an operational head, his desk was relatively bare, but this meant nothing. Masondo had the uncanny ability to collate requests, organise information and delegate tasks, an admirable, albeit rare, trait for a civil servant. As intelligence chief, he’d learnt that intelligence was a thing best dealt with immediately. It was a consumable product with a very short shelf-life. A day too long on the table and it would be food for the shredding machine. The immediacy of intelligence had been a true maxim when he was a combatant in the field and it was just as true in the civilised and formal environment he found himself in now. He slid a folder across the table to Durant.

‘He’s a walk-in,’ Masondo said.

Durant opened the folder and his eyes scanned the transcript of a debriefing. It didn’t excite him. Pakistanis, criminal activity, the subject himself vague about what he wants in return. Probably just wanted protection so he was offering chicken feed. Durant had seen it all before.

‘He was referred by
HQ
. Have you picked up anything on Pakistani gangsters operating in Durban?’

Durant shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anecdotal stuff. There are rumours of a type of mafia operating in South Africa with political or military ties back to Pakistan, but I don’t know how true they are.’

Masondo nodded silently and adjusted the picture frame on his table. His only daughter, Nandi. The apple of his eye. The picture was taken the day she graduated from medical school and he saw so much of his late wife in her features. ‘He’s in Durban. Take Shabalala with you when you go and see him, otherwise we’ll be hauled across the coals for not following procedure.’