by Deon Meyer
'A new partnership.' Janina Mentz was pleased. This was progress. 'Strange bedfellows,' said Tau Masilo.
'I presume we are going to keep an eye on Shabangu.'
'Indeed.'
She wanted to light a cigarette before opening the letter. She realised she didn't have an ashtray. She went to the kitchen to fetch a saucer, lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply. And coughed.
She smoked the whole cigarette, staring at the letter on the coffee table. She picked it up reluctantly and tore it open.
Dear Ma
I'm very sorry, Ma. I was rude and I didn't behave right. I didn't appreciate you, only when it was too late. Ma, I have learned my lesson, I promise you. If you can forgive me, I will make it up to you. I swear, Ma. Pa says if you can just talk, we can make it all right again. Please, Ma, I miss you and need you in my life. I don't know what to say to my friends.
Call me, Ma
Barend
His handwriting was usually untidy, sometimes illegible. She didn't know where he had found this paper, thin, expensive, she could see here he had written with a great deal of care. Despite the spelling mistake.
Milla pushed it away across the coffee table, because the guilt and the longing burned right through her.
Late that night she lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling in remorse, building containing walls against the guilt by composing an answer to Barend in her head.
Let me tell you the whole truth: it won't help for me to have a talk with your father, because I don't love him any more. And to my shame, I don't know if I ever loved him. I don't hate him either, I moved on from that a long time ago. I feel nothing for him.
I love you, because you are my child.
But love is like a message. It only exists if there is someone to receive it. You have to admit that you haven't been receiving for a long time now. You, Barend, begging and pleading and full of remorse now, where was that when I sat down with you time after time in love and tenderness and asked, please, just talk civilly to me, because the way a man talks to a woman defines him? You are bigger and stronger than I am; physically I am afraid of you. I don't want to list your sins, because I can already see your face if you had to read them, those meaningless, suburban, domestic sins of the teenager: your pigsty of a room, your dirty washing always on the floor of the bathroom despite my pleas. Your dullness, your selfishness, your superiority, as though I were trash, to be endured only with effort. Your general lack of consideration, your self-centred existence, your endless requests for more money, more possessions, more favours. Your reaction when I say no, the explosions, the swearing. Your accusations, so bitterly unfair, your manipulation, your lies. You are a bully and a fraud and I love you despite all of it, but it doesn't mean I have to live with it for ever.
She composed that in her head, knowing that it would never be put down on paper.
Tomorrow morning she would write Barend an actual letter. She would say that she was not going to phone him just yet. He was to give her time to find her feet, please. But they could correspond and she would always reply to his letters.
That she had forgiven him already. That she loved him endlessly.
8
25 August 2009. Tuesday.
In the same vaguely depressing, characterless interview room, this time with four people: the cheerful Mrs Nkosi, a black man who just introduced himself as 'Ben', and at the back against the wall, two unidentified spectators, a very fat Indian, and a white woman in her fifties.
'I must say the background check was a bit of a surprise,' Milla cautiously addressed herself to the good nature of Mrs Nkosi.
'Understood,' said Ben, who reminded Milla of Shakespeare, one of Julius Caesar's 'lean and hungry men'. 'Unavoidable. Giving notice would defeat the purpose. Undermine the credence.' His sentences marched out like soldiers.
'But the good news is that you made the short-list,' Mrs Nkosi said. 'The job is just as I described it to you. And now we can tell you a little more.'
'It's for a government agency. A very important one. Are you willing to work for the government?' Ben asked.
'Yes, I... May I ask, which other people you spoke to? About me?'
'Usually, we take a look at your body of work as a journalist. Talk to previous employers and colleagues. Your case was different. Spoke to your ex-husband. A former schoolteacher. Former lecturer. You passed. Flying colours.'
She was dying to ask which teacher, Wellington had all those conservative Broederbonders ...
