Allegiance

  ALLEGIANCE

  By the same author:

  An Ordinary Day (2010)

  Trevor R Corbett

  To Len and June

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Published in 2012 by Umuzi

  an imprint of Random House Struik (Pty) Ltd

  Company Reg No 1966/003153/07

  First Floor, Wembley Square, Solan Road, Cape Town, 8001, South Africa

  PO Box 1144, Cape Town, 8000, South Africa

  umuzi@randomstruik.co.za

  www.randomstruik.co.za

  © 2012 Trevor R Corbett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying and recording, or be stored in any information storage or retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  First edition, first printing 2012

  1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2

  ISBN 978-1-4152-0174-9 (Print)

  ISBN 978-1-4152-0476-4 (ePub)

  ISBN 978-1-4152-0477-1 (PDF)

  Cover design by publicide

  Text design by Nazli Jacobs

  Set in Minion

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  November 2007. The Swaziland–South Africa border

  Shamoo raised his arm to indicate to the nineteen men, women and children to lie low in the bush. Arshad Tanveer felt his heart pumping harder in his chest. The men holding the ropes as guides, two at the front, middle and back, were probably South Africans, and had done this trek hundreds of times. It was routine for them. He still battled with the realisation that his long journey which had started in Karachi, via the exhausting flights to Dubai, then Nairobi, on to Dar es Salaam and finally to Manzini, Swaziland, was almost at an end.

  Shamoo, their guide, had driven him and seven others from the airport to a farmhouse outside Manzini, where they were joined by the remainder of the border crossers, another six men, three women and three children. One of the children, a boy of about seven, played with a Rubik’s Cube. A black woman with a clipboard said something Tanveer didn’t understand, and pointed to an old, light-grey Bedford truck with a canvas tarpaulin pulled over the back. The group, tired and jetlagged by this time, would have done just about anything she’d asked them to do. The boy’s Rubik’s Cube dropped to the gravel as he climbed up and hesitated on the tailgate. His mother, Tanveer guessed, told him in Urdu to leave it and pushed him inside. As the lanterns outside were turned off and the Bedford’s engine roared to life, Tanveer stepped up, but not before picking up the plastic toy and giving it to the boy. ‘Shukriya,’ his mother mumbled. Thank you.

  It was a hell ride. The Bedford’s suspension had long given up and the only thing worse than the jarring bumps and jolts was the dry dust mixed with diesel fumes that swirled around inside the truck. After about an hour there was a particularly rough section of road and the truck swerved, recovered, and hit something with a sickening bang. It braked, hit something else and came to a jarring halt. Tanveer could hear a strange panting noise and moans outside. He pulled the canvas flap open and saw two torch beams through the dust, zigzagging away from the back of the truck. The torch lights of Shamoo and the black woman fell onto a large brown shape on the dirt road. It was a cow. A heated conversation was going on between the black woman and their guide. She wanted them to load the cow into the back of the Bedford and Shamoo was refusing. After three or four minutes, she walked back to the driver’s cab and revved the motor. They started moving again.

  After an hour, they stopped and Shamoo told them to get out the back of the truck with their belongings. Tanveer could just make out a rocky outcrop, some trees and a few stones painted white at the side of the road. A marker of some type, he thought. The Bedford ground into first gear, and the woman accelerated away, leaving a cloud of dust behind and taking with it the noise and light which had provided some comfort to the border crossers. Now it was eerily quiet and dark until Shamoo switched on his lantern and called them close together for a briefing. The walk through the bush would take an hour, he said. Stay between the ropes and don’t talk. When the moon comes out, lie low. If there’s shooting, run in different directions and if you’re caught, claim political asylum. Have R500 rolled up and ready to press into the hand of the immigration official or policeman; there’s a good chance he’ll let you go. Tanveer had no reason to doubt Shamoo’s abilities. That night, their faith could be in no other hands.

  Tanveer nudged the man lying next to him in the dark whose name he didn’t know. ‘I paid 200 000 rupees for this journey. Shamoo should treat us with some respect.’

  Shamoo pointed to Tanveer and drew his hand across his throat. Tanveer dismissed him with a wave as the sky darkened further and the guides raised the ropes in the darkness. Shamoo emerged from the bushes and the group moved forward again between the ropes, the only sounds the laboured breathing of the fatigued travellers and the shuffling of shoes through the dry bush. Tanveer was 30 and considered himself reasonably fit; he had done military training in Pakistan and even signed up at a gym in Karachi just before receiving the call to say it was time for him to pack a suitcase and pick up his air ticket. Like the others, he was struggling to keep up with the guide. More and more of the men, some much younger than he, started tossing suitcases and bags into the bushes, the burden of carrying them far outweighing their value.

  At around three in the morning, the silhouette of a round building came into sight and the group was told by Shamoo to lie down in the bush. Tanveer could hear whispers. It sounded as if someone was speaking on a cellphone. One of the guides collected the passports from the men and gave them to Shamoo. He quietly walked the fifty metres to the building and disappeared. Five minutes later, he motioned for the group to approach the house. They were made to line up outside the door and enter one at a time.

