An Ordinary Day (10 page)

Dahdi took the woman’s hand and held it. ‘I have an apartment in Durban which stays empty for six months.’

‘I visit South Africa a few times a year. I love this country.’

‘Well, please, for your kindness – please – you are welcome to use my apartment as my guest if you visit South Africa again, or if you have friends or family that wish to stay in Durban.’

‘I would not want to impose …’

‘No, no, not at all. It is quiet and discreet. Please, I am offering it to you. I am so grateful.’

The woman smiled as she posed Dahdi in front of a set of huge elephant tusks. ‘Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I will think about it, and I will contact you by e-mail.’

Dahdi nodded and leaned against the tusk, causing it to shift dangerously out of its position on the wall. ‘Do not forget to send me the photographs. Please, may I have your card?’

She slipped open a pouch, took out a card and handed it to Dahdi. He glanced at it quickly and then pushed it into his jacket pocket. It read:

‘SL Elhasomi. Political and Information Officer. People’s Bureau of the Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya. Valletta, Malta.’

It was a bad day to start with, and it was getting worse. Stephanie cried uncontrollably the day she and the baby arrived home. The surveillance unit had lost Ali in Cape Town. A waste of time, a waste of money. Durant should have been there, he would have been there had it not been for Stephanie’s hospital discharge. Now she was crying, the baby was crying and he was the one who had the real reason to cry. The surveillance team had let him down, the team leader had let him down, and he felt Stephanie had let him down. This was supposed to be one of the happiest days of their lives.

Stephanie wanted to rest. He felt he needed a rest too, but Alexis wouldn’t let him. He was happy to cuddle the baby, change nappies and listen to the cute little gurgles baby made, but breastfeed he couldn’t do. Stephanie said she tried at the hospital but it wasn’t working and had readily – too readily in his opinion – agreed to bottle-feed. The argument over this had been a non-starter. Stephanie was a little tense and he didn’t want to be the bad guy. He put Alexis in her cot and cleaned and sterilised the bottles from the last feed. He heated the expressed milk in a bowl of warm water and reached Alexis as her crying reached a point of desperation. Durant almost didn’t hear his cellphone ring.

It was Shezi. The surveillance unit had reacquired Ali leaving the Waterfront, but he had driven his hired car to the airport and climbed onto a Durban-bound plane. It was clear he was finished with his meeting and they had no idea who he had met with. Durant asked Shezi to ensure that the Durban surveillance unit monitored his movements closely from Durban International Airport. No more blunders. Alexis threw up on Durant’s shirt.

‘Mike,’ he said. ‘Do a baggage check on him.’ He carried the baby to the main bedroom in the hope of catching Stephanie awake, but the crying had not woken her up at all.

‘Can’t hear you,’ Shezi said.

‘Baggage check at
DIA
.
Do a baggage check on arrival
.’

There was a little pause and then Shezi said, ‘I’ll call you back. You’ve got problems there, I can hear.’

Durant took his pants and shirt off and took out a conservative handful of wet wipes to clear up the source of the spill. He put Alexis back into her cot once he’d stripped off the soiled linen, and focused on cleaning himself up. He hardly heard his cellphone ringing in the kitchen, and almost missed the call.

‘Hello? Mike, sorry, I said check his baggage when he arrives at the airport.’

‘Kevin, it’s Papa Dahdi.’

‘Sorry. I thought … Yes?’

‘Contact was made with Uptown Girl. The dangle is in play.’

Durant sat on the kitchen floor in his underpants and put his head in his hands. At least something had gone right that day.

Amina Yusuf thought for a minute, and then decided to argue. ‘You’re unfair, Ahmed, how can you threaten me like that?’

‘You must choose. You carry the name Yusuf, the name I’ve given you.’

‘My work doesn’t go against anything I believe, Ahmed.’

Yusuf sneered and looked away. ‘What
do
you believe?’

Amina reflected for a minute before looking up. ‘I believe in good and evil, and the struggle for justice and freedom.’

‘Whose justice and whose freedom? Your mind’s been twisted by the people you work for. You’ve become like them.’

There was a little pause and then Amina said, ‘They’re good people.’

Yusuf frowned. ‘Good people? They’re working against our brothers, our Muslim brothers who are trying to better their lives.’

‘Excuse me? Some of our brothers are criminals. I don’t discern between believer and unbeliever. I discern between right and wrong.’

‘Farouk Ali’s a good man, a good Muslim. He started with nothing, everything he has he’s worked hard for.’

‘Most of what he’s got he stole.’

‘I pray with him at jumma. He gives a lot. He gives more than he has to.’

‘Look, Ahmed, we’ve had this discussion before. Let’s not go there. You shouldn’t even know I’m investigating Ali.’

‘The Prophet says we’re like one body; we care for each other, we feel for each other, we have sympathy for each other and compassion; if one part of the body aches, the rest of the body feels the pain.’

Amina put her head in her hands and shook her head. ‘Love, I’m asking you, no, I’m begging you – think outside of what you believe. The Prophet would never condone Ali’s criminal activities.’

‘Pursuing your own brothers. What about me? Am I next?’

Amina leaned back and looked at the floor. ‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Sure my business is legitimate? Going through the books while I’m sleeping?’

‘Stop it.’

‘Want to take me down too? Show off to your colleagues how clever you are?’

‘That’s not fair.’

‘You’ve betrayed your faith, and you’ve betrayed me. You’ve betrayed yourself.’

Amina didn’t want her husband to see her cry. But it was getting harder to fight off the tears. ‘Why are you so cold? I need your love and support, not condemnation.’

‘I don’t condemn you. If you’re feeling condemned—’

‘Ahmed, my trust’s in Allah. I know I’m doing the right thing. Why do you only become a fundamentalist when we argue?’

