‘Amina? Why her?’ Shabalala asked.
‘Mariam got on well with her. Maybe they don’t think anybody else will take care of Siraj like she does.’
‘So maybe the letter isn’t sinister after all,’ Masondo said. ‘Perhaps it’s just a coincidence that they chose a guardian and that the lady didn’t have a sort of a premonition about dying.’
‘That would be true if it wasn’t for the bruises and the fact that she told Amina she was in trouble. I think she knew she was in danger.’
‘Maybe that’s why Tanveer was willing to sign over guardianship of the kid – perhaps he thought with her dead and if he ever gets arrested – at least the child will have a home,’ Shabalala said.
‘I don’t know,’ Durant said. ‘Maybe we’re too suspicious of everyone. Let’s wait for the post-mortem results. Maybe she wasn’t murdered. Maybe she stumbled and fell and broke her neck. Let’s give it a few days.’
‘I agree,’ Masondo said. ‘Don’t let this distract you chaps from our main focus at the moment. The terrorism threat. We’re under pressure from the Americans to come up with specific targets. Let me tell you about the meeting I had with an FBI chap called Fulham. He’s here in Durban also investigating this thing. Apparently there’s concern about the safety of the Assistant Secretary of State for Africa. She’s visiting Durban on Christmas Day and there’s a big reception planned for her. There’s also a US warship that’ll be docked at our harbour. So everyone’s very nervous.’
Durant rubbed his eyes and shook his head. ‘The Americans are crazy. There’s already a terrorism threat against them and what do they do? Bring in two major targets.’
Khalid turned his Volvo into the undercover parking garage under the apartment building and turned the car off. As he climbed out, the gardener came up to him and handed him his afternoon newspaper, which he usually only read later in the evening. As he entered the lift and pressed the button for the ninth floor, his eyes glanced over the headlines and then widened as they fell on an article screaming the words “Woman Found Dead in Mangrove Swamps”. His breaths became short and sharp and he could feel an unseen hand on his throat. As cool as the lift was, he felt the perspiration soaking the back of his shirt, let loose like a broken tap. By the time he’d reached the ninth floor, he was pressing a palm to his heart, fearing he was having a heart attack. His glasses had misted up and as he stumbled towards his door, he noticed his hands were trembling, which was why the key wouldn’t go into the lock. Only after thirty long seconds did he manage to open the door. He fell onto the couch and read on. The article mentioned that a woman’s body had been found under a mangrove at around 8 p.m. by a security guard. Her name wasn’t given but the reporter mentioned there were signs of a struggle yet apparently nothing had been taken. He sat on the couch and put his hands in his hair. He sent a quick prayer to Allah giving thanks that the keys he had given to her could not be traced to his flat.
Amina read the note again and each time she read it, the pain behind the words became more evident. The photograph of Mariam and Siraj that accompanied the note and the legal document was perhaps the most poignant. It was a black-and-white close-up of mother and son. The boy’s eyes were closed, but a smile curled his lips. Mariam’s cheek was against his and her eyes were towards the camera. Somehow, the lens had captured both heartbreak and contentment in those eyes. It was an incredibly sad picture, because Amina knew it was in the envelope for one reason only: Mariam wanted Siraj to remember her when he was old enough to understand. She wanted him to know that his mother had sacrificed everything so that he could have a normal life. She’d laid down her life for her son. Amina would honour Mariam’s memory because she was a good mother in an incredibly troubled situation. The note was as moving as the photograph.
‘I love you, my beloved and faithful friend. I know you love Siraj very much and I can rest peacefully knowing you’ll be a good mother to him. My heart weeps knowing I will never see you or Siraj again. Thank you for coming into my life and making such a big difference.’