  ‘You, go in,’ Shamoo called in a loud whisper and pointed at Tanveer. A coffee pot rattled and hissed on a gas stove as Tanveer entered. The aroma of the coffee aroused a brief feeling of nostalgia in him, a quick longing for all he had left behind. A candle burnt inside the house and Tanveer could make out three figures in the room. Two black men, one in a type of uniform. He’d been warned. This was Africa and each step of the journey was going to take cash to get through. He put his right hand in his pocket and felt the roll of notes on his palm. His eyes adjusted in the dim light to the well-built man sitting at a table. The yellow light showed the man’s skin to be dark olive, and he knitted his fingers through a black goatee which was streaked with grey. Shamoo slapped Tanveer on the shoulder indignantly and told him in Urdu to be respectful to the man. Tanveer took his hand out of his pocket and bowed his head.

  ‘Salaam. Name?’ The man spoke English, but sounded Middle Eastern, possibly Saudi.

  ‘Tanveer.’

  The man flipped through the passports. He found the one he wanted, looked at the photograph of Tanveer and then surveyed the younger man’s face.

  He paged though the passport. ‘You’ve been to Srinagar?’

  Tanveer involuntarily touched his mouth and nervously press
ed his bottom lip between his thumb and index finger. ‘I buried my brother in Kashmir.’ The words were barely a mumble, but immediately he felt he’d said too much to the stranger.

  ‘Speak up, Tanveer.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been there, twice.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t understand, sir.’ He lowered his eyes respectfully. ‘I never thought this would be a problem now—’

  The man raised his hand and shook his head, without looking up.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tanveer said. ‘I mean no disrespect, bhai.’ An acknowledgement of the man’s stature.

  ‘Your brother. He was a fighter?’

  Tanveer felt emotion well up but was determined not to break down here, not in this place, not in front of this man he didn’t even know. ‘My brother was killed by the Indian militia.’ The words came out quickly, before Tanveer could stop them. ‘Militia he peacefully protested against for years and years.’

  ‘He died a martyr?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mujahideen?’

  Tanveer looked away. Who was this man and why all the questions? Tanveer felt as though they were expecting him.

  ‘I will not forget my brother. He paid a high price.’

  ‘You don’t trust me.’ The man sighed and was silent while he seemed to gather his thoughts. ‘I hold your life in my hands and you don’t trust me.’

  Tanveer shifted uncomfortably on his feet and lifted his eyes towards Shamoo who scowled at him.

  The Arab tapped his fingers on the table in a beat which sounded military. He looked at Shamoo and motioned to the two black men. ‘Leave us.’

  Without a word, the three men hurriedly left the room leaving Tanveer alone with the Arab.

  ‘You don’t trust them,’ he acknowledged, nodding his head slowly. ‘These are personal matters, things which we shouldn’t discuss in front of unbelievers.’

  Tanveer nodded, feeling more at ease.

  ‘You can be open with me, Mr Tanveer. You honour your brother by speaking of him. The Prophet was a soldier, a warrior; your brother has honoured the Prophet. He has proven his strength to the world.’

  The Arab stood up and poured the coffee into a tin cup. ‘Coffee?’

  Yes, he wanted coffee. And food and sleep. He wanted to be safely in South Africa after days of travelling in the same clothes and being ordered around by arrogant strangers. ‘Thank you, no.’

  The Arab put the cup to his lips. ‘You were telling me about your brother.’

  ‘Yes, my brother was mujahedeen. He fought in the army of Islam. He died a soldier of Allah.’

  ‘Thank you. And you? Why are you here?’

  Tanveer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Work, money.’

  ‘Futile pursuits, Tanveer.’

  Tanveer was silent for a moment, and then when he spoke, it was with a conviction the man behind the table admired. ‘I have a duty to avenge my brother and I will. I have to go back one day.’

  The man took a card from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote a number on it.

  ‘South Africa is a big country.’ The man handed Tanveer the card. ‘There is a name and a number. Our brothers there will help you find your way around.’ The Arab sipped his coffee and placed the tin cup on the table. ‘Never forget what Omar has sacrificed.’

  Tanveer felt a jolt go through his body. How did the Arab know his brother’s name? What was happening? He steadied himself as the sleep deprivation and exhaustion disconnected his body from his brain.

  ‘You have many questions, Tanveer, I know, but for now, hamdulillah.’

  ‘Hamdulillah,’ Tanveer replied, the traditional Arabic blessing. And just like that, he knew the conversation was over and that his questions wouldn’t be answered in that round house in Swaziland on that cold night.

