by Deon Meyer
9 August 2009. Sunday.
She sat in the sitting room on her new sofa. The Careers section of the Sunday Times was on the coffee table in front of her. Her eyes anxiously scanned the media adverts, companies searching for an eCommerce Operations Manager, a WordPress/PHP Developer, Web Developer and a Web Editor (Internet/Mobile experience ess).
The anxiety was growing, the doubt, she wasn't going to make it, wasn't going to survive. The Friend was right. On Friday afternoon an employment agency consultant had told Milla the same, hidden behind political correctness and corporate euphemism. She had no chance.
She couldn't accept it. At first she had called the magazines, directly, one after the other. She worked down her list of preferences to the dailies, Afrikaans and English. After that, reluctantly, the local, weekly tabloids, and finally, in desperation, tried to track down the publishers of company magazines.
Without success. The same message: No vacancies. But send your CV.
Right at the bottom of one of the inside pages she spotted a small block advert:
Journalist. Permanent position in Cape Town. Relevant experience preferred. Excellent research and writing skills required. Must relish team work. Tertiary qualification essential. Market related salary. Please call Mrs Nkosi. Apply before 31/08/09.
It was the 'preferred' that gave her a modicum of courage, made her sit up straight, fold the newspaper so that the ad was clearly visible, and pick up the cup of rooibos tea.
5
11 August 2009. Tuesday.
At 12.55 the bergie tramp pushed a shopping trolley down Coronation Street with his left hand, past the row of cars in front of the mosque. He swayed drunkenly. In his right hand he held a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag.
The street was abandoned, the owners of the cars inside the mosque for the Dhuhr prayers.
Beside a white 1998 Hyundai Elantra the bergie stumbled and fell. He held the bottle aloft, desperate to avoid breaking it. He lay a moment, dazed. He tried to get up, but did not succeed. He shifted around, so that his head was under the car, just beside the rear wheel, as if he were looking for shade. Then he pulled the bottle under the car to take a drink, and his hands were no longer in sight. He lay like that for a while, fiddling, before he slowly scuffled out again.
He put the bottle down on the tarmac, put one hand on the edge of the mudguard and tried to stand. He struggled, so that he had to take hold of the vehicle again, then pulled himself upright with great effort.
He brushed imaginary dust off his ragged clothes, picked up his bottle and, still unsteady on his feet, reached for the trolley and began meandering along again.
In the electronics room of the Presidential Intelligence Agency, Rahjev Rajkumar sat with a computer operator, while Quinn, the Chief of
Staff: Operations, stood beside them. All three stared at the computer screen that displayed a street map of Cape Town.
Quinn glanced at his wristwatch and then back at the screen. A sudden electronic blip broke the silence. A tiny red triangle appeared on the screen. 'Zoom in,' Rajkumar said.
The operator clicked on the magnifying glass icon, then on the triangle, twice, three times, until the name of the street was clear: Coronation.
'I think we're in play,' said Rajkumar.
'I'll wait for Terry's report,' said Quinn. 'But so far, so good.'
Quinn, Chief of Staff: Operations, reported directly to Advocate Tau Masilo, the Deputy-Director: Operational and Strategy. In the late afternoon in his superior's office, Quinn told Masilo the GPS transmitter was successfully attached to Baboo Rayan's white Hyundai Elantra. The monitoring showed that the car had been parked in front of a new address for over an hour. 15 Chamberlain Street, in Upper Woodstock.
'Let's do a drive-by,' said Masilo. 'The pharmacy motorcycle?' 'That should do.' 'I'm on it.'
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 17 August 2009
The Swing. One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three. Backstep. The Foxtrot. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick. The Waltz. One. Two. Three.
The Tango. Slow . . . Slow . . . Slow . . . Quick, quick. The Morse Code of dance. 'School figures', Arthur Murray called them, baby steps I have to practise. How different from the woman I had seen dancing last Thursday. But still, there was something comforting about it: if you want to get there, you must begin here. At the bottom. One step at a time. Strange how somehow it relieved the anxiety, the insecurity.
