‘So you’re not going to tell me what the grand plan is?’
‘No.’
‘Fine then. I’ve also got plans for next year, huge plans that are going to affect you and change the way you work.’
‘You’re emigrating,’ Shabalala said nonchalantly, carefully carving a brown spot out of the apple’s white flesh.
Durant closed Shabalala’s door. ‘How did you know that?’ he whispered loudly.
‘I heard you talking to Stephanie on the phone. And I saw a photocopy of a removal firm’s quote. And someone called from the doctor’s rooms. The doctor only does medicals for people who want to emigrate.’
‘My goodness. Is nothing sacred around here any more? Are there any secrets left in this place?’ Durant asked, a slight smile indicating he wasn’t too annoyed at Shabalala’s detective work.
Shabalala nodded. ‘Yes, mine.’
‘So . . . what’s your opinion?’
‘On your emigrating?’
‘Obviously. Are you okay with it?’
Shabalala put the apple on a plate and looked up for the first time. ‘Look, Kevin, you’ve obviously got your reasons, it’s not for me to judge you. I can’t talk you out of it if you’ve made up your mind. Personally, I think it’s a big mistake, but that’s just an opinion.’
‘Does Mr Masondo know?’
‘Of course not. I wouldn’t tell him. He’d be devastated. You’re his blue-eyed boy. Literally.’
‘No I’m not. He mustn’t know. Not yet. It’s not cast in stone yet. Anything can happen.’
‘I know. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’
Christmas Day 2009
Durant awoke with a jolt. A thin line of cold sweat ran down his cheek. Another nightmare. He couldn’t remember the details. Just vague flashes of Splinters falling beside him, a Christmas tree, and Alexis calling his name. ‘Daddy, Daddy, wake up!’ A tugging at his T-shirt. It felt so real. He rolled over to escape the nightmare and opened his eyes. There she was. Alexis. Her face lit up. ‘It’s Christmas, Dad! Hurry, let’s go to the lounge!’
He tried to smile. It was meant to be a happy day, but sadness flooded him. A year ago he was lying in the ICU at Westville hospital while his family contemplated a possible life without him. A lot had happened in the year following. And with the identification of Frost, there was a chance he could put the pain behind him. It would have been better if he’d been shot on some arbitrary day that could pass by without him having an annual reminder; every Christmas from now on for the rest of his life would bring back bad memories.
Shabalala woke up and sent Christmas text greetings to a few people, including Durant. He noted that fewer people had sent him text wishes this year, a phenomenon he first attributed to economics and not his falling popularity, but then realised many of the people in his directory he hadn’t maintained contact with since he started seeing Nandi. His workload and secret relationship had taken their toll on his social life, a life that wasn’t even that social anyway. It was worth sacrificing the braais and parties where he always brought his own packed salad and freshly squeezed fruit juice and where he always felt like an outsider. He didn’t particularly enjoy kwaito or beer or even crude jokes. He sometimes felt he was only invited to socials as a sideshow, an aberration on display, because he always had a comment about the effects of meat and beer on the human body and although people laughed, they were actually laughing at him. He thumbed through the names in his phone directory and deleted seven people he knew he didn’t want to see again. He didn’t need shallow friends, he had Nandi now and she meant everything to him. She even agreed with him on some nutrition and health issues, and she was a doctor.
He sent a special message to Nandi from his private cellphone and signed it ‘Sandy’, a precaution in case Masondo checked her phone – a very likely possibility, he thought. In the message he reminded her it was only a few more days to their very special day that he’d been preparing for months. She replied that she was just as excited and looked forward to seeing him that evening when her dad went to the function.
