‘Nothing for me, thanks.’ She twisted herself in the couch to see him. ‘What do you need done?’ she asked.
‘You look eager, my sweetheart.’ Khalid watched the brown liquid twirl around the glass as he filled it. ‘Was it the money part that got you excited?’
‘As long as I don’t have to kill anybody,’ she laughed at the same time thinking Khalid didn’t come across as a cold-hearted assassin.
Khalid laughed. ‘You watch too many movies. It’s nothing big. It’s easy. Easy for you.’ He sat next to her again, this time closer. She felt his arm against hers. ‘You think you can use R5 000?’
She could pay Amina back. Get Siraj new clothes. Her face was expressionless. She could play this game. ‘Well, anybody could use that.’
‘Here’s the thing.’ Khalid paused and ran a thumb and index finger across his nose. ‘I have to know I can trust you, absolutely and totally without a shadow of doubt.’ Mariam watched the furrows on his forehead deepen. ‘This is serious business, in fact, it could even be called espionage, and in some parts of the world, they still kill you for doing it. So I need to know that you won’t betray me.’ His voice was a gravelly whisper and Mariam tried to hide her smile. This was getting interesting.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, you have my word.’
Khalid took his jacket off and sat on the bed. ‘I need more than your word, my dear.’
Durant watched as Shabalala cleaned first the chair and then the part of the table where he was sitting with a wet wipe. The customers at Horizons slid glances at him and chuckled.
‘They’re laughing at me, but I don’t care. I don’t want to sit on other people’s mess. I don’t know why I even come here. The kitchen must be filthy. Imagine the oil they fry those chips in? Really, Kevin, why do you bring me here?’ he said with his mouth curved downward in a look of revulsion.
‘This is tradition, Ced. Go with it. You don’t have to eat. The food here will probably kill you anyway. So you can watch me eat this greasy breakfast and thank the Lord you’re not me.’ Durant flicked a burnt leftover chip off the table with his fingers without flinching.
Shabalala shook his head. ‘I don’t know if I like you teasing me.’
‘Teasing you? If I wanted to tease you I’d ask you about Nandi Masondo.’
‘Nandi Masondo? What do you mean by that?’
‘Come on, Ced, I’m not an idiot. You were under her bonnet.’
Shabalala unwittingly broke eye contact. ‘You’re not making sense.’
‘Her car. You actually went down to the office car park and got your hands dirty for Nandi Masondo.’
‘That’s rubbish.’
‘I saw your hands afterwards. A smoking gun. You like her?’
‘Just forget about Nandi, okay? I have.’
Durant chuckled. ‘It can’t work. Not as long as you are working for her dad. But how was last night?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Last night. It was Wednesday, how was it?’
‘How was what?’
‘How was whatever it was you did?’
‘Who said I did anything?’
‘Come on, Ced. I know every Wednesday night you do something, because whenever I phone you, your phone’s off and nobody can find you.’
‘So what? I’ve got a life too, you know.’ He shrugged uncomfortably.
‘Ja, but only on Wednesday nights, it seems.’
‘Kevin, look, I know you don’t have a lot of work to do, but don’t target me, okay? Just let me be.’ Then he added tersely, ‘Let’s not have this conversation again.’
‘I’m just joking with you, man, lighten up. I was just curious, that’s all. It’s not like I’m spying on you or anything.’ Durant wanted to change the subject. This was starting to get uncomfortable, and even the sight of the greasy breakfast arriving did little to lift his spirits. Shabalala seemed stressed.
‘Well, bon appétit, if I may use such an elegant term for that,’ and he pointed at Durant’s sloppy plate of food. ‘Mr Masondo said we’ve been authorised to target the IAC. He wants me to try to spot someone there to recruit.’
Durant felt relieved. Their attention was back on work. ‘Oh, good luck. Being Muslim would have been a good start. No one there’s gonna want to work for you, Cedric. Unless you want to convert?’
Shabalala felt his stomach churn as Durant stuffed a fork of runny scrambled egg into his mouth. ‘Everybody’s recruitable; every man’s got his price. I’ll get someone in there. Proper target analysis. Easy. Watch me.’
Durant noticed confidence in his partner’s voice. Perhaps he would succeed. But right now, all that mattered to him was breakfast.
