by Deon Meyer
2 August 2009. Sunday.
On the sixth floor of the Wale Street Chambers, in the director's office of the PIA, the Presidential Intelligence Agency, Janina Mentz studied the transcript with focused attention. When she had finished, she took off her glasses and placed them on the desk. She raised her hands to rub her eyes.
She hadn't slept well, the news of the previous evening gnawed at her, the amalgamation rumour. Strange enough to be true. Or partially true. And what would become of her?
She was seen as an Mbeki appointment. The former president had created the PIA. Although Mentz had not picked sides in the leadership struggle, although she and her people did excellent work, the stigma clung. On top of that she was new, only three months as director, no proven record with which to negotiate for a new position. And she was white.
How much of the rumour was true? Mo Shaik as head of the superstructure? Mo, brother of Shabir, the convicted, corrupt Shabir, former friend of the new president. Anything was possible.
So many years of service. So much struggling and striving, so much hard work to get here. Only to lose it all? No.
Janina Mentz lowered her hands and put on her glasses. She reached for the Ismail Mohammed interview again. What she, what the PIA needed to survive, was an Exceptional Alarm. A Big Threat, a Sensitive Issue. And here it was, sent by the gods. Her responsibility was to exploit it.
She turned to her computer and searched for the historical reports in the database.
Report: South African Muslim Extremism revisited
Date: 14 February 2007
Compiled by: Velma du Plessis and Donald MacFarland
1. Qibla in a new guise
Qibla was established in 1980 by radical Imam Achmed Cassiem to promote the establishment of an Islamic state in South Africa, using the Iranian revolution as its model. During the 1980s, Qibla sent members to Libya for military training, and in the 1990s, operatives trained in Pakistan and fought alongside Hezbollah in South Lebanon. After 9/11, it also recruited fighters to send to Afghanistan.
Because of the clampdown on related organisation People Against Gangsterism and Drugs (PAGAD) between 1998 and 2000, and the arrest of over one hundred Qibla supporters for violent offenses, including murder, Qibla all but disappeared.
In its place, a new, and far more secretive organisation was created. It is called The Supreme Committee.
3 August 2009. Monday.
Milla Strachan pulled the key out of the lock, pushed the front door open, but did not immediately enter. She stood a while, her body motionless, her dark eyes unfocused for a moment. Beyond the open door the rooms of the apartment were empty. No curtains, no furniture, just a worn wall-to-wall carpet of washed-out beige.
Still she hesitated at the door, as though some great force held her back, as though she were waiting for something.
Then in one swift movement she bent down, picked up the large travel cases on either side of her and stepped through the door.
She put the luggage down in the bedroom, conscious of the depressing emptiness. When she had been here on Saturday, the former tenant's furniture had filled it still, stacks of cardboard boxes for the hasty trip to Germany, called back on short notice to an aid organisation's head office. 'I am so grateful that someone saw the advertisement, this is such a crisis. You won't be sorry, look at the view,' the woman had said and pointed at the window. It looked out on Davenport Street in Vredehoek - and a thin slice of the city and the sea, framed by the blocks of flats opposite.
Milla had said she wanted the flat, she would sign the lease agreement.
'Where are you from?' the woman asked.
'Another world,' Milla answered quietly.
The three of them sat around the round table in Mentz's office, each noticeably different. The director had a strong face, despite the large, wide mouth, lipstick free. The severe steel-rimmed spectacles, hair tied back, conservative outfit, loose, grey and white, as if she wanted to hide her femininity. Faint, old traces of acne down her jaw disguised with foundation, slender fingers without rings, nails unpainted. Her expression was mostly inscrutable.
Advocate Tau Masilo, Deputy Director: Operational and Strategy. Forty-three, fiat-bellied, colourful braces, matching tie, just a touch of flamboyance. The facial features strong, with gravitas, intense eyes, hair short and neat. Masilo's staff referred to him as 'Nobody' - from the phrase 'nobody's perfect'. Because in their eyes, Tau Masilo, phlegmatic and accomplished, was perfect. He was SeSotho, but he spoke five other South African languages effortlessly. Mentz had hand- picked him.
