Frost tossed the paper back at Durant. ‘What do you want?’ There was a sharp edge to Frost’s voice.
‘Well, all I want is a piece of the pie. Only if it all works out, of course.’ Durant shifted uncomfortably as Frost’s sidekick returned and whispered something to him. When he left, he closed the door behind him.
There was silence, punctuated only by the sound of Durant’s heavy breathing.
Frost narrowed his eyes momentarily. ‘So you’ve been working there a long time?’
This was it, Durant thought. They’d checked. The backstop was too shallow, they were on to him. ‘I always liked figures,’ Durant said, remarkably calmly considering he felt as though someone already had him by the throat with a garrotte. Then added, ‘Especially the blonde ones.’
It was a penetrating two seconds of quiet, then Frost erupted into a guttural laugh, and Durant laughed too, relieved that the focus was off him momentarily.
‘Blondes! That’s funny.’ Frost composed himself quickly and dabbed his forehead with a white silk handkerchief. His voice was abrupt again. ‘You have access to the drivers’ personal details? Home addresses, stuff like that?’
Durant smiled and leaned towards Frost, confident now. ‘All of that. The drivers, the crews, the dispatchers, even the shift managers. They all belong to me. And if I belong to you, I don’t mind sharing.’
Frost nodded slowly and licked his lips. Durant could just imagine what he was thinking. For a criminal mastermind, this type of access was manna from crime heaven. ‘I want that, all of that. Every name is worth R1 000 to you.’
Durant snorted indignantly. ‘I’m worth more than that, Mr Frost.’
‘You’re worth what I say you’re worth. I was being generous when I said R1 000. Maybe it should be R100.’ Durant could see the anger rise, right up to his dark eyes.
‘Maybe I should find someone else who would be interested.’
‘There is no one else. I control this market. ATMS and cash-in-transits are my territory. You have nowhere else to go. R750, my last offer.’
It was time. Durant knew it was a gamble, but it was a calculated risk. Anyway, the SAPS task force was outside – if it went wrong, they would extract him, hopefully alive. If it went right, this case was solved. Durant shook his head. ‘Here’s the thing. You’re gonna want to kill me. You’re probably gonna wish you did long ago. Last Christmas Eve, out there on the Esplanade.’ Durant spoke in a measured tone as he lifted his shirt to reveal the scars on his body.
Frost’s head jerked back, instinctively, as if some invisible hand had landed a blow under his chin. The handkerchief wiped his face, once, twice. ‘Who are you?’ The words were as cold as the beers on the other side of the door.
‘Durant. nia. The guy you nearly killed.’
‘That’s not a bank,’ Frost said bitterly, almost indignant that he’d been told a fib.
‘Sorry, I lied about the bank part. I still want to make a deal with you though.’ Durant’s voice was steady now, self-assured.
Frost pursed his lips. ‘Our business is finished here.’
He started towards the door, but stopped when Durant took his arm. ‘If you walk through the door, the deal’s off. Twenty cops will be all over you. You’ll go to court, you’ll go to jail for murder and attempted murder. If we talk in here, and walk out together, you can keep walking. No one will touch you.’ Durant let go his arm. ‘Your call, Frost.’
Frost put the handkerchief to his face and held it there. For all of thirty seconds, his eyes were closed. Durant could only imagine the thoughts going through his head. How much did this man know? Was he bluffing? Could he take the chance? ‘What’s this deal?’ He thrust the hanky in his pocket and looked Durant in the eye. ‘Talk to me.’
Patient 28763 was the only white patient in the secure ward at the Hopelands Institute with an isiZulu name. The staff had given him the name ‘Umthakathi’, which means ‘evil’ and it was hard to imagine that this thin, pathetic-looking man, eyes wide and saliva dripping from his dry and drawn lips, could have actually been responsible for the biggest terrorist attack on the subcontinent. It was pointless calling him Ruslan Vakhayev because the real Ruslan’s body was lying in a numbered municipal grave on the outskirts of Durban. This man wasn’t dead. His brain was still functioning, but only at its most basic level. The M99 had stopped his heart and lungs from functioning for too long, depriving his brain of blood and oxygen. The rag in his mouth hadn’t helped either. And the body, in a state of half-wake, half-sleep wasn’t going anywhere. The handcuffs and police guard only lasted three days. Only his eyes moved, and there were few staff members who could even look into the wild, darting eyes of Umthakathi without being haunted by the sight of the demons which tormented him.