Masondo spent the latter part of the afternoon organising access into the Secretary’s reception. His old comrade Njabulo had organised a shallow cover for him to give him access to the ship. He was posing as an unarmed vip protector for the Minister of Safety and Security, which would get him into the function and close enough to observe any activity which could be regarded as threatening, something which he felt he should oversee himself. He hadn’t been operational for a while and he looked forward to some real excitement again. The analysts had raised the threat level of the event to high and there were senior managers not having a merry Christmas at all in the operational centre at the provincial office. Here all the incoming information from the field units was fed to analysts who packaged it into relevant topic products and delivered it to various clients. He clipped his photo accreditation card onto his jacket pocket and a South African flag button onto his lapel. The Americans took their security precautions seriously. That ship was probably the safest place on earth tonight. Federal agents, US marines, SA navy, SA police. Everything would be fine. It was Christmas Day. His only real worry remained Nandi. And what she was up to.
Amina had collected everything she needed: documents, photographs and samples, and packaged them into one envelope. She sealed the envelope and attached a label with a name and address on it. She would hand it over when she saw him again. Ahmed was out, but she was happy to be alone. Siraj was sleeping. From her balcony, she could see the ocean and it reminded her of freedom and escape.
Fulham was exhausted. It was getting dark and the ship looked spectacular, both inside and out. She was ready to receive the Secretary and he would be glad when all of this was over. This hadn’t been part of his brief; it had been imposed on him by people who didn’t know the real reason he was in Durban. It was beyond his call of duty. He took a minute to stand on the deck and look out towards the lights of Durban and breathe in some fresh sea air. He was far from home and he missed his wife and kids. Overseas duty at this time of the year when he should be with his family. He wanted this thing wrapped up soon. He had enough information, he just had to compile the report and send it to his director. His deadline was 12 January and if he typed fast enough, he could have it done by the 6th.
He didn’t care much for Khalid as a diplomat, but felt empathy for him as a fellow human being. He’d made some bad choices; women, a dangerous weakness when you’re in the diplomatic service, and soon there would be consequences for him. It would be done discreetly and sensitively as State always did. Quiet, early retirement, no shot at the consultancy circuit, no government contracts. He would just disappear from American public life and even his ex-colleagues probably wouldn’t want much to do with him. And with no profile, no status and not much of a pension, the women wouldn’t exactly be tearing up his home street either. He snapped back from his thoughts as his cellphone trilled in his pocket. The screen said ‘unknown number’. He hesitated momentarily; he didn’t routinely receive anonymous calls and rarely answered them, but this one he did. The voice wasn’t familiar and the message was short and unambiguous. ‘Ask Mr Khalid about Mariam.’
‘Please don’t go out tonight,’ Stephanie said, and Durant knew she was feeling that same unnatural fear that he was feeling, that something bad was going to happen.
‘I’m not planning to. I’m hoping for an early night, actually.’
‘Last year it was you, and now this year it’s Mom. She was so reluctant to go for those tests. She said they wanted to put more microchips in her. It’s terrible.’
‘Well, the doctor said dementia may be treatable, so hang on to that. Maybe it’s the shock of the emigration thing that brought it on.’
‘I don’t know. Sometimes she’s so fine. And even when she says all these crazy things, she still seems fine – I mean she says it like she really believes it.’
‘But she does believe it. To her, it is real. And if we don’t go al
ong with her stories, she thinks we’re part of some conspiracy against her.’
‘The doctor says distraction works the best.’
‘We’ll figure it all out, Steph. The British spy story is actually quite sweet. She even had me going for a while with Jamaal and the safe house in Kabul.’
‘I hope some medication helps, I really do. Lexi’s ready for bed if you want to go and tuck her in.’
Durant leapt onto Alexis’s bed and roared, ‘Here comes Mushkie Bear! You’d better run!’ Alexis tried to, but the bear had her in a gentle hug and tickled her neck until she giggled so much Durant had to stop.
‘Stop it, Mushkie Bear,’ she said. ‘Bad bear!’ She grabbed her dad’s shirt and pulled it. ‘I’ll pull your fur off!’
‘Ow,’ said Durant as a button popped off. ‘Mushkie Bear doesn’t like pain, have mercy, little girl. I’m a friendly bear, I like hugs!’
She gave the bear a hug and Durant rolled over onto his back and Alexis sat on his stomach.
‘Is that sore, Dad?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ Durant lied.
‘Show me your bullet holes, I want to feel them.’
Durant rolled up his shirt and showed her the dark purple scars left by the bullets.
