Allegiance

by Trevor Corbett

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Khalid. It is time to fulfil your obligation to me.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said quickly, hoping the words would stop this evil, but he knew it wouldn’t stop until this man was satisfied.

  ‘You watched the video. Who should get it first? The police or the American ambassador?’

  ‘Please, no, think this through. I’ll help you. If it’s money, I’ll pay whatever you ask.’

  ‘You made a big mistake, Khalid. Only you can fix it.’

  ‘Just tell me how much. I can have the money transferred. Or cash, I’m sure you’d prefer cash.’

  ‘I will call you at 12 p.m. Make sure you can board the ship this afternoon and have access to the event.’

  ‘What ship? What event?’ In that moment the pieces fell into place. They needed him to gain access to the Endeavour. He had taken the bait and now they were reeling him in, a prize catch, an unwilling victim of someone’s carefully thought-out plan.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. 12 p.m.’ The line went dead. The call had lasted thirty-seven seconds.

  Amina parked her car and walked the short distance to a shopping mall in Sherwood. The meeting place was a spice shop on the ground floor and Amina was a minute early. Mariam’s sister was dressed in traditional Muslim garb, and a black scarf obscured most of her face. Amina could see she wasn’t blessed with the beautiful eyes of her sister, and she was slightly older, but there was something about her which reminded Amina of Mariam. Yasmin looked down when Amina introduced herself and her handshake lacked confidence.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me.’

  ‘My time is very short; I have children I need to see to.’ Amina didn’t know if she was nervous or rude, but either way the encounter had got off to a bad start.

  ‘No problem, I’ll be quick. Do you have time for a quick cup of coffee? It’s on me.’

  ‘Thanks, no. What is it you want? I remember you from Mariam’s funeral.’

  ‘I’m so sorry again for your loss. Mariam was a close friend of mine. And Siraj – he’s an angel.’

  Yasmin’s eyes showed anger. ‘Arshad is a devil, you know, that man. He hit and hit her.’ The woman behind the counter looked up, raised her eyebrows and looked down again.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You knew he hit her?’

  ‘She told me and I told her she must get out of that marriage. She didn’t listen . . .’

  Amina spoke softly, hoping Yasmin would lower her voice. ‘I know it’s a personal question, but were you aware of her seeing someone else, another man?’

  Yasmin shook her head, too quickly Amina thought. ‘Not Mariam, no, she was a good wife, dutiful, and she was a pious woman.’

  ‘And the place she worked, do you know where the offices are? It’s called “Global Research”.’

  Yasmin looked at her watch. ‘Rather leave it alone, Amina. It’s all in the past. I just want Mariam to rest peacefully now. Don’t bring up all these things.’

  ‘Is there anything you know that can help me, anything at all? I want to help find who did this.’

  ‘Let it go, please, for Mariam’s sake, don’t dig up past things.’

  Amina put her hand on Yasmin’s arm. ‘I think it’s our duty to make sure justice is done. I think we honour her by trying to bring this person to justice.’

  Yasmin twirled her sleeve. ‘I must go now. I’m sorry I can’t help you.’ She turned and left before Amina could say another word.

  The call came to Khalid at 12 p.m. It was brief and to the point.

  ‘In the post box is a parcel. Do not open it. Take the parcel to the ship. Conceal it in the area where the function is tomorrow. Don’t pass through security. The parcel has a pre-recorded message for the US government which will be played to the Assistant Secretary of State. Once you’ve delivered the message successfully, drop the phone into the sea and you will never hear from me again.’

