“Surely that’s a bit strong.”
“No, it really isn’t. This could shake the foundations of the democracy we have been building for the past twenty years.”
“Then isn’t it worth a try?” She reached across the table and gripped Amahle’s hand. “If, as you say, the democracy of South Africa is at stake here, what the hell have we got to lose?”
The buzz of the gate broke the tension.
“It doesn’t look like I have much choice.” Amahle picked up the handset and released the gate when she heard the security company had arrived. Three men and a woman climbed out of the 4x4, sunglasses covering their eyes as they scanned the perimeter. Laura, Josh, Nick, and Greg introduced themselves before taking seats around the deck.
“Stunning view, ma’am,” Laura said, an American accent firmly placing her in the non-nationals category, exactly as requested.
“Thank you,” Amahle said. “I like it.”
“We’ve been sent here to assess threat levels and ascertain your needs. Then work out the best way for us to meet those needs. Not for me, thanks.” Laura held her hand up to ward off the coffee pot as Imogen poured cups for them all. “Why don’t you fill us in on what’s going on?”
“I’ve been receiving threatening phone calls.”
They exchanged looks between them, clearly waiting for her to continue. Imogen sighed when Amahle clammed up.
“Last night she received a call and they were torturing someone in the background,” Imogen said. “As he hung up he said that Thambo was missing her to pieces. At the time we didn’t know what that meant.”
“You do now?” Josh asked, his clipped British tones marking his public schoolboy roots, and Imogen was reminded of her friend Simon. She immediately felt comfortable in his presence. He felt familiar and safe, even if he did remind her of her lonely life back in Cambridge.
“Unfortunately. Thambo is Amahle’s usual bodyguard. The man they were torturing and who is now in hospital missing his hand.”
“Do you know who is threatening you?” Laura asked.
“Not specifically, no,” Amahle said. “There are a number of possibilities.”
“Are the police investigating the phone calls?” Greg asked.
“No. I haven’t reported them.”
“Why not?”
“In my experience, it is neither productive nor pleasurable. I refuse to waste my time in such a manner.”
Greg frowned. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“The last time I had cause to report something to them, they wrote off the brutal gang rape of my partner while I was forced to watch as corrective rape. They refused to believe that it was a political warning aimed at me, despite them having written it on the wall. In her blood.” Amahle pushed herself away from the table and slammed the patio door closed behind herself.
The tension around the table was thick, and Imogen wasn’t sure if she should follow her or stay where she was.
Laura cleared her throat. “I’m very sorry to hear what happened to you.”
Imogen turned to look at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I said, I’m very sorry that happened to you.” She looked uncomfortable and clearly wanted to move on from the subject.
“It wasn’t me. I’m not her girlfriend.”
“Oh. My apologies. I assumed…” She shook her head. “I made a rookie error, Ms. Frost. I made the assumption that you being here at this hour in the morning meant something it clearly doesn’t. Please accept my apology.”
“Not necessary.” She waved her hand. “I’m not offended.” Far from it. Something inside her was smiling at the thought. “The police are investigating Thambo’s attack, but she didn’t tell them about the earlier call.”
“Just the one?”
“To my knowledge. There may have been more that she hasn’t told me about.”
“Why didn’t she mention the other call or calls to the police?”
“It really is as simple as trust. She has none in them, so she refused to take the time.”
“Very well. Perhaps you can give us more details while we wait for Ms. Nkosi.”
“Sure. I’ll tell you what I can.” They spent the next twenty minutes going over every detail that Imogen could remember of the phone calls, which phones they had rung, what specific words they used, and what they were attempting to get Amahle to back off from. Imogen kept the details of the fake pills particularly vague, but told them clearly that Amahle was working on a politically sensitive issue that would have far-reaching repercussions. The glances that passed between them told her that she had been as obtuse as possible.
“I’m sorry about that. Where are we up to?” Amahle stepped back through the glass and smiled as she sat down.
“I need to tap your phone lines, Ms. Nkosi,” Josh said. “So that we can try to trace the calls that you’re receiving.”
“I don’t want my calls recorded.”
“We won’t record anything unless you indicate it’s him. Without the tap and trace, we won’t be able to locate this man, or eliminate him as a threat.”
“Eliminate him? What does that mean?”
“Hand him over to the authorities with sufficient evidence that they have no choice but to imprison him.”
Amahle pressed her thumb and forefinger into the bridge of her nose. “Fine.”
“I’ll also need to take a look at your current security system.”
“Fine. The controls are in the safe room.”
His eyes lit up. “You have a safe room?”
“Yes. In the basement.” Josh was up and headed indoors with Greg and Nick in tow.
“Boys.” Laura scoffed. “Do I take this to mean we have the contract?”
“Yes. On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Confidentiality. The work I do is sensitive, official, and I will not have people around me who do not respect that.”
“You have my personal guarantee.”