When you travel north on the M4, the iconic Moses Mabhida Stadium bears an impressive presence against the western landscape of upperclass suburbia. The massive Y-shaped arch hints at the design of the South African flag and can be seen from as far away as Waterfall, fifty kilometres away. It had taken only two and a half years to build the structure, which towers higher than the Statue of Liberty and is considered testimony to great engineering skill. The arch supports 700 tons of cable and holds huge sails which deflect the hot Durban sun off the grandstands below. Across the highway and on the beach side of the stadium, two men met.
Splinters eagerly took the hot chips from the mobile fast-food stand and turned to Durant.
‘Thanks, man, first good meal I’m eating today.’
‘Sure that’s all you want?’
‘Ja, got to watch what I eat.’
‘You’re starting to sound like Cedric! Let’s sit here.’
The bench faced away from the sea and they sat staring at the stadium.
‘I don’t know if Moses would be happy, Kev.’
Durant looked puzzled. ‘Moses?’
‘Mabhida. Hero of the working class, champion of the poor and oppressed. They’ve spent over three billion rand on this thing and put his name on it. How’d you think the working class feel?’
‘Quite a price tag for a month-long television show. So does that mean you’re not going to watch the opening match?’
‘Course I’m going to watch it, what do you think? We’re going to be busy. Lots of visitors with their foreign credit cards. I’m already excited.’ Tomato sauce oozed out of the handful of chips as he squeezed them into his mouth.
‘And of course those cards your mates lift, you’ll bring straight back to me, right?’
‘Kev? You disappoint me sometimes. We’re a team, brother. I want this World Cup to work as much as you do.’
‘We’re worried about the extremists. The event’s watched by billions, so it’s a huge opportunity for terrorists to make a point.’
‘Really? Do we have that kind of terrorist here, Kev? Our people aren’t radical; they’re all talk, no action.’
‘It won’t be people from here. They’ll come from other countries. They’re probably already here. While we’re making our security plans and trying to make this thing succeed, they’re making their plans to use the World Cup to showcase their work.’
‘Which is?’
‘To create as much mayhem, destruction and fear as they can.’
‘Nah, Kev. Not on our soil. I don’t think so. They’d have to get past you guys, get materials, get access.’
‘You know what, Splinters? If they’re determined enough, they’ll get past us. They plan these things years in advance; they have time, money and motivation. How do we compete? They’re willing to die. That’s the problem. Have you heard anything on the street, anything at all?’
‘Some foreigners will get robbed; there’ll be big opportunities, lots of cash floating around. The guys are talking about this everywhere, but no one’s mentioning terrorism. Nobody’s talking about it in the Pakistani or Somali communities and that’s normally where it starts, isn’t it?’ He paused, licking his fingers noisily. ‘Hey, anyway, remember Tamara?’ Another handful of chips went into his grotty mouth.
‘
The girl in your block?’
‘That’s the one. Took her for a few drinks last night, we’re getting quite friendly, she trusts me, I don’t know why. I’ve got the slips for you somewhere.’
‘No problem, I’ll pay.’ If there was a hint of annoyance in Durant’s voice, Splinters wouldn’t have noticed it.
‘Anyway at about one o’clock this morning I take her back and she’s very happy and talkative and mentions her brother’s name, you know, the guy we think’s an ATM bomber.’ Splinters licked his fingers, but smeared a blob of tomato source on his chin while he did so. ‘Calls him Nathi. Says he’s a problem child blah-blah. I just agree with everything she says. So I leave her downstairs and when I get to my flat I see I’ve got her cellphone in my hand.’ Splinters paused and smiled. ‘Now how did that happen, Kev?’
Durant raised his eyebrows and then smiled. ‘You stole her phone.’
Splinters raised a hand. ‘No, I didn’t steal it; I appropriated it for the purposes of investigation. My motive wasn’t greed, Kev, you know me. I’d still have it if I wanted it, wouldn’t I?’ Durant expected the blob of tomato sauce on Splinters’s chin to slide off, but it hung on persistently. It was annoying.
‘So you gave it back?’
‘As any gentleman would do, Kevin. But any gentleman spy would of course first go through the phonebook and take some numbers down, right?’
Durant couldn’t stand it. He took a serviette and blotted Splinters’s chin. ‘So you’ve got Nathi’s number?’ He said it matter-of-factly.
