Allegiance Page 6

  Shabalala shook his head. ‘No, it’s a comedy show and I don’t like comedy. It’s not funny.’

  ‘This guy is, I promise you. And you get a meal. Man, it’s a bargain.’

  ‘It’s only a bargain because you got free tickets.’

  ‘Ja, but still. Food and entertainment for free, how can you resist it?’

  ‘Easy. Telling jokes isn’t theatre and the food’s probably bulk-made in a kitchen that doesn’t live up to the health standards.’

  ‘Hey, man, you’re crazy. It’s normal restaurant food. It won’t kill you. My digestive system is half the size it should be, yet I manage restaurant food.’

  ‘But you’re unhealthy,’ Shabalala chided.

  ‘Unhealthy? You’re kidding me! I should be dead.’ Durant tapped his stomach. ‘It’s because I’m in such good shape that I survived four bullets.’

  ‘Look, Kevin, I know you mean well, but I really won’t enjoy it. Please don’t be offended. Maybe see if someone else will go with you.’

  ‘Why are you like this?’ Durant asked, feigning irritation.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘So fussy about things?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Shabalala fiddled with an imaginary piece of lint on his sleeve.

  ‘You’re not normal. Do you sleep in an oxygen tent at night?’

  ‘I don’t. For your information, I’m just careful. I want to look after myself, there’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Why? You’re going to die anyway. Why not make the most of life while you’re alive?’

  ‘This is how I am making the most of it. Why do you think I’m not happy? I am happy. So you go and be happy your way and I’ll be happy my way.’

  ‘I was a bit like you a few months ago. I also used to be careful. Laid off the fried foods, wore a hat in the sun and I even put a smoke detector in the house. You know what, when those bullets hit me, I started seeing things differently. It’s amazing, you stop stressing about stupid little things and start living, I mean, really living.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? I am living. I am living.’ Shabalala sounded irritated. Durant thought he was pushing it a bit too far.

  ‘Okay, it’s fine, I get it. Sorry to be so, I dunno, finicky. As long as you’re happy, man. I’ll go and watch it by myself, don’t worry about it, you don’t have to go with me.’

  ‘Fine.’ There was a hint of sadness in Shabalala’s voice and Durant wondered if his colleague would ever open up to him.

  September 2009

  It was 10 a.m. and already the wet heat hung over Umhlanga like a woollen blanket. Spring had come with a vengeance. Although Durban’s summer heat was a lure to those who loved the surf or the supertubes at the uShaka Marine World theme park, it was cruel to the working classes who laboured outdoors. Amina had spent a small fortune kitting out the crèche with a top-of-the-line air-conditioning system, remote-operated, ducted and eco-friendly, but the kids – being kids – still preferred to be outside in the play area. The children were in the shade, but the hot air infiltrated the shade too and there was no relief there. Not for Amina, anyhow. Her blouse was drenched and she felt uncomfortable. She looked up from the crèche playground straight into the eyes of her husband.

  ‘Ahmed, what are you doing here?’

  ‘You aren’t happy to see me?’

  ‘Happy? Of course I’m happy, darling, just surprised, that’s all. You never come here during the day.’

  Ahmed Yusuf was still in his overalls and Amina knew there had to be a good reason why he’d left the printing presses to come and see her at the crèche.

  ‘It’s so weird, Amina. I just felt like coming here. I just felt like seeing the kids.’

  Amina nodded and smiled. Perhaps it was just hot at the factory and he needed to get out a bit. ‘Look at little Jake,’ she said, ‘he’s covered in paint.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ Yusuf asked, pointing to a little boy sitting alone in the sandpit.

  ‘Zaakir. And look at Zahra. She’s such a little darling; she always shares with the other kids.’

  ‘This is too sad for me. Is it too much to ask of God for just one child?’

  ‘He knows best, Ahmed. He knows we’re trying and we’ll be blessed one day.’

  ‘It’s been so many years of trying. I used to think it was your job at Intelligence.’