“Fine. Have your office send the contract over for me to sign. I just want to feel safe again. I want to be able to do my work and not have to worry what I’ll hear every time I pick up the damn phone.”
“We’ll take care of that. I’ll need a copy of your schedule to begin coordinating your protection.”
“My secretary, Claudia, can get you a copy.” She gave her the number and looked at Imogen. “Do you make everything happen this quickly?”
“When I have to.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Derek Marais opened document after document and read each one quickly before discarding it and moving on to the next. He still wasn’t sure what he was looking for specifically, but he knew there had to be something, somewhere, that would give him a clue as to who was in charge of this deception. He had electronic copies of every file and document related to the HIV programme from Amahle’s office. There had to be something in there.
His computer pinged when the latest set of test results completed. Yet another hospital with fake drugs. He entered the data into his spreadsheets. Twenty hospitals, so far. Twenty of the largest hospitals in South Africa prescribing and supplying medication that simply wasn’t fit for purpose. He knew of six more major hospitals that PharmaChem supplied, but he had yet to get any samples from them to test. He was sure he knew the outcome already, but empirical data was all that would convince the authorities to do anything about it.
He clicked on the webcam in his laptop and pressed record.
“This is Dr. Derek Marais. This is the fourth week of my investigation into the Combivirine being supplied by PharmaChem. My research so far has been illuminating as in how widespread the supply has become, and how unscrupulous these people are in their distribution. No public funded hospital is receiving genuine medication, while every private hospital and clinic I’ve had the opportunity to test has shown genuine product. The medications look identical, but the chemical analysis is clear. I’ve taken steps to safeguard my evidentia
ry samples and test results. Following the attack on Minister Nkosi’s bodyguard and the break-in to my office, I have reason to believe I will be targeted. And probably sooner rather than later.
“At the hospital we frequently have cause to carry out forensic medical examinations, then record, safeguard, and store the evidence until it is collected by the authorities. I have followed the same procedures to record and preserve the evidence of my investigation too. I have entered the evidence into the safe storage area we have at the hospital also. The information to access it all is in file PCEV0615.doc stored in a Dropbox account. In the event that anything happens to me, the relevant people will be informed of this account and granted access to all the evidence I have collected so far. I am wary of putting too much into cyberspace, as I do not know enough to protect it very well from hackers.
“Minister Nkosi has been immensely helpful and steadfast in her assistance in this matter. The documentation she has provided will help me isolate who is in charge of this operation. Of that I have no doubt. My only concern is the amount of time it will take to go through the mountains of paperwork. Times like this I wish I had a research team to help me search, but that isn’t possible. Firstly, I wouldn’t know who to trust with the information, and secondly, I am loath to expose anyone else to the risks involved. The minister’s bodyguard was a trained professional and they managed to hack off his hand. There will be increased guards with my family from now on. Every time they leave the house, there will be someone with them.
“The house is pretty well protected, I think. Besides the razor wire and the dogs, there’s also an alarm that will call the police if the circuit is broken without the code being inputted within twenty seconds. My wife doesn’t want strangers in the house upsetting our daughter, so at this point I’ve decided not to authorise the security personnel that Minister Nkosi had contact me. I’m uneasy about the decision, but have agreed to abide by it for now. If anything else happens though, I’m sure we’ll reassess that decision. I considered asking the police to increase their patrols past the house, but I don’t have any way to justify the request without explaining what’s going on, and I wouldn’t even know who to trust with the information. For now, it looks like I must load my gun and sleep with it under my pillow.
“In the meantime, I’ve been looking at the records of who authorizes the suppliers’ contracts from each of the hospitals who have the fake tablets to see if I can find any common thread there. So far I don’t see one. The people in the hospitals who are signing and countersigning the contracts are all different, and there are no obvious connections. No universities or schools in common, that sort of thing. There may be deeper connections that I’m not able to uncover, but I don’t think so. My feeling is that the hospitals are acting in good faith. I think this goes higher than that. I’m going to start looking at PharmaChem now. As much as I can anyway. There seem to be a limited number of documents for me to go through on this, which surprised me given the nature of their business and their connection with the Department of Health. Minster Nkosi’s secretary, Claudia, is looking around for anything else for me. Upcoming drug trials, medications awaiting approval, and so on. I have a few of those documents, as I said. But given the number of samples I was offered by Mrs. De Fries, there should be considerably more.
“Each one should have been granted approval for use by the South African FDA after the conclusion of clinical trials. I would expect some evidence of those to be with the Department of Health. Somewhere.” He ran his hand over his head and combed his fingers through his hair. “They have to be there. The company simply couldn’t legally operate without them.” He chuckled. “Not that what they’re doing is legal anyway.” He shook his head. “I’ll report any significant finding straight away, as per usual, if not, same time tomorrow.”