‘You’re satisfying your own selfish needs. You want recognition and to feel good when you go to sleep at night. You’re neglecting your faith and you’re bringing this house into disgrace and shame. You’ve humiliated me.’

Amina closed her eyes as if in prayer. ‘I’ll protect the innocent, even if it costs me my life.’

‘Dignify this house, Amina; don’t talk about giving your life for unbelievers.’

‘You don’t have to like what I do or even support me. Just don’t stand in my way.’

Yusuf didn’t answer. He took his car keys off the table and left. Amina put her head in her hands and wept inconsolably.

To the thousands of people rushing through the shopping complex in Pretoria’s Menlyn Park, two unexceptional men sitting at a corner table in one of the restaurants wouldn’t warrant a glance. The discussion between the two men was of biological weapons, arms dealers, spies and mass destruction, but it was lost in the frenetic noise of children and the everyday conversations of shoppers rushing to get on with their ordinary lives.

Daniel Baker ordered filter coffee with hot milk and Paul Scott opened a file. ‘Joe Vitoli met Ali at the Cape Town Waterfront today,’ Scott said.

‘How’s old Joe doin’? He’s a damn fine man, Joe.’

‘He’s doin’ okay, I guess. We just spoke shop; he gave me a heads-up on the meeting.’

‘Yeah, what’s up? Is there progress?’

‘Hell, yeah, boss. Said Ali told him the Libyans made contact with him.’

‘Libyans? Those guys just don’t give up. Who’d he speak to? Anybody we know?’

Scott flipped a black-and-white photograph to Baker. ‘We believe she’s a procurement officer – Leila Elhasomi – she’s based at the Libyan embassy, or People’s Bureau as they call it, in Valletta.’

‘She’s a honey. Do we have a bio on her?’

‘Yeah, I ran the name. She’s come up before. We’ve even tried to recruit her at a couple of dip parties, but nothing’s worked. She’s a relatively junior player, even a bit amateurish.’

‘So what’s the deal?’

‘The Libyan service uses her because she’s westernised – fits in nicely, speaks English. Very pretty.’

Scott motioned to the photograph of Elhasomi Baker held in his hand.

‘Pretty? She’s damn beautiful.’

‘Yeah, well, she’s getting Gaddafi
WMDS
. That’s a bit of a turn-off for me.’

‘What’s the deal with Ali?’

‘She’s made contact with him and says she’s in Durban and wants to give him something. Probably not a personal meeting – normally a dead drop – a piece of paper with a list of items on it. Ali sources these items from overseas suppliers, takes payment from the Libyans, then delivers to a forwarding address.’

‘What are the items?’ Baker asked, smiling at the waitress as she delivered the coffee.

Scott was silent while the waitress arranged the cups and coffee pot on the table. He spoke again when she moved off. ‘No. She didn’t say anything about the items.’

‘Are we assuming it’s nuclear or biological material?’

‘No question. Libya’s been trying for years to develop a capacity. We’ve had the chemical plant in Rabta—’

‘And there’re still reports coming in of weapons-grade plutonium purchases through front companies in Italy and France. Paul, when’ll Joe get the list?’

‘Dunno, boss, but I think soon.’

‘Can we share this with our friends at
NIA
?’

Scott sighed and shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t call them friends, boss. You develop a kinda gut feel about folks in the profession, and my gut feel is they’ll take our info to the other African services. Damn it, the whole op could be compromised.’

‘Not so fast, Paul. You can’t assume that.’

‘Vitoli’s got brilliant access now; we can’t jeopardise all his good work just to be politically correct.’

‘Paul, I know these guys. I don’t see any problem with a short note, releasable only to South Africa, just giving the basic info.’

‘They don’t need to know, boss. There’s a very short road between Zimbabwe and Libya.’

‘You’re wrong about the South Africans. They take counter-prolif seriously.’

‘Counter-proliferation issues are sophisticated, boss. You need a first-world agency looking into it.’

‘Paul, my understanding is that South Africa’s helped us in the past. You should know that; you’ve been at the Post longer than I have.’

‘Boss, if there’s a direct threat to South Africa, no question, but I mean South Africa’s just a transit point – the end destination’s Libya.’

‘Paul, I—’

‘And, you know, I’m still not entirely comfortable with the South African government’s relationship with Libya. You saw at the African Union launch. They rolled out the red carpet for Gaddafi – he’s a hero to some of these old
ANC
guys.’

‘But that’s pragmatism, Paul. You know it. I think South Africa’s got to prove to the world that dialogue solves problems – they’ve proved it themselves. If old enemies didn’t start talking we wouldn’t be sitting here having coffee. We’d be bunkered down in the embassy basement with a civil war going on above.’

‘Boss, the point is—’

‘Let me finish, Paul. Mbeki’s reaching out to the unreachable leaders, making them feel part of the African renaissance. And you know what? It’s changing them. Look what Mandela did – he actually persuaded Gaddafi to turn in his intelligence officers responsible for Lockerbie.’

‘Lockerbie. Yeah, I thought that would come up.’

‘Who else would have been able to do that?’

‘I hear you, boss, but I’m still not comfy with this one. Let’s see how it pans out first. I know the South Africans won’t deliberately compromise the operation … but, you know, with the African Union and these new movements of African nationalism and African renaissance, loyalties get a bit twisted.’

‘Paul, I sometimes think you’ve been in the
CIA
for too long. You’re starting to become a conspiracy theorist. Give people the benefit of the doubt. Don’t let me label you Afro-pessimist; if you work here, you have to believe in Africa and its potential, and you have to help it reach its potential.’