And then, Rajkumar, Deputy Director: Information Systems. The Indian with his long black hair down to his tailbone. Mentz had inherited him.
Rajkumar's saving grace was his phenomenal intellect and his insight into electronics and digital communication, because he was fat to an extreme degree, over-sensitive, and socially inept. He sat with his forearms on the table, pudgy fingers intertwined, staring intently at his hands as if he were totally captivated by them.
Mentz got up slowly. 'Any other evidence?'
Rajkumar, ever ready and keen: 'The Supreme Committee's email traffic - there is a definite escalation. I think Ismail is right, they're cooking up something. But I have my doubts about the target...'
'Tau?'
'What bothers me are the reports from Zim. Macki is no longer a player - he and Mugabe can't stand each other.'
'Possibly not. Perhaps directly from Oman, perhaps from another source. Angola is a possibility.'
'And the fact that they are planning something in the Cape?' Mentz asked.
'I agree with Raj. Firstly: local terror would make their partners very unhappy. Hamas and Hezbollah are very grateful for our government's sympathy and support. Secondly: how do they benefit? What is the purpose? I can't see anything logical they can achieve through that. Thirdly: what would the motive be? Now?'
'Afghanistan,' said the Advocate. 'That's the new flashpoint. The mujahideen need more weapons and supplies, but how can they obtain them? Pakistan is working closely with the USA, blocking all the holes. NATO is keeping an eagle eye on traffic out of the Middle East. Thanks to the pirates, Somalia is no longer an option.'
'Price of opium is down too,' said Rajkumar. 'Taliban cash flow is not what it used to be.'
'So where do you send your supplies from?' asked Masilo and answered his own question: 'From here.'
'How?'
'I don't know. By ship?'
'Why not?' asked Rajkumar. 'Afghanistan has no coastline, but Iran has.'
'Then why not ship the arms from Indonesia. Lots of angry Muslims there.'
'Good point. Perhaps because that is what the US will be thinking too. They have a big naval presence ...'
They looked towards Mentz. She nodded, pushed the papers into a neat pile in front of her. 'And yet, according to Ismail they are talking about a local attack ...'
'On the lower levels.'
'You know how information filters down from the top, Raj.' She looked at Masilo. 'How easy is it going to be for us to replace Ismail Mohammed?'
'Not easy. Ismail's escape ... it made them jittery. They don't meet in Schotschekloof any more, we still have to ascertain where their new hide-out is. If there is one.'
'That's a priority, Tau. Track them down. I want Ismail replaced.'
'That will take time.'
'You have less than a month.'
He shook his head. 'Ma'am, they weren't a priority for three or four years. It's a closed circle, Ismail was inside already.'
'There must be someone inside that we can ... reach.'
'I'll prepare a list.'
'Raj, why can't you read their email?'
'They're using an encryption we've never seen before. It might be a variant of 128 bit, but the bottom line is, we can't crack it. We will continue to sniff every package. Sooner or later, they will make a mistake and forget to encrypt. It happens. Eventually.'
She thought for a while bef
ore she spoke: 'There is something brewing here, gentlemen. All the signs are there. The email traffic, the sudden action against Ismail, the rumours, the so-called shipment, after two years of quiet. I want to know what it is. If you need more people or resources, talk to me. Tau, double our surveillance. I want someone in Ismail's place, I want weekly progress reports, I want focus and commitment. Thank you for coming in early.' I.
She went to fetch two more suitcases, then the sleeping bag and the air mattress out of the white Renault Clio she had parked in the street. Outside she felt self-conscious. What did the people here think? A forty-year-old woman moving in alone. That vague anxiety in her, undefined, lurking there like a slumbering reptile just below the surface of the water.