He stopped the recording and stretched his arms over his head, smiling at the satisfying crack when his spine slipped back into alignment. He opened another file and settled down to another night in front of the screen.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“I can’t believe I let her talk me into this. It’s a ridiculous idea.” Amahle adjusted the neckline of the deep green dress, the plunging bodice exposing more of her cleavage than she was used to. “Why do I keep letting her talk me into things?” She smoothed her hand over her stomach and eased a wrinkle down to the flare over her hips, where the fabric draped to the ground. “Never mind. I don’t want to think about it.”
They’d agreed to go to the ball from Amahle’s place and then stay at the vineyard afterward rather than drive the hour back to Bantry Bay. They’d agreed it made sense, and as Josh, Laura, Nick, and Greg were with them, Amahle would be safe. What she didn’t understand was why Imogen had insisted upon staying with her for the past two days, and that Amahle attend the ball with her. But what was even harder for her to get her head around was why she’d let her. She hated people in her home. She hated people in her personal space, her personal life. She hated people putting themselves in harm’s way for her. Imogen walked in and instantly she was surrounded by people constantly. Every moment of her life, whether awake or asleep, someone was watching out for her safety. In her house and her life. So why hadn’t she stopped it? Why hadn’t she told them all to leave? Why hadn’t she felt like she was crawling out of her skin when they were all in her house?
That’s what she’d expected. That’s what she’d gotten used to over the past eight years. Feeling like she’d been invaded when one person had entered her space. But not right now. Was it because the threat was real now that their presence easier to bear? Or was it just because it was Immy? She sighed. She didn’t know, and the questions were driving her insane. Whatever it was that made her comfortable enough to keep moving forward, given everything that was going on, surely that was a good thing. Right?
She checked her makeup in the mirror before switching off the light and making her way downstairs.
“Where’s Imogen?” she asked Laura.
“In the guest room. Want me to go and hurry her up?”
“I’m ready,” Imogen said from the top of the stairs. She grasped the royal blue fabric in one hand and lifted the hem to avoid tripping on the long length as she walked—no, floated—down the stairs. Her hair was a crown of glistening golden curls. Thin spaghetti straps crisscrossed her shoulders and held the heart-shaped bodice in place. “Are you okay?” She placed a hand on Amahle’s upper arm. “You look a little shaky.”
She blinked. “I’m fine. Just a little warm.” She took a step back from Imogen, desperately in need of a little space. “Shall we get going?”
Imogen extended her arm toward the door. “After you. You look lovely, by the way. That colour really suits you.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Greg pulled open the door for her.
“So why are we really going to this ball tonight?”
“What do you mean?”
“You always seem to have a reason, Immy, or should I say a list of reasons. So, why are we really going tonight?”
Imogen wagged her finger at her. “Can’t it just be to get you out of the house and let you forget for the evening?”
“That may be one reason. But I’m sure you have more. You’re a strategist. Mapping out the moves. I’m sure it makes you very successful in court.”
“Sometimes.”
Amahle arched her eyebrow suspiciously.
“Okay, a lot of times it does.”
“So, tell me your strategy for tonight.” As much as she hated to admit it, she loved learning how Imogen’s mind worked. She was so different from anyone she’d known before.
“I hate that you can read me so easily.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re an open book. Now read me a story before I get bored.”
“I want to connect with Roland and see if he has the information I requested.”
“And?”
“And I want to check in with Jim Davitson. He’s been leaving messages for me, b
ut we keep missing each other.”
“And?”
“And I think it’s a good idea that you’re seen doing everything you normally do.”
“Why?”
“So they know they aren’t winning. Keeping these people scared will stop them from going to ground. They have to keep putting pressure on you or they run the risk of you outmanoeuvring them.”
“Upping the pressure on them means they will up the ante with me. That means more people getting hurt.”
“We have protection in place now on all the major players. It’s a calculated risk.”
Amahle wasn’t sure they could ever be secure in the protections they had established, especially as Thambo was a highly trained professional and still fell foul to these people, but at this stage she couldn’t fault the logic either. She was almost certain that it was her fear that made her question their security rather than an actual weakness in their defences so she chose to ignore the niggling feeling in her gut. “What else?”
“There may be contacts there for me to make in regard to the vineyard.”
“Buyers?”
“Maybe.”
Amahle exhaled and tried not to let it get to her. She didn’t want to think about Imogen returning to England. To life after Immy. Again. “Anything else?”
“I want the people moving against you to see you’re far from being unprotected. That to get to you they are going to have to go through walls.”
“Damn straight,” Laura said. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to butt in.”
Imogen smiled. “No problem. See? Big, burly walls of protection.”
“Big, burly walls of people who can get hurt too.”
“Ma’am, with the greatest respect, three tours in Afghanistan and one in Iraq couldn’t hurt me. Some dude with a machete isn’t going to get close.” Laura grinned and touched her finger to her forehead. “We fight smart, and we don’t take prisoners.”
Amahle wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or not, but it certainly did make her feel sure that someone, somewhere down the line was going to get hurt. She looked at Imogen. Please don’t let it be someone in this car.
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