by Deon Meyer
'And what do we know about Consolidated Fisheries, Raj?'
He handed her Jessica's concise report, and said that the Report Squad could find no evidence whatsoever that the company was involved in any form of illegal activity. 'They are part of the Erongo Group of companies, which is listed on their Stock Exchange. They own a fishing fleet of nine stern trawler vessels, a fish and tinning factory, and they exploit the Benguela region. There's nothing there.'
'But,' said Tau Masilo, ever the lawyer at work, 'listen to this for a second,' and he straightened a sheet of paper in front of him and read aloud: 'All vessels wishing to enter Walvis Bay Harbour, require the following information to be submitted seventy-two hours prior to the vessel's arrival, by email or fax: International Ship Security Certificate Number, Security Status of the vessel, Date of departure from last Port, et cetera ...'
Masilo looked up at Mentz, 'All vessels,' he said and let that hang there for a moment before completing the sentence: 'with the exception of fishing vessels ...' 'Damn,' said Rajkumar.
'I suggest, ma'am, that we deploy our three teams in Walvis Bay That is where they plan to land the weapons. Without a shadow of a doubt...'
17 September 2009. Thursday.
The electro-acoustic microphone in the wall of 15 Chamberlain Street yielded dividends for the first time.
Just after eleven in the morning, Shaheed Latif Osman arrived and went inside while the female operative across the street recorded it in photographs, and on video. She was wearing her headset, but did not expect to hear much through the concrete microphone; usually the men spoke little in the front room.
But to her surprise she heard Osman's voice: 'All quiet?'
Transcription: Audio surveillance, S.L. Osman and B. Rayan, 15 Chamberlain Street, Upper Woodstock
Date and Time: 17 September 2009. 11.04
SLO: All quiet?
BR: Dead quiet, Uncle.
SLO: Are you absolutely sure, Baboo?
BR: I am.
SLO: Garage cleaned out?
BR: Yes, Uncle. The car will fit in easily.
SLO: Very well. You wait in the garage. When I tell you, open the doors. Once the car is inside, close them again. Baadjies has a bag over his head, but he understands it has to be like that. You will lead him through hereand then downstairs. Then you come out again, the fewer faces he sees, the better. Understood, Baboo?
BR: Understood, Uncle.
The woman operative made sure the conversation had been recorded on the laptop before she phoned Quinn.
Quinn hurried to the monitoring room, where he quickly turned on the TV screens and channelled the live video and audio feeds. He was just in time to see Baboo Rayan push open the second brown wooden door of the garage at number fifteen, look around quickly to see if anyone was watching, and then walk back into the deep shadow inside the garage.
A white Chrysler Neon turned in the driveway and drove into the garage. Baboo Rayan quickly closed the doors.
Quinn listened to the audio feed.
It was quiet for twenty seconds. Then he heard Osman's voice. 'Slowly, Terry, you're going down the stairs now.'
An unfamiliar voice said 'OK.' There were shuffling noises, then it went quiet.
They stood on the roof of Wale Street Chambers so that Masilo could smoke a cigar, 'in celebration'.
Rajkumar was not in a festive mood. 'The Supreme Committee, consorting with a Cape Flats crime gang. Doesn't make sense.'
'Of course it does,' said Advocate Tau Masilo.
'What do you mean?' Rajkumar asked.
Masilo explained. The Supreme Committee had Inkunzi Shabangu on one side, who would try to intercept the diamonds, and now they were talking to Terror Baadjies of the Ravens, the eventual buyers of the diamonds. 'Because they want to cover all their bases. If Bull Shabangu does manage to hijack the stones, they buy it from him. If he doesn't, they do a deal with the Ravens.'
Rajkumar was not yet convinced. 'But at what price?'