  Khalid had no time to say anything further than ‘hello?’ and the caller was gone. This was crazy. How had this treachery invaded his life so quickly and so completely? A few options raced through his mind. He could approach Berkeley and tell her everything; from his first meeting with Mariam, his sometimes violent fights with her, to the anonymous call that revealed Mariam was married and was trying to blackmail him. Then the confrontation and the fact that he had grabbed her at the swamps, but not hard. How he’d been attacked by the masked man with the gun and how he’d run away. Then the note and the photographs and the post box and video. No. It had gotten too complicated. He’d let the events get ahead of him and it made him look more guilty. Berkeley would turn him in. Even if he was innocent, there would still be questions about his integrity, his judgement. At best he’d be sent home. Home to what? To disgrace and shame. Perhaps he could still ride this out. A parcel couldn’t do any harm, not if it fits in a post office box. Probably just environmental activists or some other group with a gripe. He contemplated the risks. The ship would be swarming with security agents and marines. What if they stopped him and found the parcel? Perhaps he could hand the parcel in and say he found it and let the security guys X-ray it. But then he wouldn’t have delivered it and in no time the compromising video . . . There was only one thing to do. Go ahead as instructed, ditch the cellphone and then finish the remainder of his tour of duty in South Africa quietly and discreetly. Stay under the radar for a few more months, return to the States and retire peacefully, putting this whole thing behind him.

  It took Khalid forty-five minutes to drive from the office to the parking area close to N-shed where the uss Endeavour was berthed. The rain was pelting down but the humidity was close to ninety per cent. His car was given a cursory search by the port police as he entered the harbour, but the parcel was in his briefcase on the passenger seat and no one even looked at it. A second cordon stopped him again at the outer perimeter, where razor wire demarcated a staging area where service providers had to park their vehicles. This area was guarded by heavily armed SAPS officers and only his accreditation allowed him through the gate on the far side where pedestrians were directed into the shed itself. N-shed is a large building, unsightly, but obviously functional in accordance with its original design. A large open space, it was nothing more than a cargo shed, but had been upgraded over the past decade to cater for passenger ships that called at Durban port a few times a month.

  The shed was undergoing a huge transformation, with carpets being laid, plants being brought in and various VIP lounge areas being constructed. Khalid wondered how the work would possibly be finished in the next twenty-four hours and conceded that everything had been fasttracked due to the change in venue of the reception. The dockside from N-shed had been completely sealed off and the only way onto the ship was through a dedicated tunnel-like structure which linked onto the gangway on the starboard side of the warship. In this tunnel, various systems were being prepared to ensure no contraband entered the ship. X-ray machines, face-recognition cameras, explosives scanners and search cubicles formed a gauntlet along the tunnel to the covered gangway where a group of marines stood chatting to the technicians installing the equipment. Khalid walked up to Fulham who was talking to a welldressed military-looking man in his mid-fifties.

  Fulham extended his hand. ‘Meet Special Agent Hunter; he’s the Secret Service chief for the visit. This is Mr Imraan Khalid, he’s the RSO here in Durban.’

  Hunter extended his hand and gave a short but firm handshake. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said and then put his hand to his ear as something in his small transparent earpiece demanded his attention. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’

  ‘He’s got his hands full,’ Fulham said. ‘He’s one stressed-out guy. What do you think of the ship?’

  ‘Looks pretty neat. Any chance of a tour?’

  ‘If you want to look around, go now because by tonight there’s a complete lockdown. At 21:00 they go to condition 3 and this ship becomes the safest place in South Africa. Take a look at the
reception area; it’s pretty impressive. They’ve done a damn good job in a short space of time.’

  ‘Yeah, let’s check it out. Can I take my briefcase? Got classified docs in it. I don’t want to leave it anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t know, man. These guys are pretty fussy about stuff like that. But I’m sure I can convince them you’re not going to smuggle any contraband in.’

  Fulham and Khalid approached the gangway and Fulham flipped open his FBI card. ‘At ease, marines. This is the Regional Security Officer, he needs to see the reception area and make sure everything’s okay. He’s representing the cg and she’s kinda . . .’

  ‘Gunnery Sergeant Garcia?’ Khalid asked, grinning widely and then grabbing the marine’s hand tightly. She looked blank for a second and then broke into a smile.

  ‘Sir, yes sir, good to see you again, sir.’

  ‘You two know each other?’ Fulham asked, surveying the short but pretty gunny, looking particularly sexy in her camouflage fatigues.

  ‘Kabul,’ Khalid said. ‘We served at the Kabul mission together, 2006, small damn world, huh?’

