Allegiance Page 5

  The Albert Park area of Durban has a notorious concentration of illegal foreigners, street thieves, hookers and drug dealers. On Friday nights, the casualty reception at King Edward Hospital is usually filled with stab victims, gunshot victims and assault victims as various stakeholders vie for business in the territory. Nigerian drug dealers compete with local drug dealers, competition which often ends with the sound of a gunshot or a scream. Thai prostitutes had running street battles with local women who considered the territory theirs. Into the mix, add junkies and hobos, drunks and street kids, and then combine poverty with desperation and you have the perfect environment to assume the identity and life of a person no one knows or cares about.

  A 39-year-old immigrant waited at the front desk of a seedy hotel in St George’s Street. The money he’d brought with him on the ship had all but dried up and the sum of his existence was now wrapped in a black canvas bag which he dragged around with him from soup kitchen to shelter. He’d lived on the street for months, destitute, alone and rejected by society. His only real friend was Courtney; she was kind to him up to a point, but he wanted more than kindness. He just didn’t have the money for it. The lure of money is what had brought him to the country in the first place. The promise of a job in the shipping industry had faded soon after his arrival. Perhaps it was the scar on his face. Or the way he walked. The prosthesis wasn’t well made and he couldn’t lie to the foreman about the fact that he struggled to move around ships’ ladders and hatches. So much for a better life in South Africa.

  It was the day after Christmas that he’d been approached and the offer had come as both a surprise and a shock. It seemed like easy money, more money than he could comprehend. He had nothing to lose, really. His identity document, birth certificate, qualifications; all these things were only useful if you were part of society and a useful citizen. He was an outsider, an alien, discarded and forgotten. He had always kept his records meticulous, certified, protected in plastic covers. He thought that this would benefit him one day. And today it would. He was selling his identity for R30 000. The immigrant had left the parcel with Mr Naidu at the front reception desk the previous day and today he received a box wrapped in brown paper. The storeroom of the hotel was under the stairwell and Mr Naidu let him sleep there on cold nights. He closed the door and switched on the light. He hadn’t laughed that much for years. It was a beautiful sight. The cash was in hundreds and two hundreds and his first thought was of Courtney. Nestled in the cash was a bottle of Johnny Walker. It couldn’t get better. A sip of whisky and a handful of fifties. He would head straight for Courtney’s room.

  Across the road, a man observed the pickup. He’d left the parcel at the counter with the man’s name on it, being careful not to let the receptionist see him. In his rucksack was the folder containing his new identity and within a few days, his photograph would replace those on the documents. All that remained was for the immigrant to disappear. He reflected on the ease with which he’d achieved his first objective. The old Rhodesian and his fussy wife had delivered 15 ml of M99, but he doubted he would use even half of that amount. There was only an ampoule of M99 in the whisky, and 5 ml of this drug was enough to bring an elephant down within ten seconds. He’d done the research. From the morphine family, but just thousands of times more powerful, M99 was specifically designed and manufactured for veterinarians in big-game capture, and the injection of a drop into the bloodstream would kill a human being in seconds. The M99 would quickly find its way into the brain and bind to and activate a specific receptor in the central nervous system. The activation of these receptors would rapidly cause the immigrant to experience feelings of euphoria and then sedation as the heart and lung functions were suppressed. His last few moments would be characterised by difficulty in breathing, a rapid slowdown in his heart rate and then a painless death from suffocation – painless because the analgesic and euphoric effect of the M99 would actually make him enjoy the experience.

  February 2009. North of Durban

  ‘Ruslan,’ the man said simply, taking Sheikh U-Haq’s hand.

  ‘Salaam, you come highly recommended, Ruslan,’ the sheikh said, motioning to the man to sit opposite him at the desk. His office was neat and, above a credenza, there was a large picture of Mecca. ‘It’s not an extravagance that I have a driver, but a necessity. I never learnt to drive in Saudi and now I’m here and I’m too old to learn.’

  Ruslan nodded. ‘It will be an honour to serve you, Sheikh. I shall be humbled by the experience.’