  Immediately Amina felt sadness. Her work at the NIA had been stressful, yes, but it surely hadn’t affected her ability to have children. And it was her husband’s constant biting criticism of her job that had caused the strain and then the anxiety which had led to her resignation. To please him.

  ‘What’s wrong with us? I’ll be an old man soon.’

  ‘Come on, Ahmed, we’re still young. There’s plenty of time.’

  ‘You’re surrounded by kids all day. Maybe you don’t feel it as badly as I do.’

  Amina took her husband’s hand. ‘I feel it more. Every day I see other people’s kids growing bigger and it’s a punishment for me. I have to cope with the fact that I can’t fall pregnant while everyone else can.’

  ‘Our child will come.’

  ‘God willing.’

  ‘It feels like the name Yusuf will just disappear into history otherwise. And the business.’

  ‘God will find a way, Ahmed, trust Him.’

  FOUR

  September 2009

  Alfred Masondo tapped his fingers on his desk. For an operational head, his desk was relatively bare, but this meant nothing. Masondo had the uncanny ability to collate requests, organise information and delegate tasks, an admirable, albeit rare, trait for a civil servant. As intelligence chief, he’d learnt that intelligence was a thing best dealt with immediately. It was a consumable product with a very short shelf-life. A day too long on the table and it would be food for the shredding machine. The immediacy of intelligence had been a true maxim when he was a combatant in the field and it was just as true in the civilised and formal environment he found himself in now. He slid a folder across the table to Durant.

  ‘He’s a walk-in,’ Masondo said.

  Durant opened the folder and his eyes scanned the transcript of a debriefing. It didn’t excite him. Pakistanis, criminal activity, the subject himself vague about what he wants in return. Probably just wanted protection so he was offering chicken feed. Durant had seen it all before.

  ‘He was referred by HQ. Have you picked up anything on Pakistani gangsters operating in Durban?’

  Durant shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anecdotal stuff. There are rumours of a type of mafia operating in South Africa with political or military ties back to Pakistan, but I don’t know how true they are.’

  Masondo nodded silently and adjusted the picture frame on his table. His only daughter, Nandi. The apple of his eye. The picture was taken the day she graduated from medical school and he saw so much of his late wife in her features. ‘He’s in Durban. Take Shabalala with you when you go and see him, otherwise we’ll be hauled across the coals for not following procedure.’

  Durant smiled. With Shabalala along, it could be a fun trip.

  ‘Let’s see what Mr Arshad Tanveer has to offer us.’

  Shabalala drove around the block twice, the second time slowly, and parked his car in a position where he had an unobstructed view of the front of the restaurant. He allowed himself a smile. He was a convoy, a backup to make sure no one gate-crashed the meeting. He felt strangely privileged backing Durant up. He respected the man. It was nearly a year ago that Durant found himself in that dark and wet avenue, without anyone watching his back, nearly losing his life for the job. He couldn’t imagine what he’d have done had he been there. Intelligence officers aren’t armed. Hell, the shooting module on the orientation course hadn’t lasted longer than a week. Now this meeting. If a shooting started, what would he do? Fear prickled at his collar. In his mind, he quickly formulated a plan: he wouldn’t have time to phone Durant and warn him if he saw trouble coming. He would keep the ca
r idling and use it as a shield and let Durant dive into the passenger side. No. That only worked in the movies. Why was he thinking like this? It was a simple meeting with a walk-in. He was being paranoid. He had to be alert, stay focused and do his job. He phoned Durant who was about fifty metres to the right of the restaurant, standing outside a furniture shop.

  ‘Kevin. I see the subject. Just sat down at one of the outside tables. Midthirties, clean shaven and very short black hair. He’s by himself, everything is quiet.’

  ‘Sure? No bad guys with guns around?’ Durant said dryly.

  ‘Kevin, don’t say that. I’m nervous as it is.’

  ‘I know. Just pulling your leg. Okay, I’m approaching him now.’