14 August 2009. Friday.
In her office, at the round table, Janina Mentz told Rajkumar and Masilo about the President's alleged vision of a single intelligence service. Masilo did not react. Rajkumar obsessively examined a piece of skin beside his thumbnail.
'Our careers are on the line,' she said. Rajkumar began to chew the skin.
'Are we the only players in the Supreme Committee developments?' she asked.
'Of course,' said Tau Masilo. 'Then we must exploit it.' 'So you're saying ...'
'Yes, Raj, I'm saying this is our ace in the hole. Our last resort. Unless you know of something else where we have exclusivity ...' 'No ...'
'Then we had better make it work for us, or we will be running the back-office of the new super-duper intelligence conglomerate the President is planning, wondering why we didn't work a little harder and a little faster when we had the chance.'
'But what if we're right? What if it isn't local action, just al-Qaeda in a last gasp attempt to send a few AK's to Afghanistan.'
'Then we will have to find a way to make that little fact work in our favour, Raj.'
Milla Strachan was reading when her cellphone rang at half past three in the afternoon.
UNKNOWN CALLER. 'Hello?'
'Is that Milla Strachan?' 'Yes.'
'I am Mrs Nkosi. From the agency. I have good news. We would like you to come for a job interview.'
'Oh ...' She was relieved and surprised and thankful.
'You are still interested?'
'Yes.'
'Could you come next week?' 'Yes. Yes, I can.'
'Wednesday?'
'Wednesday would be good.' She'd nearly said 'great', had to steel herself not to sound too grateful or too eager.
'Wonderful. Twelve o'clock?'
6
18 August 2009. Tuesday.
Advocate Tau Masilo opened a file on his lap, took out a photo and placed it on the desk in front of Mentz. 'Late yesterday afternoon, taken by the pharmacy motorbike at 15 Chamberlain Street in Woodstock...'
The photo showed the Sheikh, Suleiman Dolly, Chairman of the Supreme Committee, walking around the front of a car.
'There's a strong possibility that this is their new meeting place,' he said.
She studied the pictures. 'They chose well.'
'They did. That says something. Look at that photo. Dolly isn't driving his Volvo any more, which means he is being very careful all of a sudden. This is the new meeting place, with live-in security, because we saw Baboo has moved into one side of the semi-detached. There's the choice of the house itself. Middle-class neighbourhood, most of the residents are at work during the day. Few inquisitive eyes, quiet streets. Strange vehicles will be spotted quickly. Double storey, from that highest window you can watch most of the street.'
'A great deal of trouble,' said Mentz.
'A great deal. There must be a reason for it.'
'What do you have in mind?'
'Our only option is to put someone in one of the four houses across the street. We are studying the title deeds. The ideal would be if one of them was let...'
'Is it going to help, Tau?'
'What do you mean?'
'Is it going to help to get someone into one of those houses? A few more photos of them coming and going. That gives us nothing new. We need to know what they are talking about.'
'Ma'am, we are planning a great deal more than a camera.'
'Oh?'
'We are going to erect cellphone antennae, parabolic microphones ...'
&nb
sp; Mentz made a dismissive gesture.
Masilo wasn't put off his stride. 'Look at this, for example, here on the front wall. If we can replace one of these screws with an electro- acoustic microphone ...'
'If?'
'Ma'am, you know we have to do surveillance first.'
'Tau, sometimes I get the impression that we are just playing. With all this technology, with the idea of espionage. It's all so filmic, so much fun and excitement. But when it comes to results, we fall short.'
'I object...'
'You can object all you want, but where are the results? We had Ismail Mohammed inside, we tried to tap them with technology that I don't completely understand, and here we are. In the dark.'
'Not entirely.'
Janina Mentz pulled a face and shook her head. 'Bring me results, Tau.'
He smiled at her. 'We will.'
19 August 2009. Wednesday.
'Would you describe yourself as ambitious?' asked the maternal, middle-aged Mrs Nkosi.