'Now. The job. For a State Department. Secrecy is essential. The major factor here: you won't be able to talk about your work. The real work. You will have to lie. To your friends. Your family. All the time. It can be a strain.'
'In the beginning, really just in the beginning,' said Mrs Nkosi soothingly. 'You get used to it.'
'Of course, you will be trained. To manage. But, perhaps this is not what you had in mind at all.'
'It's ... I had no idea ...'
'We understand, it is sudden, it's unexpected. Don't worry, you'll have plenty of time to think it over. But if you feel right now that it is something that you absolutely don't want to do ...' 'No,' said Milla Strachan. 'I... It sounds ... exciting.'
27 August 2009. Thursday.
Rajhev Rajkumar knew Janina Mentz well. He knew how to win her favour.
'About the Report Squad appointment...'
'Yes?'
'This one, I think, was the strongest candidate,' he said and tapped a fingernail on a folder. 'Why?'
'She's intelligent, little bit flustered, but Ben can be difficult. She's politically almost neutral, with a liberal background. Living on her own. And, of course, she can start on the first, which is a bonus.' 'She has no real applicable experience.'
'None of them had. As you know, it's a blessing in disguise. No bad habits, no media ideology.' 'Mmm ...'
Rajkumar waited patiently, because he knew Mentz had read the full transcripts, he knew which paragraphs would make the breakthrough.
Personnel Interview: Vacant position - Report Squad
Transcription: M. Strachan, interviewed by B.B and J.N.
Date and Time: 25 August 2009. 10.30
BB: Will you receive alimony?
MS: No.
BB: Why not? Surely, you deserve it. And your husband is a wealthy man.
MS: Taking money from him would be an acknowledgement of dependence. And submissiveness. Weakness. I am not weak. 'Yes,' Janina Mentz said at last. 'Appoint her.'
1 September 2009. Tuesday.
Fourteen chairs in the training room, a lectern in front, but she and the induction official sat side by side. His voice droned on, his face frowning and serious. 'Your primary cover is what you tell your family, and your friends. In your case, your primary cover is News This Week. It is a publication that actually exists, it is produced by the government's Department of Communication, distributed to ministers and directors general and their staff. So you tell people that you work there, that you scan the print and electronic media daily for grassroots level news from Limpopo and Mpumalanga, your area of focus. And that you write a weekly page on this in the newsletter. You should know, the Government really cares, they actually want to know these things. And you should also study the actual newsletter every week, so that you know the contents. Now, it is essential for a cover to have aspirational aspects, so you can also tell people that you hope to handle one of the bigger areas one day, like the Western Cape, and perhaps become the assistant editor in a few years.'
Milla wondered why she couldn't aim a bit higher, fictitiously speaking, at the editor's job itself.
Just before lunch she met her new boss, Mrs Killian, the manager of the 'Report Squad' as her induction official called it. Milla recognised her, she was the one sitting quietly against the wall at the last interview, the kind-looking one, everyone's grandma. There was only time for a brief handshake with her other colleagues - the spectacular Jessica, wild red hair and a magnificent bosom, and two ba
ld old men whose names ran by her too quickly.
She realised she was dressed too smartly, because Jessica was simply wearing an old, outsize jersey and jeans, while one of the old guys had on a cravat, with a checked sleeveless pullover.
2 September 2009. Wednesday.
Janina Mentz stared at the article in Die Burger for a long time. It was titled 'Nuwe vrae duik op oor wapens': New questions about arms emerge.
With a small smile she took a pair of scissors from her desk drawer and cut out the article.
Before she filed it in a new folder, she read it through again. Especially the fifth paragraph with the quote from David Maynier, Member of Parliament for the Democratic Alliance. 'What is happening, is wrong. We are about to supply flying suits for pilots to President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad of Iran, we have already sold grenade launchers and missiles that could be used to launch nuclear weapons to Colonel Muammar Gaddafi of Libya, as well as guns to President Hugo Chavez of Venezuela. The government should explain why they are selling weapons to a string of pariah states - and illegally to boot.'
