An Ordinary Day

by Trevor Corbett

  ‘We make stuff that’s not application-specific.’

  ‘You have my assurance the stated application is the correct one.’

  ‘Your assurance?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘We don’t want our components being used in the wrong applications. Shareholders don’t like it. Bad for business. Could lose my job if I get it wrong.’

  ‘The components are being used in medical equipment which will help black South Africans. Shareholders can sleep soundly.’

  ‘Krytons are nuclear triggers. You understand the implications? Some countries would give their GDP for a crate of krytons.’

  Ali didn’t like the American, and it was time to let him know.

  ‘Mr Vitoli, I’ve paid your corporation good money in good faith. There was no mention of a personal inspection in the contract and I don’t see the need for it. My client prefers confidentiality.’

  Vitoli nodded and consulted a notepad. ‘And your client is the Southern Medical Group in Cape Town?’

  Ali was visibly angry. ‘You appear to have all the paperwork, Mr Vitoli, so why are you asking me?’

  ‘I’m asking because I haven’t been able to substantiate much of this Southern Medical Group, far less anything else of what you’re claiming.’

  ‘I’ve sent faxes and e-mails continually over the past month. Have you read any of them?’

  ‘Oh I’ve read ’em, Mr Ali. But a fax maketh not a company. You see, Mr Ali, the Southern Medical Group’s an office with a desk and a phone and a very naïve young lady who answers the phone and refers all calls to third parties.’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Let me finish. Now these third parties I’ve looked at. Some of them have only a working knowledge of the medical equipment these components will be installed in.’

  ‘Mr Vitoli. We are confident we will be able to install the components to specifications. Are we finished?’ Ali closed his briefcase to reinforce his point.

  ‘I had to dig a little deeper.’ Vitoli raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. ‘Your visit to Tokyo last month. Business or pleasure?’

  Ali answered quickly. ‘Pleasure. I take a lot of vacations, is there something wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing wrong with vacations. I wish I had more. Travel to exotic places, meet interesting people.’

  ‘You should—’

  ‘Like the people you met while you were on vacation. Yeah, most of us meet interesting people in hotel lounges, but I must say, none as interesting as yours.’ Vitoli slipped an envelope from his jacket pocket and flipped it towards Ali.

  ‘What’s this now?’

  ‘Some colleagues of mine were also on vacation in Tokyo same time as you, and hey, guess what, same hotel as you too. They came back with a photograph and some rather disturbing news.’

  ‘So you spied on me. That’s illegal, sir.’

  ‘This is illegal. Take a look at the photo. Doesn’t really do you justice, but photos taken secretly rarely do. The other guy in the photo’s someone we all know pretty well. Lieutenant Colonel Ansari. A guy who’s spent the past three years travelling around the world trying to find someone who’d sell him – yip, you guessed it – krytons.’

  ‘You can’t prove that’s me. Doesn’t even look like me.’

  ‘No, that’s Hussein, the interpreter. This is you here, with your back to us.’

  ‘The insinuation is insulting, sir.’

  ‘Who’d want to sell an Iranian military attaché krytons – they’d surely put ’em into nuclear weapons, wouldn’t they?’

  ‘That could be anybody.’

  ‘Who’d let the Iranians buy a component which would contribute to their being a hostile nuclear power? You would, Mr Ali. You would.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Okay, if you insist. Hussein works for us.’

  Ali shrank back into his chair like a badly made mannequin. For an uncomfortable twenty seconds, he searched for the right words, knowing full well there were none. ‘I didn’t know he was Iranian. He told me he was a businessman from Yemen.’

  ‘Sure he did.’

  ‘He had contacts in the medical profession. I cut him loose, didn’t trust him.’

  ‘We know exactly what he asked for, and what you offered him. We even know what he offered to pay. The commodity was krytons and capacitors and the amount was four million US dollars.’

  Ali stood up indignantly and buttoned up his jacket. ‘If you’re finished with your fairytales, I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Mr Ali, this fairytale doesn’t end with “they all lived happily ever after”. No one will live happily ever after if we don’t resolve this issue right here and right now. Sit down, your career as a WMD broker is known to us, and when I say “us”, I mean …’ Vitoli threw a business card down on the table, ‘… us.’