She unpacked her clothes into the built-in cupboards of cheap white melamine. In the bathroom the little white cabinet above the basin was too small for all her things. When she pushed the door closed, it caught her in the mirror - almost a stranger. Black hair, between long and short, not well styled. Not dyed, the grey hairs visible. The sallow Mediterranean skin, wrinkles at the corners of the eyes, two creases at the corners of the mouth. No make-up, lifeless, tired. An awakening, God, Milla, no wonder - you let yourself go, what man would stay with you?
She turned around swiftly, went to inflate the mattress.
In the bedroom she sat on the floor and unrolled it, putting the valve between her lips. Words ran through her, as always, too many.
Some of those words she would write in her diary: I am here because the woman in the mirror failed in a small way, day after day. Like holding a rope in my hands, the invisible weight on the other side of the cliff just heavy enough to slide down little by little, until the end slipped through my fingers. The cause, I know now, lay just here under my skin. In the texture of my tissue, in the twisting of my DNA. Simply made this way. Unfit. Unfit despite my best efforts and all my good intentions. Unfit because of my attempts and intentions. An inherent, inescapable, deep-rooted, total, frustrating, miserable unsuitability: I cannot be a wife to that man. I cannot be a mother to that child. And the strong possibility that I can't be a wife to anyone, that I am generally, simply unsuited to be a wife and a mother.
From her handbag, her cellphone began to ring. She closed the mattress valve carefully, deliberately. She guessed it was Christo. Her ex-husband. For all practical purposes.
The envelope had reached him.
She took the cellphone out of her handbag and checked the screen. It was Christo's number at work.
He would be sitting in his office with her letter in front of him. And the documents from the attorney, drawn up in a hurry on Saturday afternoon. Christo would have the door closed, that angry expression on his face, that you-fucking-miserable-stupid-woman version. The swearwords would be damming up. If she answered his call he would open the sluice gates with: 'Jissis, Milla.'
She stared at the screen, her heart thumping, hands trembling. She lowered the phone back into her bag. The screen glowed inside with an unholy light.
Eventually the ring went over to voicemail, the light dimmed. She knew he would leave a message. Cursing.
She turned away from the handbag and made a decision: she would change her number. Before she sat down beside the mattress again, the phone beeped to say she had a message.
5 August 2009. Wednesday.
They came to deliver the Ardo fridge late that afternoon. When they had left, Milla stood listening to its reassuring hum. She inspected its chunky shape and thought, here is something to hold on to. The first, solid shield against going back, against being swallowed up, against the fear of a formless future. This was a new unease she felt, the anxiety over money. A bed, a couch, table, chairs, desk, curtains, everything was ordered, a small fortune.
Her nest egg, her modest inheritance, had shrunk quite considerably.
She would have to find work. Urgently. For the money. But also for the liberation of it.
4
6 August 2009. Thursday.
She drove back to Durbanville at ten in the morning, when there would be no one home. She wanted to put the sleeping bag and inflatable mattress back in the garage; they belonged to Christo, and she would leave her keys there for the last time.
Herta Erna Street.
Christo had laughed at her when she said she refused to live in a street with that name.
He worked with figures, he never understood her relationship with words. Never understood that words were dynamic, they had rhythm and feeling. That the way her mouth and tongue shaped them was not separate from meaning, emotion and sound.
The Lombaards of Herta Erna Street. She had shuddered when they moved in.
She waited impatiently for the gate, as it slowly rolled aside. Behind it lay the big double storey. 'Developer's Delight', was how an architect had described this building style in some magazine. Or 'Transvaal Tuscan'. At best, 'Modern Suburban'.
They had come to look at it together back then. Two months of searching in this area, because Christo was determined to live here. His only reason: 'We can afford it'. Which really meant 'We are too rich for Stellenberg now.'
One Durbanville house after the next. She weighed them and found them wanting. Luxurious, cold houses without character. Not one of them had bookshelves. That was what struck her most, all these rich white people, but not a book in the house. But every single one had a bar. Elaborate, expensive wooden monstrosities, anything from converted railway sleepers to light polished Swedish wood, the hidden lighting often done with great care, skill and expense. Flick the switch and it would come to life, expand, reveal itself to you: a holy place, a cathedral to St Booze.