At around 10.14 on the Wednesday morning of the second of September, the red Toyota Corolla with an Eastern Cape registration number stopped in front of 16A Chamberlain Street. The house was one of six single-storey semi-detached houses, each painted a different bright colour. Number 16A was an indescribable pinky-purple, with red-painted tops on the two pillars of the equally red garden gate. A coloured man and woman in their thirties took their time getting out of the car, stretching, as if the journey had been long and wearying, before approaching the little gate and entering. The young man took keys out of his pocket and opened the front door. Both disappeared into the house, which had stood empty since the previous day.
About a quarter of an hour later a lorry stopped in front of the house. The lettering on the sides read Afriworld Removals, Port Elizabeth.
The coloured couple came out of the front door, greeted the driver and pointed at the house.
Diagonally opposite, Baboo Rayan, dogsbody of the Supreme Committee, kept an eye on proceedings from the top window of number 15 - the opening of the lorry doors, the transfer of simple, middle-class furniture.
During the late-afternoon meeting, Advocate Tau Masilo reported that the two operatives were successfully installed opposite the house of the Supreme Committee. (Masilo had banned the word 'agent' from the PIA lexicon. 'We are not selling insurance.' His standpoint was not negotiable. 'The operatives will maintain a very low profile for the next week or two, ma'am. Tomorrow the man will begin work at a spare parts company in Victoria Street. For now the woman will play the apparent housewife and start photo-surveillance of 15 Chamberlain Street. We hid the voice and cellphone monitoring equipment in the furniture. He will set it up tonight and we should be operational by tomorrow. Then it just leaves the insertion of the electro-acoustic microphone, but we will only do that once we are absolutely certain of their movements ...'
'Good work, Tau.'
'Thank you, ma'am.'
She looked to Rajkumar. She knew the Indian had good news. Since the start of the meeting he had had that self-satisfied smile on his face. 'Raj?'
'Julius Shabangu, our crime kingpin in Jo'burg. We have very interesting insights ...'
Mentz lifted her eyebrows.
'We've had two vehicles, disguised as private security patrols from the Eagle Eye company, in Shabangu's neighbourhood for the past week,' Rajkumar paused for Janina Mentz to appreciate the wit and irony.
She just nodded.
'Anyway, they've been monitoring cellphone traffic. We've been processing a lot of data, and the good news is, we have two cell numbers that probably belong to him or his people ...'
'Probably?'
'Madam, we have more than twenty houses in the block, and a lot of cellular traffic. But the calls in question correspond to the times Shabangu and his staff have been at home. We have now isolated them, and will eavesdrop as from tonight. But here's the interesting thing. They've been talking to Harare. Two calls, from two different cellular phones, to the same number in Zim.'
'My, my,' said the Advocate.
'But we don't know who the Harare number belongs to,' said Mentz.
'We don't have access to infrastructure in Zim. But we will now start listening to any future calls from those numbers ...'
Mentz gave him a full-blown smile. 'Raj, that is good work.'
'I know,' the Indian said.
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 2 September 2009
Exhausted. What a day. Nine hours of training - Computer Literacy, Internet Skills, Search Procedures, Report Writing, Writing Style, everything in one room in front of one computer, with four different, equally soul-destroying instructors.
Photostatic record: Diary of Milla Strachan
Date of entry: 3 September 2009
Highlight of the day: for the first time I saw the words 'Spy the Beloved Country'. The words marched slowly across the computer screen of Oom Theunie, my bald colleague. His screen saver.
He smelled of pipe smoke, like my father.
9
4 September 2009. Friday.
They sat in the Bizerca Bistro, the elegant black Advocate Tau Masilo, and the crushproof white woman, Janina Mentz, heads together like lovers. They were an island of solemnity in the light-hearted lunch hour.
Masilo's voice was quiet. 'My source says our Minister's recommendation is that we be left in peace in the amalgamation, but there are other cabinet members who differ.'