Evening prayers were difficult for Khalid to make because inside he wanted to curse himself for ever meeting Mariam and wanting her so badly that he was willing to sacrifice a twenty-five-year diplomatic career. The whole incident in the swamps haunted him. Had he killed her? No, he mustn’t entertain that thought. He couldn’t blame himself. Who was the other person and why would he come to her rescue only to kill her? A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, none of them making any sense or helping to ease the guilt. He had brought her to that place, he had threatened her. Now she was dead. Perhaps he should confess. Perhaps they would understand that he might have put her in harm’s way, yet he was sure he didn’t kill her. But the marks on her body. He’d put them there. He didn’t know who else she’d told about him and what they’d said about him. He wanted to run and hide, but there was nowhere to run to and nowhere to hide.
Fulham. In his troubled mind, the stern face of the special agent appeared before him and he immediately knew he would be unsympathetic. He was uncompromising, already suspicious and wouldn’t hesitate to recommend Khalid’s dishonourable discharge from the diplomatic service. Indictment for murder. No, he had to ride this out, see where it went. Ultimately, they had nothing on him. A half-hearted investigation was his worst-case scenario. His best case was that they wouldn’t even investigate it. Not in a country where hundreds of people were murdered every week. He felt slight relief as he walked through the front gate of the mosque and back to his car. Perhaps it was a blessing. At least he was sure now that Mariam’s mouth was shut. It would have always followed him: she was immoral and mercenary and it was only a matter of time before she would have milked him for her silence. He felt his shoulders loosen slightly. A small note flapped on his wiper blade and he almost mistook it for a flyer until he flipped it open and read the three typed words: ‘You killed her.’
TWELVE
By the time Durant turned his Land Rover into the driveway, darkness was setting in. So many thoughts had gone through his mind on the trip home that by the time he’d taken the Umgeni Road exit off the N2, he had a headache that stretched from the back of his neck all the way around to his forehead. This had been his life for so long, it was hard for him to process the thought of living in another country. This was his life; this balmy wet heat after dark; the taxis jumping the traffic queues; the ships heaving patiently at the outer anchorage, waiting their turn to enter the harbour. Trying to stop people from dying. The responsibility of protecting the foreign visitors from being blown to pieces. It was bizarre. He tried so hard, yet he couldn’t even save one person from a random crime. Mariam was dead and all the laws of the country and the best constitution in the world couldn’t save her. Perhaps he was too idealistic. Perhaps he had to be more selfish.
Stephanie and Alexis were playing on the grass outside and both waved and ran up to the vehicle as he parked.
‘Daddy!’ Alexis leapt into her father’s arms, pushing him off balance.
‘Careful,’ Stephanie shouted. ‘Watch Dad’s sore tummy and back.’
‘It’s fine, honey. Sorry I’m a bit late, quite a day. How come you guys are outside?’ he asked.
‘We thought we’d wait for you. It’s such a lovely evening.’
‘I don’t know if it’s that safe when it gets dark, though.’
‘Come on, it’s fine. We’re careful.’
‘Sure, Steph, but I mean don’t do silly things.’
‘Why so paranoid suddenly? What happened to Mr Positive?’
Durant lowered Alexis to the ground and asked her to play by herself for a while. ‘There was a murder last night, the mother of that little boy Amina’s looking after. Her name’s Mariam.’
Stephanie put her hand to her mouth. ‘The missing woman? Mariam? Where?’
‘At the mangrove swamps. We’re not sure what happened, but they found her body there. So I am a little paranoid right now. Actually, a lot paranoid.’ Durant felt h
is shoulders relax slightly as she hugged him.
‘That’s terrible. It makes it more terrible when you know the person.’
‘Amina got on well with her. Nice girl, sweet. I don’t know what to say.’
Stephanie was quiet for a moment and then looked Durant in the eye. ‘You do know. Say yes. Say let’s get out of this country before it happens to me, to Alexis, to you. It’s dangerous here. We can’t live like this.’
The image of the policeman’s office and the piles of dockets, each representing some person’s loss – some material possessions, others more human – was still etched into his mind. It was easy to dismiss crime when it affected other people. It was hard to ignore when it affected you.
‘Start the paperwork,’ he said.
‘Siraj is a sweet kid,’ Ahmed said, tugging his cheeks. ‘See how he smiles when I do that?’