Durant received a scanned copy of the email Frost’s attorney had sent to the senior public prosecutor. Frost was willing to testify that he dealt with Ruslan’s alias in the weapons-for-explosives exchange. If the terrorist was ever fit to stand trial, Frost would testify against him and finger him as the link between the explosives and the terrorist attack against the ship. There was, however, a proviso he’d negotiated with the State. In return, he wanted indemnity from prosecution for the shooting of the Filipino, Durant and Splinters. Durant lifted his feet off his desk and sighed. He was glad it wasn’t his decision to make. For now, that suited him. He’d made another deal with Frost and it was time to go.
No one was outside the prison gate when Faizel Mohammed was released. No press, no relatives and nobody from the centre. His lawyer had offered to send a taxi to take him home, but he’d declined. He also declined to sue the police for false arrest. He had no need for money or revenge. He praised Allah for his freedom; although the prison cell was so much more comfortable than his stable at the centre. It didn’t matter; he wasn’t going back to the centre anyway. It was time to move on and leave South Africa’s experience of jihad for the history books to judge. A minibus taxi stopped at the prison entrance and he got in. As the full taxi headed for the city, Mohammed reflected on Durban – a city changed – more fearful, more paranoid, and closer perhaps, to realising that nowhere in the world was safe or free. As long as there was unbelief, there would be war. It was a small step in the long journey, but he was grateful having been part of it. The mission was a success, but he would never give a report to his masters. The media reports were enough. There was only one failure. The man he’d known as Ruslan had failed. His carelessness had cost him his mind. But he posed no danger now. Ruslan was as good as dead. Perhaps his soul had already departed. Anyway, on Resurrection Day, his blood would smell of musk. Perhaps he was already enjoying the virgins in Paradise and tasting the sweetest dates. The taxi entered the city, and Mohammed lifted the newspaper on the seat beside him. A story caught his eye. Julian Dos Santos had been arrested for writing an article which ‘jeopardised’ the police’s investigation into the bombing. Mohammed smiled, his sense of pride inflated. Silently he recited the first verse of the Quran: Bismallah rahmani rahim al hamdulillah rabbi lalamin. He had hit Dar al-Harb, the Place of War – literally, an American warship was the epitome of American aggression – with a hammer blow and the only arrest the authorities had made was of a journalist who reported the truth.
Suddenly the taxi shuddered to a halt. Mohammed felt bewildered. The taxi passengers on either side of him had his arms in a lock.
‘What . . . are you doing?’ he stuttered, pulling feebly against the strong hands that pushed him against the seat. Another passenger behind him now had his head in a lock and he felt something being pulled over his head. Now his wrists, something being tied around his wrists and pulled tight. He felt cold and helpless. What was happening? The sliding door opened and he felt himself being dragged out by big hands, these gloved. He was being lifted now, unceremoniously, but efficiently, and carried a few metres. Another vehicle sliding door opening. It was pointless struggling. They had him. There was no escape. He was lowered onto a chair and cuf
fed to it. The sliding door closed and someone behind him pulled the hood off.
Durant smiled. ‘Taxis are dangerous, Mr Mohammed.’ He motioned to the big man standing behind him. ‘Police, task force. All twelve of them. Quite strange to see them without all their gear, I mean, they looked like normal taxi passengers didn’t they?’ Durant turned up the air conditioning in the back of the van. The excitement was making it warm in that small space. ‘You’re done, Faizel Mohammed.’
‘This is p-p-preposterous.’
‘A guy called Frost told me he dealt with a stutterer in the arms deal. He pointed you out from a photograph.’ Durant felt elated, but there was no hint of it in his voice. ‘You’ve given me my life back.’
Mohammed wanted to spit in the face of this sickening infidel who sat in front of him and belittled him, but his mouth was too dry to muster any spit. Instead he turned his head away in disgust and reflected on his future. It looked bleak indeed.
Acknowledgements
To my family for all the cheering and caring during the long writing journey. To the many technical consultants and advisors I can’t name, except Sia Antonakas, whom I must name. To Carla Potgieter, my editor; Fourie Botha and Frederik de Jager at Umuzi. Thank you.
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