Milla thought before she answered, because she suspected it was a trick question. 'I believe if you work hard, if you fulfil your responsibilities faithfully and to the best of your ability, you can be successful.'
Mrs Nkosi said 'uh-huh' again happily and wrote something on her papers. Then she looked up. 'Tell me a bit about yourself. Your background.'
Milla had expected that, and prepared for it. 'I was born in Wellington, I grew up and finished school there. My mother was a housewife ...'
'A home maker,' said Mrs Nkosi, as if it were the most noble of professions.
'Yes,' said Milla. 'And my father was a businessman, I suppose you could say ...'
Operation Shawwal
Transcription: Audio surveillance, M. Strachan. No 74 Daven Court,
Davenport Street, Vredehoek
Date and Time: 7 October 2009. 23.09
MS: They were Afrikaner hippies, my mom and dad. Very eccentric, very different from the other children's parents. I still don't know whether. . . what effect it had on me. There was a time when I was so ashamed of them ... I mean, my mom was ... Sometimes she walked around the house in the nude when we were alone. My dad smoked dope now and then. In our sitting room. He worked from home. The garage was his workshop. He fixed cash registers, at first. Then computers... He was ... not just eccentric, he was clever. He read widely, science, history, philosophy... He was a great fan of Bertrand Russell, he considered himself a relatively political pacifist, his favourite quotation was 'free intellect is the chief engine of human progress' ...
'I got married the year I completed my honours in journalism. Also pregnant. Then home maker ...' she let the designation hang between them with a bashful smile, because it was Mrs Nkosi's.'... for seventeen years. And now I am on my own again. I must add, that I am not officially Strachan yet. It is my maiden name, but the divorce is not through ...'
'Good for you,' said Mrs Nkosi. 'How long have you been on your own?'
'Oh a few months already.' A lie, born of necessity. 'Good,' said Mrs Nkosi. Milla had no idea why. The entire experience had a certain surreal feeling. The employment agency was a disappointment. On the fifth floor of a charmless building in Wale Street, the letters on the door were small and unimaginative. Perfect Placement Employment Brokers. The furniture and decor were without character, vaguely depressing. Which magazine WAS the position for,
she wondered. A small industrial publication? A new, free suburban newspaper?
They chatted for over an hour and a half, wandered off in slightly apologetic exploration of her background, her personality, her opinions and ideology, every answer rewarded with a 'good', a fascinated 'uh-huh' and the occasional 'wonderful', as though it were perfect and exactly right.
Eventually: 'Is there anything that you would like to ask me?'
'I would like to know to which publication I am applying?'
'To be honest, it isn't a publication as such. In the first place my client needs journalists for their skill in the processing of information. And good writing, of course.' Mrs Nkosi consulted her notes. 'The successful candidate will be responsible for the assimilation and structuring of facts, and the writing of concise, clear and readable reports for senior management. The reports play a cardinal role in the decision-making process of the institution.'
'Oh.' Her disappointment was visible.
'It's an important job,' said Mrs Nkosi.
Milla nodded, lost in thought.
'You will earn exactly the same as someone in the media. Perhaps a little more.'
'What institution is it?'
'I am not authorised to reveal that now.'
7
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 20 August 2009
The first six dance classes completed, the introductory cycle, and official transfer to Mr Soderstrom, my new, long-term instructor. I don't know what his first name is, that is Arthur Murray convention, the old-fashioned forms of address, 'Mr' and 'Mrs' and 'Miss', all gallantry and dignity. Mr Soderstrom is lean and such an incredibly good dancer. I asked him, after a session of sweat and struggle, did he think I could ever get there. 'Oh, yes,' he beamed. 'You WILL dance!'
I guess he says that to all his students.
Sat in front of the computer for three hours, trying to write my book. Nothing. Are there school figures for writing, an attempt at a novel reduced to one-two-three-backstep for amateurs? My thoughts drifted off to unfamiliar places. The nature of freedom, its relativity. Freedom, bound by conscience, by longing, guilt and dependence and money and stimulation and structure and talent and goals. And courage. I had lost mine, somewhere in the northern suburbs, years ago.