  The card bore the name Richard Pearce, Director, United States Department of Commerce, Bureau of Export Administration. The Department of Commerce wouldn’t have been pleased to know the CIA were misusing their credentials.

  Ali looked at the card and then pushed it back along the table to Vitoli.

  Vitoli placed it back in his pocket. ‘I think we need to talk a while longer, Mr Ali. I don’t wanna break your rice bowl, I don’t wanna put you out of business ’cos then you’re useless to me. But you also need to understand that if you’re useless to me, you’ll never do business on this planet again.’

  Ali sat down.

  3

  OCTOBER 2002

  Durant was frustrated. The operational meeting had gone on for three hours without a break and it felt like nothing had been achieved. Back in his office, he reached for his telephone and dialled his home number. No reply. Stephanie’s cell number went straight to voicemail. Stephanie had complained about cramps in the morning, but still went to a meeting with clients. She was unstoppable. He put the receiver down as Shezi burst through Durant’s office door with two cups of coffee in hand, spilling most of it on the carpet, and sat down on the chair facing Durant.

  ‘Don’t worry, brother, Ali will be back. It’s actually better – let him make his plans wherever he is, then he’ll sit in his office soon and tell us all about them. Don’t look so depressed. Coffee?’

  ‘Thanks. I’m worried about Stephanie, man. She wasn’t well this morning and then still went off to a whole lot of meetings.’

  ‘She’s still working?’

  ‘Yip. She hasn’t slowed down at all. She just doesn’t listen to advice.’

  ‘Kevin, you worry too much about small things. Be like me. I don’t worry. Thandi’s at my throat all day long. She rides me like a taxi.’

  ‘Thandi’s a good lady.’

  ‘Ja, but she can be grumpy too. She’s always complaining. Coming home late, earning too little …’

  ‘I can sympathise.’

  ‘But I don’t let it worry me, because she does things I don’t like.’

  ‘Thandi?’ Durant tried to look incredulous. ‘Never.’

  ‘She only wants the best of everything. She can spend the whole day in the shops.’

  ‘That’s normal. Women like shopping. My wife does.’

  ‘But she can spend, broer. She’s spending my salary for 2005. It’s unbelievable. I think she’s bored.’

  ‘They say women spend time shopping ’cos it’s therapeutic. I bet she’s relaxed by the time you get home.’

  ‘I think we need to have kids, it’s the only way to slow her down.’

  ‘Children? Ja, that’ll save you a lot.’ Durant reached into his pocket for his ringing cellphone as Amina came into the office.

  Durant’s face turned pale. ‘Okay, thanks.’ He looked up at Shezi. ‘She’s at Westville Hospital.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She’s gotta have an emergency caesarean. I’ve gotta go.’

  Amina hovered at the door as Durant gathered documents from his table and stuffed them haphazardly into his safe. Amina cleared her throat. ‘Sor
ry, I know it’s a bad time, but it’s good news. Ali is at home – in his office, talking all the time – everything’s working perfectly.’

  Shezi leapt to his feet and hugged Amina. ‘Our midnight call wasn’t in vain, then. Did we do a good job?’

  ‘Perfect, Mike. You guys are amazing. Feels like I’m sitting across from his desk. He’s actually looking at me when he talks.’

  Durant didn’t look up from the cabinet he was locking. ‘Why today, why now? I really have to go.’

  ‘Go, be with her, brother.’ Shezi put his hand on Durant’s shoulder. ‘And God go with you.’

  ‘If you need anything, call us,’ Amina said as Durant left, briefly looking back to ensure he hadn’t left any documents on his table.

  ‘I need you to monitor those feeds and phone me if there’s anything. Phone me anyway.’

  ‘I will, I will. Don’t worry. Just get to the hospital.’

  ‘Maybe later we’ll both have good news.’