‘Was it sore when you were shot?’ she asked.
‘A little. It looks worse than it is, though.’
‘Why did the bad men want to shoot you?’
‘They didn’t know me. I think if they knew me, they wouldn’t have shot me. Who’d want to shoot old Mushkie Bear, anyway?’
‘What would have happened if you died?’
‘You can’t kill Mushkie Bear, he’s tough. And your old dad’s tough, so don’t worry.’
‘Will someone else ever shoot you?’
‘Never, sweetheart. I promise. Nobody will ever shoot me again.’
‘Mom says in New Zealand we’ll be safe.’
Durant sighed. ‘Well, I heard about someone in New Zealand that tripped over a flower pot and banged his head on a lamp post – dead. I don’t know if it’s safe anywhere.’
‘That’s why we must love Jesus, hey?’
‘He’ll look after us. Wherever we are. Now come snuggle old Mushkie Bear, it’s half past seven and time to say goodnight.’
‘Night, Daddy.’
Durant felt Alexis’s cheek against his and closed his eyes. The events of the day before replayed in his mind and a scene that kept reoccurring was the interview with Mohammed. Something didn’t seem right. The man started by pleading innocence and by the conclusion of the interview, Durant felt his words were confirming his guilt. What had changed? The more he was backed into a corner, the more radical he seemed to become and the more determined he was to defend his faith. And stammerers, he thought, stammered more when they were anxious. Mohammed seemed to relax as the interview questions grew in intensity and pertinence. Almost as though he was telling the truth. Alexis was asleep and Durant kissed her lightly on the forehead and said a little blessing over her. He went to the lounge and dialled Shabalala’s number. The wall clock gave the time as 19:45.
At 19:45 Shabalala and Nandi were walking back to his car when his phone rang.
‘Ced, I was thinking. Sorry to disturb, by the way.’
‘What’s up?’
‘When I spoke to that Mohammed guy yesterday at the prison, he said he told the truth when he answered my three questions.’
‘So? I don’t know if you can take him at his word.’
‘But listen. Why lie about two things and the third, probably the most crucial, tell the truth. He said he didn’t make the call and he didn’t handle explosives. But he said he would die for his faith. He said he answered all these questions truthfully, and I actually believe him.’
‘He wouldn’t lie about dying for his faith, and that was the answer that would have implicated him the most.’
There was a moment’s silence. ‘Exactly. So if Mohammed was framed the real bad guy is still out there. We were fooled into a false sense of security. Where are you now?’
‘With Nandi, just had a cup of coffee with her.’
‘Sorry, man. Any chance of getting hold of Ruslan?’
‘Why? He’d be at the reception already – he would have driven the sheikh there.’
‘Ruslan pointed out Mohammed. Isn’t it possible he’s involved somehow?’
Shabalala felt his blood run cold. ‘I checked him out thoroughly – he’s as clean as a whistle – I did background checks, travel checks, nothing came up.’
‘I’m worried, Ced. The boss is also at the reception, but let’s try and meet him and figure this out.’
‘Meet . . . I can’t, Kevin, I’m with Nandi. How am I going to explain that?’
‘Okay, that’s true. Do me a favour and phone Ruslan. Tell him we think Mohammed was set up. See how he responds. Will you do that for me?’
‘It’s done.’
‘And tell Nandi sorry I spoilt her date.’
Ruslan touched a button and the driver’s seat of the Mercedes silently inclined so that he could lie back comfortably and still see through the windscreen. He switched the car’s music centre off and marvelled at how insulated and quiet the car was. The warship crouched at its moorings, like a colossal iron monolith trying to break free. It was base, monstrous, a gargantuan killing machine, designed for overkill and he guessed it was good at it. The festive coloured lights that flickered over it were an obscenity. It was dressed up to look like a mercy ship, a cruise ship, an amusement ride at a kids’ fairground. Its helicopter gunships had probably taken hundreds of innocent lives, the marines in its belly the same, or more. These same marines in full camouflage fatigues stood in pairs on the jetty around the ship, five metres apart, weapons facing outward. It really was an impressive show of defence and only a lunatic would think of trying to penetrate that wall of firepower. Even the sheikh had commented on the security precautions. He’d joked with Ruslan and said it would be suicide to try to get on board the ship with as much as a nail clipper. A few minutes earlier the sheikh had been escorted on board. It was 8 p.m. and he could hear the sirens as the Assistant Secretary of State’s cavalcade approached. First the motorcycle outriders and metro police vehicles drove past the parking area where his car and many other dignitaries’ cars were parked. Then luxury black SUVS with blue lights came past, followed by an armoured Suburban and then more police cars.
