‘Dad!’ Nandi pleaded. ‘Stop it!’
‘It wasn’t a betrayal, Chief. It was loyalty. I don’t regret keeping my promises.’
‘What about your loyalty to me?’
‘I promised Cedric I wouldn’t tell you.’
‘Dad! Please stop, right now. Leave Kevin alone. He did it for me too.’
‘You made me look like a fool.’
‘No, sir. I respect your concern for your daughter. I’ll be the same over Alexis one day. Worse probably. Nobody wanted to hurt you.’
‘I’ve got nothing against Cedric, understand me. I was willing to give him a chance.’
‘You didn’t, Dad. That’s the thing. You just thought he wasn’t good enough for me.’
Masondo nodded. ‘I was wrong about him.’
‘Well, I hope it’s not too late.’
The car had shrunk to half its normal size and Durant felt more than uncomfortable; he felt crushed. He respected Masondo. He was more than the boss; he was an elder, dignified and proud. He didn’t want to be in the middle of this family altercation.
Masondo was deep in thought and the words were more to himself than Nandi. ‘I always thought he was self-centred and strange. Well, he is still strange. But in a charming sort of way.’
Nandi reached across and put her hand on her father’s arm. ‘That’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say about him.’
‘I apologise, my girl. I spent my life fighting prejudice and nearly died doing so, and here I am, judging somebody because they don’t measure up to my standards.’
‘It’s okay, Dad, it’s okay.’ Nandi was afraid her father would cry and Durant had that same fear.
‘He’s turned out to be a brave soldier.’
‘A brave soldier,’ Nandi echoed.
‘I like you, Reno, but I have to kill you.’
Shabalala’s head was whirling. ‘What?’
‘I knew from when I first baited your organisation and allowed myself to be recruited that I’d have to kill you. There are no survivors in this operation. Not even me. I serve a function and my function is nearly complete.’ Ruslan opened the refrigerator and took out another bottle of flavoured water. ‘Berry flavour. Conceals the taste of the poison nicely.’
Shabalala looked at the bottle in his hands and his face reflected horror.
‘A few sips would have been enough, Reno. Did you know Durban has some of the most devious and talented poison experts in the world? Rhodesians. They used poisons very effectively in the war and they found creative ways of administering them. In clothes, medicines, food. Very efficient. These people are old men now, but they still have the knowledge. I used the first bottle on Ruslan when I became him. Tanveer took the second. The third, well, you got that. I get the last one. The poison – I already see you’re developing some of the symptoms, Reno.’
‘Poisoned water? You’ve killed me.’ Shabalala threw the plastic bottle over his shoulder into the back of the car, the liquid remains gurgling out the nozzle as it landed on the seat.
Ruslan laughed. ‘Too late, my friend. It’s what the vets use to sedate big game animals. It’s called M99. Deadly to humans.’
‘You . . .’
‘I was offered the antidote, but that . . . that would have been pointless. I am close to Paradise now. The war is over for us.’ Ruslan unscrewed the lid and took a few gulps of the berry water. ‘We die together, Reno. You go to Iblis, I go to my reward.’ The Mercedes turned into a parking area and the moonlight lit the sea.
Shabalala turned to Ruslan. ‘So this is where we die?’ he asked.
‘It’s war. Don’t take it personally.’
‘How long have I got?’
‘A few minutes. Maybe an hour. It depends on your metabolism.’
‘Will it be painful?’
‘Pain is temporary. I don’t fear pain. This is Allah’s service, the reward is eternal. M99 is thousands of times more potent than morphine. You won’t feel anything.’ His voice was calm. It was as if he was explaining the weather forecast.
‘They’ll find us. They’ll discover the poison and know you were behind this whole thing.’
Ruslan laughed. ‘Why do you think I filled the car with fuel? When I’m close to the end, I’m going to drive it into the back of the first petrol tanker I see. There’ll be nothing left of us. The explosion, the fire will destroy everything.’
Shabalala’s eyes rolled back in his head momentarily and then he recovered. ‘I can’t feel my body. I’ve lost all sensation.’
‘You’re dying,’ Ruslan said excitedly. ‘You’re close now.’