  ‘Some highly respected friends in Johannesburg referred you to me. My previous driver . . .’ The sheikh shook his head and groaned. ‘I am pleased you have agreed to this work. Where’re you from?’

  ‘I am from all over, Sheikh. I go where Allah sends me.’

  The sheikh surveyed the man’s face. The blue-green eyes were handsome. The skin was like a highly polished ivory, flawless. ‘And he has sent you to me. Allah rejoices.’

  ‘I consider myself much blessed, Sheikh.’ Ruslan’s voice was soft, deliberate.

  U-Haq frowned then pushed himself back in his chair. ‘I’m trying to put my finger on that accent. You’re not South African?’

  ‘I was born in Grozny, but I’ve been all over.’

  ‘Grozny.’ The sheikh walked towards the credenza. ‘It means “The Terrible” in Russian. This is Paradise here, but we’re one nation, one Ummah, different colours, different nations, different languages.’

  ‘Maybe it’s Paradise, maybe it’s hell. But I need to work and neither Allah nor Sataan care about money.’ The words were deliberate, almost tainted with annoyance.

  ‘Just so, my brother.’ The sheikh coughed nervously. ‘Anyway, you’re most welcome here.’ He opened the credenza and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. ‘Have you seen my new car? She’s a pleasure to drive. Mercedes s600 and it’s the long wheelbase version, not many of these in the country. Twelve cylinders, top speed governed to 250 kilometres per hour.’ The sheikh looked serious for a moment. ‘But I don’t expect you to test her limits, you understand?’

  ‘Of course not, Sheikh.’

  U-Haq laughed. ‘Ruslan, you and I don’t share a love for good cars, I see. How about a whisky?’

  Ruslan narrowed his eyes. ‘Sheikh, I abstain.’

  ‘I’m blessed to have you, my brother. Myself, well, I take a drink or two, but privately. You’ll indulge me. It’s medicinal.’

  U-Haq looked intently at Ruslan, a man in his thirties with a face which reflected sincerity, intensity and perhaps a little anger. ‘You condemn me for it, Ruslan?’

  ‘No, Sheikh. You are a man who has done so much for Islam, so who am I, a humble boy, to judge you?’

  May 2009

  Durant pushed open his office door and put his briefcase on his desk. Five months since he’d been there. The office smelt musty and his plant was dead. Nobody had been into his office in that time; in the intelligence world your office is sacrosanct – it is only entered if the occupant is present. Or dead of course. His coffee cup still stood on his table with a hard grey residue at the bottom and he remembered this was his Christmas Eve cup before he left the office to buy Alexis a Christmas present. He probably should have washed the cup when he left, but he’d expected to be back after two days, not five months. He tossed the cup in the bin, hearing it shatter and finding a sense of comfort in the dissenting action. He felt like a stranger in the office, disoriented and uncertain what to do next. The office. In an instant a lifetime of fears and insecurities surfaced. Why had he chosen this profession in the first place? He’d always told himself it was to make a difference, now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was a selfish motive, the rush of being a thief and getting away with it; the excitement of secret meetings and late-night encounters, like an affair, but staying faithful. The gratification that came with seeing operations succeed. It wasn’t about the work at all, it was all about him. And this selfish, almost nihilistic tendency had nearly got him killed.


  The days leading up to his return to the office were a blur. He’d hardly slept and when he did it was a disturbed and troubled sleep characterised by nightmares. Storms were the worst. Up until March when there were still almost nightly thunderstorms he’d struggled to get the flashbacks of Christmas Eve to leave him. The flashes and bangs terrified him and the fact that he was so fearful dragged him into depression. The turmoil in his head settled a month earlier, but as his return to the office loomed nearer, so had the fear resurfaced. He wasn’t sure he was ready to get back to work. The doctor said it would take longer for the mind to heal than the body and he was right.

  There was a brief knock on the door and Shabalala framed the doorway.

  ‘Welcome back.’

  Durant didn’t shake his hand.