  February 2008. Durban, South Africa

  Arshad Tanveer’s hands were numb. They’d pulled the cable ties too tight and he felt as though his fingers had swollen to twice their original size. Everything had happened so fast; there wasn’t time to resist, the arms were around him as soon as he entered the room and all the while he was thinking that he had walked right into the trap. He’d finally dialled the number on the card the Arab had given him that night in the round house and was told to be at railway siding 224 off Maydon Wharf Road at 9 p.m. Wear a black cap and white shirt, the man had said. Tanveer was astounded. He was in Johannesburg, he said, it was impossible to make the long taxi journey to Durban in six hours and be on time, but the voice on the phone had insisted he cooperate or he would end up in the dreaded Lindela refugee holding centre for a brief and humiliating wait before the plane trip back to Pakistan. It was a sober reminder. He remembered Shamoo’s parting words. ‘Don’t get caught.’ For a moment, Tanveer wanted to tell the voice he didn’t need their help, he could do this on his own. He hesitated, cursing himself for even pursuing the promise of help. Yet, he would never get the answers he needed if he didn’t make the journey to Durban and meet the people he was told to meet.

  The journey to Durban had taken seven hours – a journey which would have taken only five had the taxi not been stopped twice for speeding and once to have a tyre changed. It took Tanveer a further forty-five minutes to travel to the dockyard area of Maydon Wharf and then another twenty to walk along the railway line until he found a board indicating he was at railway siding 224. There was a small shed at the siding, dimly lit by an incandescent light. Tanveer was drenched to the bone. It was raining lightly, but he’d given up trying to stay dry after the taxi dropped him off. He was two hours late. Would they wait? There was no one around and the only sound was the distant rumbling of container trucks entering the depots along the main road. He noticed that the padlock on the shed door was open but hesitated to push the door open. He was an illegal foreigner. If the police caught him trespassing as well . . . On the other hand, he had come so far, he was at the place he was told to be. He had kept his part of the bargain, he wanted answers. Before he left Pakistan he was told there would be obstacles and snares. The people he had approached there to bring him to South Africa weren’t exactly upstanding citizens. They were government officials, members of the isi, the notoriously compromised Pakistani intelligence service with dubious links to terrorist organisations, but there was little doubt they had his best interests at heart. His contact there, Ali, even knew Tanveer’s brother. It was time they started respecting him as they had respected Omar. He wasn’t his brother, not half the man his brother was, but he was a Tanveer and the family name deserved to be honoured. He cursed silently, felt his fists clench and kicked open the shed door and didn’t feel pain when the blow to the back of his head came, only a numbness and then a total loss of control over his body as it crashed to the floor.

  Now strong hands were pushing him into a chair and a piece of black material was pulled over his face. It smelt of sweat. His head throbbed and there was wetness in his hair that may have been rainwater, sweat or blood, or a combination of the three. There was silence for a few minutes, punctuated only by the sound of his breathing. He sensed rather than heard someone close to him. The sound of a chair being pulled closer.

  ‘Let me begin with an apology. No, let me begin by saying welcome to Durban and I hope your stay here will be fruitful.’

  The voice was deep, gravelly, confident, with an undertone of pleasantness. The man spoke English, although Tanveer didn’t immediately recognise the accent.

  ‘I am sorry your welcome here has been so uncomfortable, but you will also understand I must be careful.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am a friend.’

  ‘Why am I here?’

  There was a moment’s silence and Tanveer could sense the man thinking circumspectly before uttering the words, ‘I need your allegiance. And it must be definitive.’

  Arshad Tanveer was sent to Mariam Suleiman’s office a week later. It was in a grubby office building down the road from the refugee office in Moore Road. The lift d
idn’t work and Tanveer reached the stairs at the same time as a loud group of Nigerians. Big men, well built, gold chains, attitude. Definitely Nigerians. They glared at him and made a remark in a language he didn’t understand. As if they had a right to live in South Africa and he didn’t. Office 303 was at the end of what seemed like a deserted passageway. The sign ‘International Immigration Services’ was emblazoned above the frosted-glass door, which was open and led to a small reception area. A small radio on a back table played Lotus FM and Tanveer could smell sweet incense. On a wall poster above the reception desk Tanveer recognised the handsome face of Shahid Kapur. He smiled. On two occasions he’d been mistaken for the Bollywood actor – once at Benazir Bhutto International Airport where a woman had tossed a bunch of roses at him and then outside the Meezan Bank where a female security guard had asked him to pose for a photograph with her. Personally, he wasn’t a fan of Kapur or his movies. But resembling a movie star had its advantages.

  A woman entered the office from a back room, her cellphone held to her ear. She looked at Tanveer briefly as if to apologise, did an involuntary double take, and then continued speaking softly on the phone. Everything about her was graceful and feminine. Tanveer hadn’t expected her to be this beautiful. Mariam Suleiman was attractive: tall, elegant, her long black hair set back off her face. For the first time since he had arrived in Durban he felt unease about his own appearance. While she was turned away he quickly ran his hand through his hair and buttoned his shirt to the top button. The man at the railway shed had told him she felt sorry for the refugees; often they were highly skilled and were useful citizens in the countries of their birth. They were called names and taunted and mistreated at every turn when they arrived in South Africa. Unwelcome and unwanted. Hers was a humanitarian effort; it wasn’t about the money. He was told she even brought sandwiches to her office every day and fed the women and children who arrived hungry and with nothing but the clothes on their backs. This is what Allah would have expected from her.