‘I’m not ready to die,’ Shabalala said. ‘I have a girl – Nandi’s her name. I promised her I would look after myself. I promised her I’d see her on the weekend.’
‘I’m sure she’ll forgive you. Death is a good excuse.’
‘Saturday’s the opening night of a play I’m in.’
Ruslan sounded surprised. ‘You’re an actor as well?’
‘I’m an actor. I rehearsed . . . every Wednesday night for . . . months.’
Ruslan laughed. ‘Your final curtain call, Reno.’
Shabalala effortlessly tightened his fist into a ball. ‘My name’s Thokoza Cedric Shabalala and this is my parting shot.’ Without any warning, Shabalala’s big fist slammed Ruslan under his jawline with a loud crack. Caught unaware, Ruslan crashed against the driver’s door, and then tried to reach across to Shabalala. The bigger man struck him again, hard, against the ear this time and he slumped forward against the steering wheel, blowing the horn with his forehead until Shabalala pulled him back. The big man quickly got out, opened the driver’s side door and dragged Ruslan round to the boot. He found a scarf there which he used to tie Ruslan’s hands together and a rag which he stuffed into Ruslan’s open mouth. Hoisting him up, he unceremoniously dumped him inside the boot and closed the lid.
‘It’s Cedric!’ Nandi screamed and answered her phone. While she spoke, Durant noticed her hand quivered slightly as she held the phone to her ear. ‘I love you,’ she said and ended the call.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s in Ruslan’s car. He’s driving back towards Durban, from the north, on the freeway. He wants to meet at the hospital.’
‘Where?’
‘Umhlanga. He’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Durant got out quickly. ‘Nandi, you drive your dad there. I’ll take the Land Rover with Amina. Is he okay?’
‘He sounded very stressed. He spoke quickly.’
‘Why the hospital?’
‘He didn’t say. But he wouldn’t go unless he needed one.’
Within a minute, both vehicles were racing towards the hospital. In the Land Rover, Amina cradled Siraj in her arms. ‘Technically, Siraj is now my foster son. Both his parents are dead.’
‘I’m sure it’s a little more complicated than that, but you’re right, Mariam signed that document. Tanveer didn’t deserve him anyway.’
It took them eight minutes to reach the casualty section of the hospital and both vehicles drove up the ramp to the ambulance loading area. There was no sign of Shabalala yet and Nandi hoped he wasn’t answering the calls because he was concentrating on driving and not because . . .
Less than a minute later, the roar of the V12 was heard as the Mercedes raced up the ramp and stopped abruptly behind Durant’s Land Rover. Shabalala climbed out, and was almost thrown off balance by Nandi as she hugged him.
‘Are you okay, sweetie?’ she asked, touching his face.
He saw Masondo look at him from the passenger seat of his car and then smile. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad yet, but he smiled back anyway. ‘Ruslan’s in the boot.’
Durant quickly lifted the boot lid and there he was, tied up, a dirty rag in his mouth. He appeared unconscious.
‘He’s had a large dose of M99, an animal sedative. I need you to reverse it,’ Shabalala said.
Nandi looked shocked. ‘M99? Intravenously?’
‘Ingested it?’ Nandi asked as nursing sisters began exiting the emergency doors and gathering around Ruslan. ‘How long ago and how much did he ingest?’
‘About twenty minutes ago and I don’t know how much. Enough to kill him though.’
Durant and an orderly lifted Ruslan from the boot and laid him onto a trauma board on a stretcher that the nursing sisters had brought out. While Nandi asked one of them for a stethoscope and put it to Ruslan’s chest, Durant felt for a pulse. ‘I’m a doctor,’ she said. ‘This patient’s in arrest. Get a bag valve mask here. Start CPR and bring me the emergency drugs box.’
Durant tore Ruslan’s shirt off, clenched his hands together, and put the heel of his right hand on Ruslan’s sternum, just above his xiphoid process. He began chest compressions hard and fast and almost immediately heard a rib crack. That happened. A sister put an ambu-bag to Ruslan’s face, tilted his head back and pressed the air reservoir with both hands, forcing air into his lungs.