  ‘David Shaw,’ Durant said, shaking hands with Tanveer as he stood. The handshake was firm and confident and immediately Durant felt his intelligence radar bleep. This could be a good one. This was far different from his last encounter with an unknown walk-in. Perhaps it was because he had backup this time. And it wasn’t dark.

  ‘Pleasure to meet you. Arshad Tanveer. Thank you for coming.’ The men sat down together.

  ‘I’m eager to hear what you have to say, Mr Tanveer.’ Durant flipped open a notebook, a rather superfluous gesture as the digital recorder in his pocket would capture the conversation anyway.

  Tanveer leaned forward and almost whispered. ‘Do I have protection?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I say to you – am I protected? I need reassurance that I won’t be arrested by you.’

  Durant laughed. ‘I’m not a cop. All I’m interested in is information.’

  Tanveer leaned back and rested his hands on the table, palms up. ‘If I help you, will you help me?’

  Durant put the notebook on the table and folded his arms. ‘I’m not here to make deals with you; I’m just here to listen. So start talking. You came to us with an offer of information.’

  Tanveer shrugged and looked down at the table. ‘I appreciate your frankness, sir. I think I can work with you.’

  ‘We’re still far away from working together, Mr Tanveer.’ Durant looked at his watch. ‘You’ll need to start at the beginning.’

  Durant noticed Tanveer was starting to relax. Across the road, parked outside a take-away, Shabalala’s car. It was going to be a long and uneventful day, but at least he didn’t have to sit in a hot car. As Tanveer leaned forward, a waitress arrived at the table and he remained silent. Durant ordered two Cokes and flipped open his notebook.

  When the waitress walked away, Tanveer started talking. ‘Two years ago I came to this country from Pakistan.’

  ‘Hold on. I’ll need the exact date and how you came in, please.’

  ‘I had to make many sacrifices to leave Pakistan, the country of my birth. The dreams and hopes of my family rest on me now and I have to make a success, you understand?’ Durant noticed a single drop of perspiration on Tanveer’s forehead, but there was no other indication of anxiety.

  ‘You came in illegally. Right?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t remember the exact date. I came in through Swaziland and went to Johannesburg first, then to Durban.’ Durant was surprised at the words. It was a confession of a crime committed, yet he stated it without hesitation.

  Durant wrote in his notebook as the Cokes arrived, ‘shows promise’. ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘My parents sent me some money to start a business and now I have a small shop in town.’ His voice hinted at pride.

  ‘What business is it?’

  ‘I repair cellphones and also sell accessories.’ He slipped a business card across the table to Durant. ‘I don’t make a lot of money, Mr Shaw.’

  Durant knitted his brows. ‘Because there’s hundreds of other Pakistanis doing the same thing.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. Every Pakistani wants to be successful. We’re a hardworking people. We don’t cause trouble.’

  ‘Fine, so your business?’ Durant was losing hope there was anything in this meeting. The hot car started to seem like a better choice.

  Tanveer rubbed his chin with his thumb and lowered his voice. ‘There are some people from Pakistan who are destroying my business and the businesses of other Pakistanis who want to work here.’

  Durant raised his eyebrows. ‘The Pakistani mafia?’

  Tanveer looked over his shoulder, but Durant was sure it was for effect. He hoped it was, because he really didn’t want to get shot by the Pakistani mafia that afternoon. ‘When a Pakistani comes to South Africa he works through a system. It starts in Karachi, goes through Africa into Swaziland and into this country.’ He outlined the route on the table cloth with his finger. ‘When you land here, the Pakistani community already knows about you and they keep track of you. When you start making money here, they come to you and force you to make contributions.’

  ‘Protection money?’

  ‘Yes. Every week they come to me and demand money.’ His voice was just above a whisper.

  ‘What do you do?’

  ‘If I don’t pay, they threaten me and my family.’ He looked down and then put a hand to his neck. ‘I have a wife here and a small child.’

  Durant scribbled some notes in his book. He was trying to look interested and hoped it wasn’t obvious that he wasn’t. This wasn’t a case for the Intelligence Agency. This seemed petty. Almost personal. ‘What do they threaten you with?’