‘You don’t seem that impressed, Kev,’ Splinters said, wiping his hands on his pants and pulling a piece of paper from his jacket pocket.
Durant realised his mind was drifting. He had to stay focused. ‘No, Splinters, I’m very impressed, a well-executed operational initiative.’
He handed Durant the slip of paper. Durant looked at it, puzzled. ‘Too many numbers, sure you took it down right?’
Splinters frowned, looked at the paper, cursed, thrust a hand into his other pocket and pulled out another crumpled piece of paper. ‘That’s the lottery numbers, sorry, Kev. Try this one.’
‘Thanks, excellent. Stay close to Tamara – if you need money for entertainment, I can get for you, it’s good access, nicely done. Meanwhile, I’m going to work up this Nathi fellow and see what we can get on him.’
‘What would you do without me, hey, Kev? I know everything, everywhere, all the time, brother.’
‘Can’t deny that, buddy. I hope your lottery numbers are right. Actually, I don’t, because if you win you won’t need me any more.’
Ruslan parked the sheikh’s Mercedes in the lock-up at the complex and made his way on foot to the mosque for evening prayers. At seven he left the mosque and hitched a lift with Faizel Mohammed, a student who was travelling down to Durban. He didn’t like Mohammed much. He seemed too intense. And he could almost sense pent-up aggression. Especially after Maghrib. Mohammed stuttered, especially when he got excited. Ruslan didn’t feel like dealing with either of these handicaps. Little was said as Mohammed swung the Toyota onto the N2 and they headed south towards Gateway. When they reached the mall, Ruslan asked him how the studies were going and the younger man said they were progressing nicely. Ruslan knew exactly what he meant. Mohammed looked the type who put his heart and soul into anything he did.
The Toyota stopped in a loading zone and Ruslan said masalaama – goodbye – and walked towards the outdoor eating area, a large paved square with restaurants on two sides and the entrance to the mall on the far side. Water poured two storeys from tilted pots into a central canal and trickled past the tables where patrons indulged their appetites for good food. It didn’t take him long to find a halaal restaurant and order a shwarma from the waitron. His mind wandered for an instant to a place far away, a desert place where the dwellings were tents and everyone knew their neighbours. Durban was home, but he didn’t belong here. It was hostile, impersonal. He felt like a stranger in a familiar place, and at times like this, he longed for the desert and he missed his father. No. Such things were sentimental and unhelpful. He had a job to do – it was work for the Almighty. His father was long dead and the desert was as distant as his past life. He looked around and that woman was back. He’d seen her before. Only once, but in a different place, the Islamic bookshop in town. It’s not that he had an extraordinary talent in remembering faces, but this woman had struck him as not belonging in the bookstore. While the sheikh browsed for books, Ruslan had spent the time observing the woman. Her interest wasn’t in the books, he could see. She was more interested in the sheikh, trying to catch a glimpse at what books he was browsing. Interesting. And there she was again, just settling at a table across from him, sitting in such a way that she could observe him without it looking too obvious. Yet . . .
He made brief eye contact with her. This was actually becoming a game he was enjoying. They both looked away simultaneously. No question. He was her focus of attention. Not the sheikh. Him. She seemed to fiddle uncomfortably with her glass. She was dressed quite formally in a neat two-piece suit, but her shoes were casual, comfortable. Her order arrived, a Coke. She waved away the offer for food. So obvious. She thought she might have to leave in a hurry.
He tapped his fingers on the table, his stomach reminding him that lunch was a long time ago. The shwarma would be good. The encounter even better. Should he confront her and demand to know why she was following him? Might scare her off. More subtlety needed. He couldn’t make it too easy, but he also had to make sure. If this was an approach – and he was pretty sure it was – then he had to make sure he was talking to the right people. It was important that information he shared went to the people who could really use it. For a terrifying second, a thought occurred to him. What if the sheikh was testing his loyalty? What if he’d misinterpreted this whole scenario and was only seeing and believing what he wanted to see and believe? Just as quickly, the thought left him. He knew the sheikh. Devious thinking wasn’t a characteristic he’d displayed. He trusted everyone. That was his problem. No, this girl was there for him. She made three calls on her cellphone in quick succession and each time she made a call, she looked at him briefly. He finished his shwarma – tasty, spicy and generously portioned – and realised he’d probably eaten it too fast. But he couldn’t wait for this final part of the uncomfortable relationship he had with his braid-haired tail. She looked at him and this time he smiled at her and flipped a pen from his pocket. He scribbled a few words on a serviette and slowly, dramatically folded it and placed it on the table. A minute later, the waitron, Ryan, took his cash – money well spent – and a generous tip, and the folded note that Ruslan asked him to kindly pass to the lovely woman with the braids at table 14. And he did.