Ruslan’s phone rang. ‘Salaam?’
‘It’s Reno. How things there?’
‘Fine, Reno, fine. The principal has just arrived, so there’s a lot of action. I’ll give the sheikh a call just now to check if everything is okay inside.’
‘Ruslan, we chatted to Mohammed yesterday. We think he was set up, that he isn’t involved at all.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Just from things that he says.’
‘You believe him?’
‘I don’t know, we’re not sure. We’re just a bit worried, a bit jittery, that’s all.’
‘Don’t be worried, Reno, everything will be okay. It’s quiet here. Security is tight. Nothing will happen. I’ll let you know if anything changes.’
Silently, Ruslan knew everything was about to change.
SIXTEEN
In the ship’s helicopter hangar, Fulham pulled Khalid aside. ‘I’m wearing a suit today. Do I look more FBI to you?’
‘I’m impressed.’
The Assistant Secretary of State walked in briskly, smiling and waving, clearly confident the venue was sterile and the suspected terrorist was behind bars. The guests applauded as she made her way to the central table, stopping along the way and greeting dignitaries.
‘She looks taller in real life,’ Fulham whispered.
‘I guess.’ Khalid nodded towards where U-Haq was standing. ‘The sheikh’s grinning from ear to ear. He’s obviously pleased to be rubbing shoulders with the Secretary.’
‘Mr Khalid, a rather disturbing piece of information c
ame to me from an anonymous source earlier. I’m ordering a polygraph on you just for peace of mind.’
Khalid felt his body sway involuntarily as his limbic system responded to the threat and blood was diverted from his legs to his upper body. ‘Whose peace of mind?’
‘Mine. It’ll clear you, just like that.’
Khalid knew a poly would sink him, as sure as hell it would expose his lies and his betrayal. ‘Whatever you think, Mr Fulham.’
‘I haven’t discussed it with anyone yet. I thought I’d bounce it off you first.’
‘What kind of information came to you, may I ask?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it now, but I’ll leave you with a name to think about. Mariam.’ Fulham walked away and stood beside Agent Carter as the Assistant Secretary of State rose to speak.
Khalid felt weak. It may have been the movement of the ship in the water, that slight rocking, which made his feet feel unsteady, but it was more likely Fulham’s mention of Mariam’s name. What if the blackmailer had told Fulham already? His eyes drifted involuntarily to the area where he’d left the package earlier. A table of gifts had been placed over the vent and he knew there was no way of retrieving the parcel. Perhaps it would disappear into some lost part of the ship’s ventilation infrastructure. In a couple of months or years, or if they ever found it, there would be no way of linking it back to him. The cellphone he’d handed in at the security counter earlier reminded him of his only link to the blackmailer and the instruction that he should dispose of the phone. He would feel better once that had been done. Secretary Conroy hailed the cordial relations that existed been the US and South African governments. Social spending was on the up and up and the US-funded PEPFAR programme to counter the spread of Aids was a flagship success story. Fulham seemed to be captivated by Conroy’s words. Khalid had to get out. Beside two Secret Service agents at the exit stood Gunnery Sergeant Garcia, a welcome sight.
‘I don’t feel well at all, Rosetta. I need to go above decks for some fresh air.’
Garcia saw the beads of sweat on Khalid’s forehead and remembered how long it had taken her to adapt to the gentle movement of the ship. ‘Wow, to me it feels like this boat’s fixed to concrete. I can’t leave my post, so you go ahead.’
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