'You have to understand the nature of the game. Diamond smugglers all have the same problem; how do they get the most bang for their buck, because international agreements and law enforcement are making it very difficult to sell the stuff these days. The big money is now in India, where more stones are being processed than in Holland. But to sell to the Indians, you need to work through three or four middlemen, each taking a cut. The Ravens will probably get forty cents on the rand if they sell through their channels. But the Supreme Committee has a trump card: Sayyid Khalid bin Alawi Macki. Remember, he is a money launderer, and he probably has a direct line to the Indians. So they can offer the Ravens fifty or sixty cents on the rand, and still get in excess of eighty cents in India. Keep in mind that we are talking about a shipment in the region of a R100 million. The Committee is looking at a worst-case scenario of at least R20 million clear profit. More, if Bull Shabangu intercepts, which still makes that first prize.'
'I did not mean the actual monetary cost,' said Rajkumar, resigned. 'What about the cost of doing business with a crime syndicate, a drug organisation? I mean, PAGAD will shit their pants. The whole extremist community will be up in arms.' He lifted both hands and swept his hair back over his shoulders. 'What I'm trying to say is: the stakes are very high. Which means the ultimate goal is very, very important. Big. Bigger than the terms we've been thinking. So big that they must be able to say the end justifies the means. If this is going to be an act of terrorism, it's going to be ugly. Which makes this really bad news.'
'Bad?' said Masilo. 'We'll stop this thing. And, you have to think like the Director, Raj. In terms of our future, I think it's great news.'
Jessica came to fetch Milla from her desk. 'Walk with me,' she whispered.
Milla followed her to the ladies' room. The Goddess took her lipstick out of her handbag and stood in front of the mirror to make repairs. 'A friend of a friend is coming down from Jo'burg this weekend. He's an articled clerk at this big law firm in Jo'burg, beautiful guy, would love to have company.' 'Oh?'
'He's twenty-four, and ...'
'Twenty-four?'
The Goddess laughed at her and put away her lipstick. 'The perfect age. So much energy Anyway, he's an articled clerk at this big law firm in Jo'burg, he's down here for the weekend. And he's beautiful...'
'Jess, I don't know ...'
'Just let him take you to a club, have a few drinks, dance a little, have some fun. If he's not your type, you've had a great night. If he is, you fuck him blind.'
Milla blushed. 'I...' 'Oh, live a little, Milla.'
She suppressed her discomfort. 'I'll think about it.'
Mentz asked the one question they had not foreseen. 'Why Terrence Baadjies, the enforcer?'
'Ma'am?' Tau Masilo asked, to gain time.
'Why did Tweetybird de la Cruz send his general to the Supreme Committee? Why not Moegamat Perkins, the money man?'
He should have known she would study the report in detail. He was annoyed with himself, with Quinn and Rajkumar, that not one of them had thought of it.
'And more,' said Mentz, 'why would the Committee agree to negotiate with Baadjies? He is everything they despise, and he is, I understand, a very dangerous man.'
Masilo knew he couldn't fool her. 'I don't know,' he said. 'Then we must find out, Tau,' she said. The frown was back.
She phoned Jessica at half-past nine that night. 'I can't,' she said. 'He's barely older than my son.' 'That's exactly why I never want children,' said the Goddess. When Milla had rung off and lay back on her couch, she suspected Jessica knew the truth: it was lack of confidence. In herself.
17
18 September 2009. Friday.
For Suleiman Dolly, also known as the Sheikh, it was the day he would be informed of The Date.
His cellphone rang at 07.28. Sayyid Khalid bin Alawi Macki greeted him in the Muslim manner. He said, 'Sheikh, it has been confirmed. Twenty-three Shawwal 1430.'
Dolly's heart beat faster, and he repeated the words. 'Tw
enty-three Shawwal 1430. Allahu Akbar.'
Julius 'Inkunzi' Shabangu would be dead in twelve days, in a pool of blood in his bedroom. But for those twelve days he would remember 18 September as 'Black Friday', because that was the day the Muslims cheated him. And the day that dog Becker crossed his path.
Some time after nine, Abdullah Hendricks, spokesman for Osman, phoned. 'Sir, there have been developments.'
Inkunzi drove his BMW X5 in Sandton's peak traffic without a hands-free set for his cellphone, dividing his focus between the road and the call. So he wasn't alert to trouble initially. 'What developments?' he asked.