The next morning, Durant entered Shabalala’s office on the third floor and sat in the chair facing his desk.
‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up a large hourglass and turning it.
‘Leave that, Kevin, it’s a very delicate instrument.’
‘I know, it’s an hourglass, but what does it do?’
‘Please put it down,’ and Shabalala gingerly took it from Durant’s hands, wiped it with a handkerchief and lovingly placed it back on his desk. ‘It doesn’t do anything, it’s a thing of beauty, you admire it.’
‘Where’d you get it? It’s quite nice.’
‘It’s “need to know”, and you don’t need to know. Kevin, last night the surveillance unit had a stroke of luck.’
‘What, they didn’t lose their subject?’
‘Funny. I’ve targeted a guy called Ruslan at the IAC. The sheikh’s personal driver. He’s the guy closest to the sheikh and should have the best access. I looked at his background and he seems clean.’
‘Well done. Sounds good.’ Durant slapped Shabalala softly on the shoulder to reinforce how impressed he was. ‘When are you making the pitch?’
‘That’s meant to be a long way away because of the risks involved. Whether he’d wor
k for us or not, I don’t know, so I’ve had surveillance on him for a few days to see what he’s up to.’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Ruslan went to a take-away place at one of the malls and sat at a table. Hlengiwe saw him write something on a serviette and he sent her a note with the waiter.’
‘And?’
Shabalala slipped the folded paper serviette across to Durant. ‘“Let’s talk,”’ he read.
Durant frowned and read it again. ‘What does it mean? He knows he’s under surveillance?’
Shabalala turned his palms up and shrugged. ‘It must. But then that message is for us. He wants to talk to us.’
‘And if we approach him and the message wasn’t for us? What then?’
‘Hlengiwe says he looked her straight in the eye,’ Shabalala paused, recalling exactly what the surveillance officer had told him, ‘and then wrote the message. It was definitely for us.’
Durant sighed from frustration. This was hard to call. And the wrong call would mean disaster. ‘Maybe it was for her. Maybe he wants to just talk to her. Isn’t that possible?’
‘That’s fine. Then we let her talk to him and see what he wants. We’ll just back her up.’
Durant rubbed the back of his neck and then absently reached for the hourglass, turned it upside down and watched the sand slowly flow through the centre. ‘Time. It’s one thing we don’t really have on our side. If we can recruit Ruslan, I mean, that’s about as close to the sheikh as we can ever hope to get. What does his profile say?’
‘No red flags. Nothing that makes me suspect anything. Hasn’t travelled out of South Africa since he arrived. No family here; did checks on the databases and he’s clean. There’s nothing on him. Converted to Islam, so probably trying to earn points by driving the sheikh.’
‘Well, he’s gonna lose a couple of points when he starts talking to us. Let’s give it a shot, Ced.’
Tanveer loved the Pentax. A great second-hand buy from a local pawn shop. A few scratches and dents but it still took superb pictures and the 300 mm performed well, even in low light. He was in position, a good angle from the vehicle. Now he just had to wait. The pickup was always in the same place, so he had no doubt he would see the Volvo turn into Anton Lembede Street, or Smith Street as most other Durbanites still called it, and stop outside the bank. Mariam was already waiting. He looked through the viewfinder and lightly touched the shutter release, snapping the image into focus. She wore the black strappy top he never wanted her to buy – far too revealing – and tight jeans which only a prostitute would have felt comfortable in. Yet she was a prostitute, selling herself to this American slime in the white Volvo. Tanveer sighed. That made him a pimp then. He’d set it up, allowed it to happen, even given it his blessing. A job was a job, he’d told her. Nobody liked their jobs. As long as the money came in. Just for a while. And she didn’t have to sleep with him. If she did, it didn’t really matter anyway. A white car flashed into view. Khalid’s Volvo. The Pentax beeped as the focus locked and Tanveer hit the shutter release again and again.
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