  There are about 50 000 jacaranda trees in the Pretoria suburb of Arcadia, and these purple-flowering giants line the streets of the second-densest concentration of embassies in the world, after Washington DC. The United States embassy compound in Park Street looks more like a monument than an embassy, with stark off-white concrete walls stretching up three floors, few windows and little imaginative detail. The detail is hidden in the security features, and although the building is centred in lush, landscaped lawns, the menacing barbs on the black perimeter fences and the dozens of cctv cameras remind the passer-by that the focus of the design is to keep those onlookers out.

  Mobile patrols walk the fence and any onlooker who lingers too long in the area or stares too hard at the building is usually challenged. If he is seen again, the police’s diplomatic unit is there for backup at the push of a button and the onlooker’s details are captured into a database located in Washington. Undercover surveillance detection unit members scout the area’s streets, coffee shops and buildings, looking for suspicious vehicles or individuals who may pose a threat to the embassy. These are lessons learnt from the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania.

  Heavily fortified, with well-armed Marines guarding the inside perimeter, the us embassy is probably one of the most protected buildings in South Africa. Inside the compound, it’s America. It looks and feels like the inside of a government building in America, apart from the sprinkling of South African employees who mostly speak with pseudo-American accents. These local employees are barred from entering the third floor, unless with permission and under escort. Permission is seldom granted. This floor is a restricted-access area and houses the FBI, DEA and customs offices. Down a passage and through another controlled-access gate is a reinforced door bearing the legend ‘Program Co-ordination – Authorized Personnel Only’. This area, shielded from external high-tech attack by a modular shielded core, is the CIA’s regional operations centre for Africa.

  There is a hive of bare, unmarked offices running off the central corridor, with nothing on the walls except floor plans and fire-escape details. At the end of the corridor, Daniel Baker, the CIA Head of Station in South Africa, has an office. Baker is a twenty-year intelligence veteran with an impressive record of service in various countries, many of them conflict-ravaged. It had taken him weeks to adjust to the laid-back South African lifestyle, but in the six months he had been at Post, he’d developed a good working relationship with his counterparts in the local intelligence community. His office was neat and functional, windowless, and with the ubiquitous TV in one corner silently playing CNN.

  He looked up from the decrypted message sheet and frowned above the small rimless glasses perched on his nose at the man sitting opposite him, who was beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘I can see why you’re smiling,’ he said to Paul Scott, one of his field agents, a tall, well-built man in his early thirties. Scott’s thick blond hair was neatly styled, and despite the fact that he’d had corrective surgery to a hair lip years previously, he was still good-looking. He leaned back in the leather chair and his square face broke into a laugh. ‘It was clear-cut, boss,’ he said. ‘The fellow had no choice but to cooperate. I can picture old Joe Vitoli talking to him and saying, “Look, buddy, here it is – Export Commodity Control Number 3A41E. You’re nailed, or maybe we can talk.”’

  Baker looked up from the document. ‘Had the capacitors and krytons already been rerouted to Iran, or hadn’t they arrived?’

  ‘They’d arrived. They were in a warehouse in Cape Town. The shipping documents were with them, noting the final destination as Iran. And, you know, he didn’t even know what the stuff was for. When Joe told him they were nuclear triggers he said “used for?” and Joe told him to look it up on the internet. You gotta listen to the tape. It’s a hoot!’

  Baker nodded. ‘What was the stated use?’

  ‘Stated use? Scanners for medical use, the papers said. And, you know, the boys at Cimex Technologies in Texas let us know about this order very late – it’d already arrived when they became suspicious. Ali paid cash up front, didn’t quibble about the price and didn’t want Cimex to send a technician to install the equipment. That’s what got the radars goin’. This thing had red flags all over it and they only informed us when the consignment was delivered. If we’d been a day later, we woulda missed it. Some Iranian colonel is gonna have his butt kicked – he’s spent the money and his shipment ain’t comin’.’

  ‘So now this importer – Ali. He belongs to us? Are you sure he understands this?’

  ‘Trust me, boss, he understands. We own him. He can kiss his empire away if he screws us.’

  ‘Do we liaise this with our local counterparts? NIA or saps?’