'Well, it seems that market forces are at work, if you know what I mean ...'
'No, I don't know what you mean.'
'Supply and demand, these things are always changing. I have been asked by Inkabi to renegotiate with you.'
'Renegotiate?' Shabangu's complete concentration was now on the phone call and he smelled a rat.
'Yes, sir, unfortunately we are now only able to offer you thirty cents.'
'That's bullshit...'
'I am really sorry, but that is my instruction.'
'We had a deal, you tell Osman we had a deal.'
'Please, sir, no names ...'
'This is bullshit. Why is Osman doing this?'
'Please, sir, we have to stick to the agreed protocols ...'
'Fuck the protocols, what is Osman doing?'
'Well, to be honest, sir, we have reason to doubt your sources. About the route.'
'The route? I said from the beginning, it will take time, it's a process ... Wait a minute ... you bastards ...'
'Excuse me?'
'You fucking bastards. It's Tweety the Bird, isn't it. You've done a deal with him. That's why you know about the route.'
'No, sir,' Hendricks remained calm, courteous. 'It's simply market forces, our buyer has made a lower offer, and we have to ...'
'You are fucking screwing me ...'
Hendricks tried to say something, but Shabangu shouted him down. 'I'm telling you now, I'm going to get the diamonds, and then we'll see what price you pay. I'll find out what fucking route they are going to use, and I'll hijack the whole fucking lot!'
'Please, sir, you are using your cellphone ...'
'Fuck you,' Inkunzi shouted, and killed the call with a hand shaking in fury. He cursed for ten minutes solid, hitting the steering wheel, glaring at the traffic around him. Then he called both his lieutenants to discuss the Muslims' treachery, and then his chief informer in Harare.
'Why the fuck do I pay you?'
'Inkunzi?'
'Why the fuck do I pay you? You have the route all wrong, and I'm telling you now, if you don't get the right one in time, I'm going to cut out your fucking balls personally, do you understand me?'
By eleven, Inkunzi Shabangu was back in his luxury home, in a slightly better mood thanks to the assurances of his lieutenants, his informer and his other Zim contacts that they would pin down the route, come what may.
Then his cellphone rang again.
'Yes?'
'Ouboet, my name is Lukas Becker, and you accidentally stole my money. I'm not angry, bro but I want it back.'
The laconic style and slow rhythm of the voice was so strange and unexpected, the choice 'ouboet', meaning elder brother in Afrikaans, the suspected source - a white Afrikaner - that Shabangu burst out laughing.
And Becker said, 'I can work with a man who can laugh, Ouboet.'
A surveillance operator sent for Quinn shortly after the conversation between Shabangu and Hendricks, and he listened to the recording at the operator's computer, requested that it be placed in the shared folder on the server and transcribed, and went to Masilo's office to tell him.
The Becker conversation was sent to him later by email - two audio files attached. The operator wrote: Thought you'd enjoy this. Pretty amazing.
Quinn listened to it.
(Shabangu laughs uproariously.)
I can work with a man who can laugh, Ouboet.
Who the fuck are you?
Lukas Becker. Your guys hijacked my car yesterday. I rented it, Ouboet, so you can keep it. But my money was in it. Now I'm asking you nicely: I want my money.
Money? What money?
A lot of money. In pounds Sterling. Cash.
My guys? Why do you say they were my guys?
I've got one of them here with me. Says his name is Enoch Mangope, the one with the white eye. He says he works for you.
I don't know anyone like that.
Ouboet, he didn't want to say anything at first, but when we stopped in front of the police station, he started talking. I don't think he's lying. Listen, let's keep this simple. I just want my money.
I know nothing about your money.
I believe you, bro', but your people will know. The money was in my rucksack, the rucksack was in the boot. You can keep the rucksack too, just give me my money.
Or?
No, let's not talk about 'or' yet.
Here's one for you: or you can fuck off.
Ey, Ouboet, that attitude will only make trouble.
Trouble? Who the hell do you think you are?
Lukas Becker. I thought I told you that already.
(Shabangu laughs curtly.) You must be joking.
(Call terminated.)