24 August 2009. Monday.
Milla was in the Pick 'n' Pay in the Gardens centre when Kemp, her attorney called.
'Two things. There is a letter here from your son. To you. And Christo phoned, very angry. He said people came to see him, at work. About your background check.'
'My background check?' Completely at a loss. 'Apparently you applied for a job somewhere.' She battled to put two and two together. 'Did you?' asked Kemp. 'Yes ...'
'He said they were asking questions about your political background.'
'My political background?'
'May I ask where you applied for work?'
'I... the ... employment agency couldn't tell me much. It's a journalism job .. .What did Christo tell them?' 'His exact words?' 'Yes.'
'That you are a bloody communist, just like your father. And as crazy as your mother. Apparently he was very upset, it was a big embarrassment for him, he said you ought to have warned him ...'
'How could I... ?' She heard the tone of another incoming call. 'Gus, I have to go ...'
'I'll send our messenger to deliver the letter to you.' 'Thanks, Gus.'
He said goodbye and she checked her screen. UNKNOWN CAI ,LER.
'Hello?'
'Hello, Milla, this is Mrs Nkosi...'
Milla wanted to ask about the checks, she wanted to protest politely, but before she could react: 'I have very good news for you. You are on the short-list. Can you come in tomorrow for another interview?'
It was so unexpected that Milla asked: 'Tomorrow?'
'If that's convenient.'
'Of course.' She confirmed a time, and said goodbye. She stood behind her trolley in the middle of the shopping centre aisle, trying to absorb it all. Apparently Christo's comment about her father, the communist, hadn't done too much harm.
Then Milla turned and walked back into Pick 'n' Pay and bought herself a pack of cigarettes and a Bic lighter. For the first time in eighteen years.
In the Presidential Intelligence Agency Operations room, the big screen displayed a photo of the man in a suit getting out of a car. He was coloured, dressed in a tasteful dark suit, white shirt and grey tie. He carried a black briefcase over his shoulder. It was a grainy image with little depth, and gave the impression of a telephoto lens.
Janina Mentz an
d Advocate Tau Masilo sat and studied it. Beside them stood Masilo's right-hand man, Quinn, the Chief of Staff: Operations. He pointed at the screen.
'That is one of the members of the Supreme Committee, Shaheed Latif Osman,' said Quinn. 'You don't often see him in a suit, more usually in traditional Muslim dress. The photo was taken on Sunday, at about half past twelve, at a five-star guest house in Morningside, Johannesburg. Osman booked in under the name of Abdul Gallie. Here he is on his way back to the airport. Twenty minutes earlier this man...' Quinn clicked the mouse of the laptop and another photo appeared.'... also left the location.' A big black man, smart in a dark blue jacket and grey trousers, getting into the passenger seat of a black BMW X5 in front of the guest house.
'This morning we identified him through the vehicle number plate. His name is Julius Nhlakanipho Shabangu. He goes by the alias inkunzi', which means 'bull' in Zulu. The greatest source of information on him is in the SAPS Criminal Intelligence database, connecting him with organised crime in the Gauteng area. He has a criminal record, two jail terms for armed robbery. He is under suspicion of being the brains behind a car hijacking network and various cash-in- transit robberies over the past four years. There is more information in the former Scorpions' files, but that will take a while to access.'
'According to one of the kitchen staff, Shabangu and Osman met in the library, behind closed doors,' said the Advocate.
Quinn confirmed this with a finger pointed at the screen: 'Shabangu arrived at the guest house at ten in the morning. His chauffeur waited outside. Two hours later he emerged, and shortly after that, Osman came out. Osman had not left the guest house since the previous evening.' 'Interesting,' said Janina Mentz.
'We have no previous record of a meeting between these two. Osman frequently travels to Johannesburg, but normally to mosques in Lenasia, Mayfair and Laudium. Shabangu was never seen at any of those places,' said Quinn.