  ‘Thanks. I had to come back to this miserable place eventually,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘Post-traumatic stress. Twenty per cent of all—’

  ‘Thanks, Cedric,’ Durant said, easing himself into his office chair and lifting his eyes to the row of commendation certificates on the wall. ‘Only certificate I haven’t got is a death certificate. I’ve got the rest.’ His voice was soft, tinged with sadness.

  Shabalala leaned forward and smiled disarmingly. ‘Everyone says you’re a fighter, Kevin. I want to see some of that fighting spirit. On a scale of one to ten, how do you feel?’

  Durant sighed and tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I rate myself a four, but it’s still early. We might need to adjust the rating later in the day. Sorry I never returned your calls, but I really just wanted to be left alone the last couple of weeks.’

  ‘Nothing to be ashamed of, Kevin. I’ve been handling things around here. Mr Masondo made me the alternative handler to your agents. I’ve been looking after things around here for you.’

  ‘Great. Hope nobody shot at you.’ Durant could hear bitterness in his voice and he didn’t like it.

  ‘Fortunately not. I met Splinters; he’s doing fine, sends his regards. Disgusting fellow, hey?’

  ‘He’s a good agent.’

  ‘He’s got to be the dirtiest man I’ve ever met,’ Shabalala said with a grimace. ‘You understand now why I don’t shake hands with people?’

  ‘Splinters is a good man.’ Durant felt life coming back as he spoke about work issues. He opened his filing cabinet and shook his head. ‘Where’ve all my files gone?’

  ‘I’ve made some improvements to your systems around here. This is the twenty-first century. We don’t do paper any more.’

  ‘They let you into my office?’

  ‘We weren’t sure you were going to make it, Kevin, I’m sorry. The work had to continue.’

  ‘You thought I’d die. And you didn’t water my plant.’ Durant pulled his hand through the shrivelled plant and then scattered the crushed leaves on his table.

  Shabalala put his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable at Durant’s reaction. ‘I’m sorry about your plant.’

  ‘It’s completely dead. And my cup was dirty. You couldn’t have just taken it to the kitchen for me? You thought, “He’s dead anyway, who cares about the cup?”’ Resentment permeated Durant’s voice.

  ‘That’s not true, Kevin. I couldn’t touch that dirty cup. You know it. Don’t take it personally.’

  Durant slammed the steel drawer shut. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. So – my files?’

  Shabalala held out a memory stick. ‘I scanned them all onto this. No more paper. The Amazon’s disappearing too quickly, somebody has to stop it.’

  Durant frowned and then put his hand on his forehead and sank into his office chair. ‘I don’t know whether to thank you or slap you.’

  ‘Rather thank me, because if you slap me it could have career implications for you. And also, I’m a lot bigger than you and never pick on someone bigger than you.’

  Durant laughed. He was feeling better already. ‘You’re okay, Cedric, you know that.’

  Shabalala smiled. ‘I want you to get back into your work as quickly as possible and I’ll help you. I’m told you love your job.’

  The job. It wasn’t the job that had nearly got him killed. It was his own recklessness and careless disregard for the rules. Perhaps he needed a Shabalala to rein in his cavalier attitude to a dangerous occupation.

  ‘Anything more on the guys that did this to me?’ he asked, his voice upbeat.

  ‘Well, Splinters is working on it. He’s quite connected so I’m sure he’ll come up with something eventually. I’ve briefed him.’

  ‘The guy that he brought to our meeting, the Filipino guy who died – anything on him?’

  ‘That’s a dead end. I think he just ran into the wrong people at the wrong time. They probably didn’t trust him, followed him, saw you and thought they’d just wipe out the whole lot.’

  Durant shook his head. Shabalala’s summary of the event bore little resemblance to Durant’s experience of it. But then again, Shabalala seemed to see everything more clinically and clear cut than he did. ‘Splinters needs to stay away from that crowd. They might’ve identified him already. They might try to kill him again.’

  Shabalala sighed. ‘We’re paying Splinters to be an informer. Let him inform. He doesn’t have to get close to them, he just has to speak to people, keep his ear to the ground. He can do that.’