End of the first audio file. Quinn grinned and activated the second.
Ouboet, I understand how you feel, a white guy just calling you out of the blue, but I'm not joking. I just want to sort this thing out in a civilised manner. What do you say?
(Shabangu laughs incredulously.) Do you know who I am?
I don't know you, bru, but your man Enoch-One-Eye here says you're an Inkosi. A dangerous oke.
That's right. I'm not your fokken bru ...
That's just the way I talk ...
... and if you phone me again, you will find out just how dangerous I am.
I believe you are very dangerous, bru, but I also believe you are a man who will understand. I worked hard for that money.
I don't give a fuck.
Ay, Ouboet, don't say that.
What will you do? Come hit me?
I'm going to keep asking you nicely, Ouboet. Until it won't help any more.
(Shabangu laughs.) You're fucking crazy.
Not yet...
Listen, get off my back. And tell Enoch he doesn't work for me any more.
18
Tau Masilo did not concern himself much with dates that lay in the past. His focus was mostly on the future. But he left a trace of 18 September in his appointment book.
Ever since Janina Mentz had caught him unawares with the question about Baadjies, it had bothered him. In the first place it was a matter of honour to the Advocate; to be prepared and informed, to consider every angle and perspective and understand, to give a well thought-out and even-handed opinion. That was why Mentz had appointed him in the first place.
He knew why he had been caught napping with the Baadjies affair - there was simply too much happening, too fast. But he didn't believe in apologies and excuses. It was afternoon before he had a chance really to think it through, after all the excitement of the recorded conversations and the interception of email. He read the Report Squad document on organised crime again, he looked at all the relevant transcriptions, he allowed himself to speculate. In his mostly illegible handwriting he scribbled quick keywords in the open spaces of this Friday's appointment book.
Using this process he systemically developed The Supposition.
That the Supreme Committee knew more about the inner working of the Ravens than the Presidential Intelligence Agency.
That it was not the decision of Tweetybird de la Cruz to send Terror Baadjies to negotiate with the Committee.
That it was all important, one way or the other. That he would have to get to the bottom of it.
Janina Mentz and Rajhev Rajkumar would remember that day because of the email Raj's team intercepted.
M
asilo was in Mentz's office informing her of the Shabangu- Hendricks conversation. The Indian steamed in holding a sheet of paper. 'You won't believe this, you just won't believe this ...' At first Mentz was just vexed. 'What, Raj?'
'One of these apes made a mistake. He forwarded an unencrypted mail with the date in it.'
'You're not serious,' said Masilo.
'Look at this,' Rajkumar slapped the email down between them. 'The original email came from the Supreme Committee, all secure and encrypted. And then one of the recipients had a brain freeze ...'
Mentz slowly read through the very short email and looked up at the excited man in front of her desk. 'It's a date?'
'Twenty-three Shawwal 1430 is the Muslim calendar date for 12 October 2009.'Then, as though she were incapable of working it out herself, he added, 'That's less than a month away.' 'I know that, Raj. But what does it mean?' 'It's when the thing is going to happen.' 'Which thing?'
'You know, the transaction. The weapons.'
'According to Ismail Mohammed, that's happening in September.' 'Maybe they've changed ... Shit. You think it might be the day of the attack? The act of terrorism?'
'We had better find out, don't you think?'
19 September 2009. Saturday.
Advocate Tau Masilo was at the office from nine o'clock, where it was Saturday-quiet. Only key personnel.
First he read the report from Reinhard Rohn, their man in Namibia. Nothing new. He was worried.
Then he reread his notes about the Restless Ravens from the previous day. He felt the same unease.
He looked at Rajkumar's report. Twenty-three Shawwal. 12 October 2009.
He pushed everything aside and moved his fingers over his laptop keyboard. He opened his web browser. He typed: 12 October 2009, Cape Town
He scanned the list of possibilities. The sixth description attracted his attention. He clicked on it. It was a story from a local daily, and his heart went cold.
Cape Town. The American soccer team taking part in the World Cup 2010 will pay a brief visit to the new Green Point stadium in Cape Town.