  ‘Sir, yes sir. Oorah, happy days, sir.’

  Fulham nodded slowly. ‘Well, I can see you’ll be in good hands. I’m gonna skip the tour and get back to Hunter. He needs all the help I can give. Enjoy the tour. Marines,’ and he nodded, causing them to snap to attention and chorus, ‘Sir!’

  Fulham walked off briskly, assuming Khalid had done more than serve with Garcia in Afghanistan, but he kept his contempt to himself. He was too busy to worry about a womanising diplomat right now. He would deal with him later.

  ‘I’ll show you around, sir,’ Garcia said. ‘Welcome aboard the Endeavour.’

  ‘Ma’am,’ a marine snapped. ‘No unchecked suitcases allowed on board, sir.’

  Garcia looked at Khalid. ‘The corporal’s right, sir. Can you check it in at the security counter? They’re not quite set up there yet, but they’ll look after it for you.’

  ‘Gunny, I’ve got classified documents in here, documents I’ll need when I look at the reception area. I cleared it through Special Agent Fulham. I need these things.’

  ‘Stand down, Corporal,’ Garcia said. ‘I can vouch for this gentleman. He can keep the case.’ As they walked up the inclined gangway she smiled. ‘You see how they profiled you because you’re Muslim? I won’t have that on my watch.’

  ‘You’re a good lady, Rosetta.’ He meant it. Way too good for him. ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘I been great, Imraan. Getting a bit tired of the sand and the sun. We’ve been in the Persian Gulf for months, we’re going home awhile. This was just a little detour for us.’

  ‘It’s an impressive ship.’

  ‘The navy’s newest amphibious assault ship. She’s an awesome warship. I love her profile, sits in the water like a cruise ship. Great platform for launching a small war though.’

  Khalid couldn’t argue. He’d got the information pack on the Endeavour and it was impressive reading. The vessel’s keel was laid in June 2006 and delivered to the navy in August 2009 after the contractor’s lengthy and thorough sea trials were completed. It was a technological masterpiece. Two gas turbines propelled the vessel to speeds that could match ski boats, while carrying a mix of assault helicopters, Harrier jets and state-of-the-art weapons systems. The Sea Sparrow missile systems, two rolling airframe missile systems and the Phalanx close-in weapons system, the pack had said, would protect the ship from any external attack.

  ‘We got a well deck we can flood to launch landing craft and, up there, an aircraft deck. We can flood the well deck with 15 000 tons of seawater to float our LCACS. That’s a lot of seawater!’ Garcia had spoken the whole way, and Khalid hadn’t heard a word. His focus was narrowed to one thing alone. The package.

  ‘It’s way more than an aircraft carrier, Imraan. Our LCACS, our landing craft, they carry huge payloads, up to seventy-five tons, and they’re super fast – forty knots.’

  Khalid nodded absently. Just the package. Once delivered, he would be a free man. He would change his life. He never wanted to go through this again.

  Garcia pointed through a set of double doors into a well-lit space. ‘This is the medical centre. A six-hundred-bed hospital; they can do anything here from pulling a tooth to major surgery.’ They continued through an area which looked like a small mall with shops and ATM machines and through a hatch marked ‘Helo Hangar’.

  ‘This is the Helo Hangar. Well, it was. Quite impressive, huh?’

  The hangar had been draped with white, red and green material. An eight-metre Christmas tree had been placed in front of the area where the hangar’s firefighting equipment was stowed. Fairy lights were strung around the bulkheads, and white polystyrene chips simulating snow were spread across the deck, which had been lined with pine needles. The scent of pine was strong in the air, but Khalid could still detect the faint smell of aviation fuel which reminded him that military helicopters normally called this their home. Nine tables surrounded a central table, which was where the Assistant Secretary and her advisors would sit.

  ‘How many marines are on board?’ Khalid asked.

  ‘We can accommodate close to two thousand. We only have about a quarter of that on board now. The bulk of the marines are on sister ships in the expeditionary strike group.’