Nandi flipped open the drug box and found the naloxone. She carefully inserted the needle part of the syringe into the small bottle. ‘Atropine. It’s a morphine antagonist.’ She drew the syringe back. ‘Should reverse the morphine effect. I don’t know how much he’s ingested, but I’m giving him five mils to start with.’
Nandi handed the ambu-bag to a sister. ‘He’s in respiratory failure. GCS is 6, unresponsive.’ The Glasgow Coma Scale is an objective measure of a patient’s level of consciousness, where 15 is normal and 3 is dead. 6 wasn’t much better than dead. ‘Intubate him and I’m giving him another five mils of atropine. I’m delivering it straight into the heart, no time to get lines up.’ Nandi took the syringe and inserted it into the chest between Ruslan’s ribs to get the antidote to the brain as quickly as possible. ‘Okay, get bilateral atropine lines up now, continue CPR.’
Shabalala glanced at Nandi’s proud father and winked. Masondo had tears in his eyes. She was a doctor. The daughter of a poorly educated guerrilla. After a minute, Nandi shook her head.
‘Take him to the resus area. Sister, please take over chest compressions from Mr Durant.’ Another continued bagging him as the stretcher was hastily wheeled into the building. Durant let out a sigh and walked over to where Shabalala had helped Masondo out of the car and into a wheelchair. Perspiration glistened on his forehead.
‘What the heck happened?’ he asked.
‘He poisoned himself. It was a suicide mission.’
‘Poison’s what killed Tanveer,’ Durant said, the realisation striking him.
‘It also killed the real Ruslan,’ Shabalala went on. ‘He gave me a bottle too. The moron gave me a bottle too.’
‘He gave you a bottle? You drank it?’ Nandi asked, immediately turning to Shabalala and running her hands over his face and chest.
He caught her hands and held them calmly. ‘Of course not. Bottled water’s poison. Full of chemicals, preservatives. I don’t touch the stuff.’
Masondo laughed. ‘He thought you drank it?’
Shabalala smiled. ‘I poured it out when he stopped for a pee. I didn’t want to offend him.’
‘The guy’s a killer and you didn’t want to offend him?’ Durant asked.
‘At that point I didn’t know he was a killer. But then when he thought I would die, he told me everything.’
Masondo shook his head. ‘You’ve done well, Chief. There are so many questions, but if you need to compose yourself . . .’
‘I’m perfectly composed, thanks, sir. My fist is a little sore, but it’ll heal.’
‘Did he say who he really is?’
‘He took the identity of a homeless Russian man and then planned the whole attack. He used all of us, Tanveer and even me. It was brilliant.’
‘You pretended you were dying?’ Durant asked, unable to conceal his smile.
‘You might still die,’ Masondo said, his gruff voice bringing an uncomfortable silence to the casualty entrance. ‘If you don’t treat my daughter like gold.’
Shabalala laughed and shook Masondo’s hand with both of his. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I just didn’t think you approved.’
‘Well, you don’t have approval yet. We’ll talk about it in my office tomorrow.’
Shabalala shook his head incredulously. ‘I brought in South Africa’s most wanted man. Don’t I get a day off?’
‘No. I need a full report on my desk by midday tomorrow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Shabalala had the look of a reprimanded child.
Durant frowned. ‘So if that’s not Ruslan, who is it then?’
Shabalala shook his head. ‘That’s the only reason I don’t want him to die. He’s a ghost. We’ve no idea who he is. And look at what he’s done to us.’
Masondo nodded in agreement. ‘He’s got to stand trial; death is too easy a way out for him. He has a lot to answer for.’
‘So who killed Mariam?’ Amina asked. ‘Tanveer or Khalid?’
‘We may never know,’ Durant replied. ‘Both suspects are dead. But ultimately, they both killed her, either by default or by design. That poor girl was just in such a bad situation.’
‘I know the feeling,’ Amina said bitterly.
TWENTY-ONE
‘Happy New Year,’ Durant said, knowing the words were meaningless.
The old lady sitting in the office reception area looked up from her knitting and smiled. ‘I’m here to see a Mr Masondo,’ she said.
‘Sorry, ma’am, he’s not available at the moment but he asked me to see you.’
Durant led the woman into an interview room and closed the door. ‘Would you like some tea, Mrs Sandhurst?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, sitting down. ‘Love my tea.’