‘He likes you,’ Amina replied, placing a tray with tea on the dining room table. ‘I thank God that he’s still too young to understand everything that’s happened.’
‘Well, he’s welcome here as long as it takes for them to sort this out.’
‘It’s so tragic. Mariam was so young and a good mother. She did everything for this boy, to give him a better life.’
Yusuf lowered his voice as Siraj haltingly walked to a box of toys on the lounge floor. ‘I’ve got no time for the Pakistanis. But Siraj is okay.’
‘Don’t generalise. You don’t know his father.’
‘Still. Where’s his father now? He should be taking care of the kid.’
‘I’m happier having him here with us.’ Amina sat beside the toy box and rummaged through it for a soft toy. ‘Their flat’s terrible; it’s like a slum there. There’s nothing for Siraj to do there. And I don’t know how much Arshad Tanveer knows about looking after a nine-month-old baby. He didn’t even want the baby.’
‘He’s still the father.’ Yusuf had a toothpick under his fingernail. The black ink from the printing press had a way of becoming permanent if he didn’t scrape it out.
‘By default only. Mariam wants Siraj to have a good, stable home. That’s why she made me the guardian.’
‘Take it to court then. But you’ll struggle as long as the Pakistani’s still around.’
Amina sighed. ‘If only I was a hundred per cent sure he loved Siraj and would take care of him. I know I will.’
‘I don’t want to hear stories when you’ve got to give him back. Don’t get too attached.’
Amina stood up and put her hands on her hips. ‘Excuse me? You’re the one pinching his cheeks and telling me how cute he is. You’re the one who’s going to struggle.’
Yusuf smiled vacantly. ‘I have to admit he’s grown on me. The child I always wanted and never had.’
Amina sighed and turned away. ‘Please. Don’t say that.’
‘It’s true.’ Yusuf snapped the toothpick between his fingers and threw it on the counter. ‘Why can we only be happy with other people’s children, why not our own, what’s wrong with us?’
Amina sighed, scooped the toothpick up with a tissue and threw it in the bin. ‘In God’s own time.’
‘I’m tired of hearing that. I’ve been hearing it for the past six years.’
‘Splinters got his butt kicked at the centre yesterday, so he can’t go back and scratch in bins any more,’ Durant said, flipping through a file Shabalala had brought to his office.
Shabalala grinned. ‘I bet he’s disappointed! Now what? The SIM card was a good find, but we need more. Especially now with the Americans on our tails.’
‘Did Ruslan give you this list?’ Durant asked.
Shabalala nodded. ‘The name list of all the people working at the IAC. So one of those is our suspected SIM card user.’
‘Have you thought about the possibility that Ruslan himself might be the suspect?’
‘I did background checks on him. He’s got some strong views, but his background is clean and consistent.’
‘No credit records or criminal records?’
‘Nothing. He’s clean. I even did an Interpol check. Clean as a whistle.’
‘Okay, as long as you’re happy. I heard Masondo’s meeting with the Indians was postponed until today. He said he’ll give us feedback first thing in the morning. Remember, just because the sheikh’s working for Indian Intelligence doesn’t mean we cross him off the suspect list. The Lockerbie bombers worked for Libyan Intelligence.’
‘And they say Pakistani Intelligence, the ISI, is sometimes also involved in dodgy things. We can’t rule out any possibility.’
‘We’ll have to work this list. Did you ask Ruslan for profiles of all these people?’
‘I did, he’s working on it.’
Durant put the file on the table and leaned back. ‘How’s Nandi?’
‘Keep your voice down.’ Shabalala stole a look over his shoulder as if the entire staff were in the corridor outside Durant’s office and heard the words. ‘Don’t mention her name around here, someone will hear you and that’s the end of me.’
‘It’s the end of you anyway when Masondo finds out.’
‘He won’t find out.’
‘He’ll find out. You and I both know that. So just be ready when he does. Have your plan in place.’
‘What do you mean “plan”?’