  ‘Hmmm . . . Listen, Rosetta, I need to go over the security plans. The cg needs feedback. She’s a little stressed out right now. I don’t want to keep you, if you need to get back to duty. I can find my own way back.’

  Garcia shook her head. ‘Sorry, Imraan. No unescorted visitors, I’m afraid, it’s a standing order. Tell you what, I’ll rustle up a cuppa joe for you, so you do what you need to do. I’ll be around.’

  Garcia marched off and Khalid mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He couldn’t believe how easy it was. He’d always thought Garcia was a professional. Her guard was down – perhaps she was still under his spell. Or perhaps she remembered how many sections of the Code she’d broken when she was at the embassy annex in Kabul and he was the duty officer who had caught her. The hangar was cool but he felt the perspiration sticking his shirt to his back. What was he doing? How had it got to this point? The only thing he knew was that he had to ensure was that no one got hurt. The parcel had to be placed in such a way that it would create a spectacular news headline, but nothing more. Fulham would probably be fired, and that was good. He would have fulfilled his part of the deal and his blackmailer would be off his case. The weight of the parcel seemed to have increased tenfold in the last twenty minutes. What if it contained explosives? He had no way of knowing. It was such a small parcel, half the size of a shoebox. Perhaps he hadn’t thought enough about this point where he actually had to place the parcel. He had somehow managed to get it all the way in, past the most sophisticated security systems in the world, onto a US warship. It was ironic. He’d read the ship’s target acquisition system could simultaneously track fifty-four targets. Fifty-four. Yet, here he was, in the heart of the ship, untracked. Low-tech wins again. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps the Secretary of State needed a wake-up call. Perhaps he had been chosen for a reason. Still, he felt more like a terrorist. A traitor. He’d sworn to protect Americans from harm and to serve his country . . . but this was a ship which had dispatched soldiers to countries where they wrought havoc on civilians. US foreign policy had to be questioned, spotlighted and sometimes condemned. The rationalisations started sounding more reasonable. It was just a publicity stunt anyway; a way of drawing attention to a cause, like the environmentalists do.

  The parcel. The briefcase clicked open and he hunched over it, sliding the package onto a metal ledge. Khalid removed the outer wrapping exposing the inner, waxy grey paper. He held it in his hand for a brief moment, trying to fathom why he was risking so much for this delivery. He’d made an irrational commitment to the stranger on the phone. Whatever the consequences of not acceding to the demands of the blackmailer, surely the delivery of this e
vil thing would bring consequences on a far larger scale? No, he couldn’t – wouldn’t – do this. A loud clunk echoed around the bay, a hatch opening and closing. Panic. Khalid fumbled and slid the box into a ventilation grid at his feet. He looked around, ready to make up something about stepping in a grease patch on the deck, but there was no one to be seen. He cursed himself for being so edgy. Relax and get the thing back. He reached into the space to retrieve it and realised the vent sloped downwards and the parcel had slid away and was gone.

  ‘What’s that?’ Durant asked as he entered Shabalala’s office.

  ‘It’s an apple, why?’

  ‘A real apple, one that grows on a tree standing in soil where there are millions of germs and fertiliser and . . .’

  ‘Very funny, Kevin. For your information, an apple a day keeps the doctor away.’

  ‘Whew. Did you make that up, because it sounds really scientific?’

  ‘Did you come here just to annoy me?’

  ‘No, I came to tell you that I think Mohammed is somehow involved in this thing. I just had a bad feeling about him.’

  ‘Okay. That’s good. Tomorrow’s the function on the ship and I’ll be happy once that’s all over with. Maybe we’ll have a quiet Christmas after all. I hope so, because I’ve got big plans for the New Year.’

  ‘You want to share something with me?’

  ‘No. Just making conversation.’

  ‘Marriage plans?’

  Shabalala stopped peeling his apple, looked up, shook his head, and then continued. ‘Forget it. You already know too much. And one day you’re going to leak.’

  ‘To the boss? You’re crazy. I made you a promise.’

  ‘You’ll slip up. Say something you shouldn’t. He’s a smart man, he’ll pick it up.’