  ‘I’ll set up a meeting with him, have a chat, and see what he can do.’

  June 2009

  The US consulate office in central Durban commands a great view of the coastal resort city. The building is one of the tallest in Durban and the view extends from the Bluff in the south to Umhlanga Rocks in the north, and on a clear day you can see ships at the outer anchorage in the Indian Ocean. Imraan Khalid looked through the big windows of the consul-general’s office at the yacht basin and the sea. It reminded him of Miami. Durban was a playground: cosmopolitan, gritty, sizzling hot. He’d only been in the city for a few hours and he liked it already. Sure better than his last posting. His thoughts were disturbed as a tall and elegant woman he guessed to be about 50 entered. The consul-general, he had heard, ran a tight ship and her appearance reinforced this perception. Her eyes held his gaze and the tight-lipped smile gave away some of the reservations she might have about the new member of her staff. She’d obviously read his personal file. The confidential annexure that followed him from post to post. He knew it was there, a scar that wouldn’t fade. The case was dismissed years previously, yet he still struggled to shake the label: ‘womaniser’.

  ‘Maia Berkeley,’ she said and shook his hand firmly. ‘Welcome to the Durban mission.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am. I am honoured to be here. Great posting.’

  ‘Jerry Wilson, our previous RSO, had a blast here.’ The RSO, or Regional Security Officer, was the diplomatic officer charged with the responsibility of securing the consulate and US interests in the area. Essentially, this meant that Khalid worked for the US State Department internationally, forming a vital component of the Homeland Security network.

  She surveyed his CV.

  ‘Impressive, Imraan. You’ve served in Afghanistan.’

  Khalid stood erect, almost as if at attention. ‘I volunteered, ma’am.’

  Berkeley smiled. ‘Well the next four years in Durban should be a breeze for you after Kabul.’

  ‘I’m happy just not havin’ to wear body armour every time I go outside. Gets mighty hot out on the frontier.’

  ‘It gets pretty hot here in summer too.’ The CG gave Khalid a sideways glance. ‘You’re not married?’

  ‘No, ma’am. Tried it once. Worst year of my life. Married to the State Department now.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I think a work–life balance is important. Well, we have a few dozen people here who’ll be looking up to you and expecting you to keep us secure. I guess you’ll be running random office checks and personnel searches?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The CG frowned and smiled. ‘And no fear or favour, so you’ll check me
as well?’

  ‘It’s a given.’

  ‘Good. I’m so sorry to ask, but your faith is Muslim, isn’t it?’ His file said so, but she didn’t know how else to ask. In a city of hundreds of thousands of local Muslims, having a contact network was crucial.

  ‘It is indeed.’

  ‘Sorry if it seems forward, but maybe chat to Cheyenne Ford. She’s the Political Officer. I’m sure she could use some help in the Islamic field, if you don’t mind, of course. Durban has a huge Muslim community and we need some contacts.’

  Khalid grinned widely. Contacts? The new posting was getting better by the moment. He could tap into the local female fraternity, and it would be official too. ‘The Political Officers always want to be my best buddy. Sure I’ll help out.’

  ‘Come on, Cedric, it’s a favour. Put your game face on. Stephanie won’t go with me and I don’t want to go by myself.’

  The three months back at the office had been both difficult and good. Meeting agents again after being away had been difficult, especially the evening meetings, which had rekindled feelings of fear and insecurity. Masondo had been supportive and Durant’s workload was ratcheted down considerably. Shabalala had become more than a colleague, he’d become a friend. His obsessive behaviour had become a comic distraction to Durant. In the beginning, Durant was careful not to be politically incorrect or insulting. He would quietly tolerate the germophobia and try to accommodate his colleague’s obsession with cleanliness. After a few weeks, Durant realised he could tease Shabalala and he wasn’t easily offended. His crazy colleague’s obsessive-compulsiveness helped distract him from the issues he knew he had to deal with. Post-traumatic stress was also an anxiety disorder. They were good company.