  Scott rubbed his chin momentarily, as if in thought. ‘Not this one, boss. I don’t advise it yet. We want to get some more mileage out of this guy, Ali. They’ll just arrest him. He’s involved in all sorts of stuff. He’s too valuable to lock away. We know there’ll be more illegal imports through diversion. This time krytons, next time sarin, or centrifuges or uranium.’

  Baker felt uncomfortable. ‘I hear ya, Paul, but this ain’t our country. We’re guests here.’

  ‘Boss, dual-use applications are a problem. Unless we identify the middleman, as we’ve done here, this stuff could easily be diverted from the us to any lunatic out there. If we take this guy out, they’ll find somebody else who we don’t know about and we lose control. I’ve got children at home.’

  ‘Okay,’ Baker said, standing up, ‘let’s give it a while and see if anything else comes to this guy. Then we’ll have to start sharing with the local services. If we’ve learnt anything from September 11, it’s sharing.’

  Durant reached the maternity ward as Stephanie was being wheeled in. He approached the trolley and a nursing sister took him firmly by the arm. ‘Mr Durant?’ she asked, but he didn’t look at her, just at Stephanie’s pale and drawn face. She managed a smile when she saw him, and lifted her arm, flinching in pain as the drip catheter pricked her. ‘Mr Durant, your wife is fine – she needs to rest for a few minutes. You’re welcome to go into the ward with her.’

  Durant had still not looked at the sister. ‘The—’

  ‘Your baby’s fine, she’s in the nursery. She’s a healthy little girl, 3.2 kilograms, born at 14:32 by caesarean section.’ Durant glanced up at the wall-clock. It read 14:48.

  ‘A little girl. And my wife …? I left work as soon as I got the call.’

  ‘It was an emergency caesar, everything moved very quickly. I believe your wife did try and phone when she left for the hospital with contractions, but your phone was off. A friend brought her.’

  ‘I was in a meeting. Can I see the baby?’

  The nursery was uncomfortably warm and bathed in a surreal blue light, which made Durant feel like he was under water. The sister led him into a separate area of the nursery where a little figure lay under bright lights, with just her eyes covered by a mask. Durant felt cold tears streaming down his cheeks. He lon
ged to pick her up, hold and hug the little baby, but she looked too fragile lying there and he didn’t want to risk it. He put his finger on the baby’s hand, and she curled her fingers around it, gripping it tightly. Her face seemed to relax, he thought, or he could have imagined it, but it was almost as if she knew it was her father, and that everything was okay. He had dreamed of this moment for so many years. Since he left school he’d wanted to have children and he cursed himself for putting so many other things first and letting so much time go by. If he’d known the moment was going to be so momentous, so profound, surely he would have prioritised his life differently. It had been a chaotic day, a rollercoaster ride; he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but everything was fine now and Stephanie and baby were in good hands. Baby yawned lazily and squeezed his finger with hers, and at that moment Durant knew his life had changed. Everything around him seemed to collapse into a void, and it was just him and the baby. Nothing else mattered.

  Click. ‘Embassy of Libya, can I help you?’

  ‘Good afternoon, I would like to speak to Miss Elhasomi.’

  There was a delay of a few seconds and then a female voice came on the crackling line. ‘As Salaam Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatu.’

  ‘I hope you are engulfed by the mercy and blessings of Allah. This is Mohamed. The parcel is ready for delivery.’

  ‘Allahu Akbar, Mohamed. The funds are available immediately in cash. I will personally see to payment.’

  ‘Thank you. When can I expect you?’

  ‘I will arrange a visit next week. I have the list.’

  ‘It will be an honour to meet you.’

  ‘Mohamed, I thank you for your sacrifices. Allah is our goal. Goodbye.’ Click.

  Amina pointed the mouse at the file and played the conversation again, this time writing out the words as she heard them. Her scribbled handwriting revealed the excitement she felt as she wrote the time of the intercept at the top of the page with the comment ‘F Ali and Elhasomi (unknown Arab female) – regarding payment for goods.’ She had no idea who Elhasomi was at the Libyan embassy, what the goods were or how much Ali was to be paid, but she knew she had hit the jackpot.