'Who?'
'The Minister of Defence, apparently, and the Minister of Home Affairs.'
Senior cabinet members, Mentz realised. She digested the information before asking, 'Who else supports us?'
'The Deputy President.'
'Is that all?'
'You must understand, the information is second-hand, and I suspect much of it is speculation. But the important thing is, the President is not yet certain that we are included.'
They ate in silence. Masilo enjoyed his food with visible pleasure.
Eventually he put his knife and fork down. 'No wonder the Minister of Finance eats here too. Ma'am, may I make a suggestion?' he asked.
'Of course, Tau.'
'Now is the time to make a fuss. To convince the President...'
'How?'
'With what we have. I know, I know, seen objectively, it's not much. But a short report, cleverly written ...'
'It's dangerous.'
'Why would that be?'
'Tau, how much credibility will we lose if the Muslim affair is completely off-target?'
'Will it matter, in a month or two?'
'We simply don't have enough yet,' with disguised regret.
'I don't know if we can wait much longer, ma'am. It's a window of opportunity, and it won't stay open for long. The President could make his decision any day now ...'
Janina Mentz adjusted her spectacles. Unconvinced.
Masilo's cellphone rang. He answered and listened. Spoke into the instrument: 'From where?' Then again: 'I'll be there now.' -
He put the phone away. 'That was Quinn. I think the cellular taps in Gauteng have borne fruit.'
Quinn, the Chief of Staff: Operations, in a black turtleneck sweater and khaki chinos, caressed the facts with his quiet voice: 'Inkunzi Shabangu and his people are clever, as befits members of organised crime. Every week they replace their cellphone SIM cards. It takes Raj and his people three or four days to isolate the new numbers, because we can monitor Shabangu's house, that is our one constant site. That leaves only three days of surveillance before we have to start all over again. Incidentally they never use the same SIM card twice, and we suspect every new number is SMSed to important contacts on Sunday evenings. This was recorded this morning. One voice is Shabangu himself. The call came from Harare, it is a typical Zim accent...'
Quinn clicked on the mouse. The sound was excellent on the impressive system.
; 'Hello.'
'Mhoroi, Inkunzi, how are you?'
'I am very well, my friend, and how are you?'
'Not so well, Inkunzi, times are tough over here.'
'I know, my friend, I know, the newspapers are full of it.'
'What can you do ...?'
'So, my friend, ndeipi?'
'The news is that you were right, Inkunzi. Chitepo is working on a new route, and it will go through South Africa.'
Quinn paused the recording for a moment. 'Most likely that's Johnson Chitepo, head of Zimbabwe's Joint Operations Command, and Mugabe's right-hand man. But listen to this ...' and he reactivated the recording.
'And you are sure?' said the voice of Julius Shabangu over the speakers.
'Almost sure. Ninety-nine per cent. But it looks like he is keeping Comrade Bob in the dark.'
'Chitepo?'
'Yebo.'
'He's stealing from Mugabe now?'
'He is looking after himself.'
'OK. So when is it going to happen?'
'Soon, I think. But we will try to find out more.'
'And the route? How does it work?'
'All I know is, he's working with a South African. Someone in nature conservation. So it could be through Kruger, you know, the transfrontier park. They are connected now, Gonarezhou and Kruger. That is what we think, they will take it through there.'
'OK. My friend this is very good. But we need the details.'
'I know, Inkunzi. I will keep listening.'
'Tatenda, my friend. Fambai zvakanaka'
'Fambai zvakanaka, Inkunzi.'
Quinn paused the recording again. 'That just means "go well" in Shona. The conversation is quite typical, they keep it short, just like the following one. This is Shabangu phoning, the number he called is a house here in Cape Town, in Rondebosch East, which we'll naturally monitor from now on. The house belongs to one Abdullah Hendricks. Up till now he has not been on our radar at all.' He clicked on a new electronic folder.