Until they had seen this house and Christo said: 'This is the one I want'. Because it looked expensive. She had objected, to everything, even the name of the street. He laughed it off and signed the offer to purchase.
Milla drove in, up to the triple garage doors. One for Christo's Audi Q7. One had been for her Renault. One for Christo's toys.
She pressed the remote for the garage door. It opened. She took the neatly rolled mattress and sleeping bag, climbed out of the car and walked in.
The Q7's spot was empty.
Relief.
She hurried to the back where Christo's stuff was stored so neatly. She put the bedding away in its place. Stood still, aware of the door on the left, the one that led into the house. She knew she must not go through it. She would smell Barend. She would see how they were living now. Here she would feel the gravity of her life pulling at her.
The sound of barking dogs down the street.
Depression laid a hand on her shoulder.
The dogs barked incessantly during the day in this neighbourhood. 'Dogville'. It was her name for Durbanville when she dared once more to complain about her lot to Christo.
'Jissis, Milla, does nothing satisfy you?'
She left the garage and hurried to her car.
At the Palm Grove Mall in Durbanville town centre she slipped into the first available car park, meaning to buy something for lunch at Woolworths. When she got out, she saw the sign for the Arthur Murray dance studio. She glanced at it for a moment, she had forgotten it was here, more evidence of the daze that she had been living in.
At the entrance to the supermarket she smelled the flowers and looked at them, their colours so bright. It was like seeing them for the first time. She thought about the words in her diary last night. How can I regain who I was, BC? Before Christo.
Back at the Renault she looked at the signboard again.
Dance. Christo wouldn't dance. Not even at university. Why had she so meekly accepted his choices, his preferences? She had got so much pleasure from dancing in those days, before it all changed.
She unlocked her car, got in, put the flowers and the plastic shopping bag with her lunch ingredients on the passenger seat.
She was free of Christo.
She got out again, locked the door and went in search of the studio.
On th
e dance floor in the bright light streaming through the windows were a man and a woman. Young. He was wearing black trousers, white shirt, black waistcoat. She had on a short wine-red dress, her legs long and lovely. A tango played through the speakers, they glided over the wooden floor, with effortless skill.
Milla stared, enchanted by the beauty, the flow, the perfect timing, their visible pleasure, and was filled with a sudden longing - to be able to do something like that, so well. One beautiful thing you could lose yourself in, where you could feel, and give and live.
If only she could dance like that. So free.
Finally she approached the desk in front. A woman looked up and smiled.
'I want to learn,' said Milla.
7 August 2009. Friday.
Her hair was cut and dyed. She had chosen her outfit with care. Her goal was informal professionalism, casual elegance with boots, slacks, black sweater and red scarf. Now, as she waited for The Friend in the Media 24 coffee shop she was uncertain - was her make-up too light, the scarf overdone, did she look too formal, like someone trying too hard?
But when The Friend appeared she said 'Milla! You look wonderful!'
'Do you think so?'
'You know you're beautiful.'
But she didn't know.
The Friend had studied with her, seventeen years ago, and made her career in journalism. The Friend, finely featured, was currently deputy editor of a well known women's magazine, and frequently spoke in accents and exclamation marks.
'How are things going with you?'
'Fine.' And then with some trepidation, 'I want to work.'
'Write your book? At last!'
'I'm thinking of a job in journalism ...'
'No! Milla! What for? Trouble?'
She knew she couldn't talk about everything yet. So she just shrugged and said, 'Barend doesn't need me at home any more.'
'Milla! Not a good idea. You are the wrong colour. You have no experience, no CV, your honours degree won't help, not at our age. You will be competing with hordes of ambitious, highly qualified young people who are prepared to work for nothing. They know Digital Media, Milla, they live in it. And the economy! The media is fighting to survive! Have you any idea how many magazines they are shutting down? Jobs frozen, cuts. You couldn't have picked a worse time. Tell Christo you want to open a boutique. A coffee shop. Journalism? Forget it!'