‘You have to have a plan – an explanation, an excuse, self-defence argument, bandages, and all that kind of stuff.’
‘You’re just being silly. He won’t hurt me. Will he?’
‘Hey, this is Nandi we’re talking about. His only begotten, sweet and innocent daughter. And you.’
‘Shut up, Kevin, I mean it. You’re just making it worse than it seems. I think he’ll be okay with me when that great day comes when we can openly declare our relationship to him.’
‘The day before they bury you, my friend.’
No expense had been spared in the restoration of the Royal Hotel to its former glory. Distinctly colonial, it was a landmark in central Durban. It survived the deterioration of the Durban cbd in the nineties as crime and urban decay consumed the city, and it endured the recession as the twenty-first century dawned and tourism dwindled and a four-star hotel seemed too opulent, even for the rich.
Masondo saluted the doorman and entered the lobby, relieved to be out of the noise of one of Durban’s busiest streets. The hotel had an elegant extravagance about it, and it seemed to embrace you in its culture and history. Masondo could feel the spirits of politicians, statesmen and world leaders of past eras still possessing the hotel, giving it dignity and a sense of pride. It was a serene setting for what Masondo guessed would be an unpleasant meeting. Even the legendary pastries in the open restaurant and the sweet aroma of the macadamia-nut coffee wouldn’t make the encounter with the RAW man any more inviting.
Imtiaz Suleiman was in his early forties but he looked a few years younger. His most distinguishing feature was his almost artificially white teeth which, when he spoke, flashed beneath the thin, silver, meticulously groomed moustache.
‘I apologise for postponing this meeting, Mr Masondo, but duty called me to the High Commission last week for a very important engagement with a visiting dignitary from India.’
‘Please, don’t apologise,’ Masondo said in the authoritative and diplomatic voice he was so good at. ‘I’m pleased we can meet now, because we have some very important issues to discuss.’
‘I would be delighted to answer your questions, Mr Masondo, and the High Commissioner has assured me of the Indian government’s full cooperation.’
‘Excellent, Mr Suleiman. Well, let me start by asking you, if I may, what your function is at the Indian consulate?’
‘Well, I am primarily the political attaché, but I also have the responsibility of cultural liaison and also dabble a little in environmental issues.’
‘I see. Perhaps you can explain something to me, because a matter is troubling me and I was hoping you could perhaps clear it up.’
‘I wou
ld be more than happy to assist you in any way possible, sir.’
‘Good. As you know, I am an intelligence officer, so I only see things in very clearly labelled boxes, because in our occupation, we can’t afford to make mistakes. So now we have diplomats legitimately going about their business, as declared to our government and we welcome them and extend to them every courtesy we can to make them feel welcome here.’
‘I fully understand, Mr Masondo. I have always felt very welcome in this beautiful country of yours.’
‘And then we have diplomats who declare one thing and then go about other business that they don’t declare, which we usually call espionage.’
Suleiman laughed and Masondo was taken aback at the reaction. ‘I was expecting this, Mr Masondo. You are of course referring to Sheikh U-Haq?’
Masondo nodded hesitantly.
‘Well, of course I cannot deny that I am talking to him, but that is in my capacity as political and cultural officer. He is an esteemed member of society and has much to offer in terms of insight into Islamic thinking in South Africa. We, as the Indian government, are grateful for his cooperation in helping build bridges and forge a better understanding of the role of Islam and how it relates to South African Indians. We are—’
Masondo raised his hand. ‘Let me just stop you there, Mr Suleiman. I can see where you’re going with that argument and I can see you’ve done your homework. I’m not accusing you of espionage; I was merely pointing out that I see in boxes, black and white, right and wrong. Now if you’re talking to the good sheikh, that’s fine with me. But do me a favour, and do our country the courtesy of respecting our laws. So next time you meet with him, don’t use false number plates on your vehicle, because that’s a criminal offence.’
‘The dictates of security—’
‘Let me finish, Mr Suleiman. And when you pay him, don’t pay him in dollars, because that’s also a criminal offence. Then we’ll be friends.’
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