Durant opened the door and asked someone walking past to make two cups.
‘Mr Masondo told me you had some information you wished to share, ma’am. Well, thank you for coming in and I’m eager to listen.’ Durant flipped open his file and clicked his pen.
‘I recognised the young man in the newspaper. He had the most beautiful blue eyes.’
Durant bit his lip involuntarily and frowned. ‘The picture in yesterday’s newspaper?’
‘Yes, that young man. The first time he came to see Kenneth, I remember it clearly. It was a Sunday afternoon, just after gardening club. I still made him tea. He was very quiet and serious.’ The old lady creased her forehead in thought. ‘Good-looking chap.’
‘Sorry, Mrs. Sandhurst, just so I don’t get this wrong, are you referring to this man?’ Durant slipped a picture of Ruslan across the table to her that was in his folder.
The old lady fumbled for her glasses, put them on her face and studied the photograph. ‘That’s him. Don’t remember his name though. And I don’t know what he saw Kenneth about. I didn’t get involved in his business. Mind you, I did, but I just drove him around, he couldn’t drive because of his seizures.’ She took her glasses off and Durant noticed that her hands trembled.
‘What business is your husband in?’ Durant asked, almost instinctively feeling the old lady wouldn’t lie to him.
The old lady leaned forward and smiled. ‘Kenneth had a security firm. People spoke very highly of him. Even in Rhodesia. Quite a reputation he had.’
‘And he did some work for this man?’ Durant pointed at the photograph.
‘Oh yes, but he was very selective, you know.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Never did work for blacks. Didn’t trust them.’
‘I see. Any idea what work he did for this man, Mrs Sandhurst?’
The woman slipped her glasses on then lifted her head and pursed her lips.
‘This was an easy one. Kenneth just had to fetch something from a firm in Westmead. That’s it. I drove him. It took him twenty minutes.’
‘Do you remember exactly where this firm is? Would you be able to show us?’ Durant fidgeted with his pen. He couldn’t sit still.
‘This was a while back, dear. Kenneth would probably have remembered.’
&nbs
p; ‘Where can we find Mr Sandhurst?’ Durant was smiling now, the excitement too much for him to hide.
‘He’s at sea, dear, where he always wanted to be. He loved the sea.’
Durant was puzzled. ‘He’s left the country?’
Mrs Sandhurst laughed sadly. ‘His ashes. I scattered them off Cape Point six months ago. Bless his soul.’
Bless his soul indeed, Durant thought and leaned back in his chair. The worst terrorist attack in South Africa’s recent history and Kenneth Sandhurst had played a key role by supplying Ruslan the toxin. A weapon of mass destruction had been detonated and thirty people were dead. So far, the only person they could conceivably convict in this case was the 70-year-old woman sitting in front of him.
Berkeley took Masondo by the hand and helped him into a chair. It was after 7 p.m. and the restaurant should have been packed with the afterwork crowd, but it was quiet.
‘This was their aim, Ms Berkeley.’ Masondo sighed resignedly. ‘People are too afraid to go out at night. Everybody’s at home, huddled around their TV sets and watching the news, waiting for information, something that will reassure them everything will be okay.’
‘We’ve been through this, Mr Masondo.’ Berkeley lowered her voice. ‘It took us years after September 11 to move on. It’ll take a long time. You’re in for some tough times.’
A waitress appeared and took a drinks order. Masondo ordered a double whisky and Berkeley a light shandy. ‘I was called a terrorist a few times, many years ago.’ Masondo’s mind took him back to the dark days he spent as a guerrilla in the bush war. ‘Thought it was a bad label then, but after this, I realise just how insulting it is. Anyway, let’s not go back to the past. We need to know where we went wrong.’
‘I don’t know if we could’ve done anything differently,’ Berkeley said dolefully. ‘Let’s run through the sequence of events and see if we agree.’
‘This is how we understand what happened.’ Masondo referred to a page in his folder. ‘An unidentified person came to South Africa, probably about two or three years ago, and he acquired M99 from a Rhodesian called Kenneth Sandhurst. He stole this from a veterinary medicine warehouse in Durban. We’ve established that much.’
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