  ‘They say they’ll cause me harm. And they will. I know of some Pakistanis who have been beaten so badly they’ve returned to Pakistan crippled.’ He slid a hand across his throat and his face reflected genuine fear.

  ‘Do you know who these guys are?’

  ‘Yes, they’re Pakistanis.’

  ‘I mean, is it the same people who come every week and try to extort money, or different people? Have you got any names?’

  ‘They’re very organised. And operate secretly. The people who come are just the, how do you say, the—’

  ‘The runners?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They just collect for the big guys?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Tanveer looked over his shoulder again and Durant was starting to get worried. This guy feared for his life. ‘This thing is big, Mr Shaw. It’s a whole big syndicate, and there’s a lot of money involved.’

  Durant wanted him to get to the point, and fast. ‘So what do you want out of it, Mr Tanveer?’

  ‘I want you to dismantle this evil thing. It’s killing ordinary Pakistanis who just want to make an honest living.’

  ‘And you, Mr Tanveer, what’s your current status here?’

  ‘I am very proud to say I am married to a South African woman now and have a child. I started off on the wrong foot but I have mended my ways. I am a respectable person, Mr Shaw.’ He certainly looked respectable, but so did most of the evil people he had ever met.

  ‘What’s your wife’s name and your son’s name?’

  ‘It’s Mariam, sir, and my son’s name is Siraj.’

  ‘Kevin, you’re not the same any more.’ Stephanie’s voice had that characteristic tremble to it that Durant knew could be the prelude to trouble. He knew he wasn’t the same any more – he didn’t even look the same any more. The morning glance in the mirror wasn’t as pleasant as it was before the shooting. Durant was blessed with the gene that pegged your age at a certain year and you hovered around there, with only minor changes in your physical appearance that weren’t necessarily awful. So his ash-blond hair had stayed ash-blond into his forties and he had kept the look of a rugged, but well-maintained man who was fit and could easily compete with men in their thirties. The stress of the shooting had somehow altered the age-pegging gene. The fine lines around his eyes had deepened and the mirror showed signs of grey hair that made him feel more his age than he looked. Yet his hair remained impossible to control, reminding him that there was still a wild man inside that wanted to burst out.

  ‘I’m more careful now, that’s all.’ Durant was glad to be home, it had been a stressful day. No
w he wasn’t so sure home would be less stressful.

  ‘No, I mean you used to be so motivated and dedicated and so full of energy. This thing’s changed you. You’re still not yourself.’ Stephanie had her arms folded and Durant knew that meant a conversation. Not a chat. A conversation.

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  Stephanie shook her head. ‘You’re keeping things in. I know you.’

  Durant shook his head. ‘I’m good. Let’s have tea. I’ll make.’

  ‘Kevin, perhaps you need to go for counselling or something.’

  ‘Counselling?’ He flicked the kettle on, perhaps a little too hard.

  Stephanie noticed. ‘You’re on the edge. I’m afraid that one day you’re going to snap.’

  The cups clanked loudly as Durant took them out the cupboard. ‘I know I’m not myself. I’ve got bits missing inside, and other bits that still hurt when I walk, and I don’t like being in quiet streets at night any more.’

  Stephanie put her hand on Durant’s arm. ‘It’s okay to still feel like that. I don’t blame you. That’s why I’ve been thinking . . .’

  ‘Wait, don’t tell me, let me try to guess.’ Durant paced from one side of the kitchen to the other. The words came out sharply. ‘You want me to try for a medical boarding?’

  Stephanie sighed, trying to keep her voice calm. ‘Well, I never even thought of that, I was thinking more we should just get out of this whole mess, take Alexis and go to . . . New Zealand.’

  Durant frowned and then poured the hot water into the teapot. ‘I’m going to make it extra strong.’

  Stephanie slid a tray out and put it on the counter. ‘At least think about it, Kevin.’

  ‘Think about what?’

  Stephanie remained silent for a moment, then opened a kitchen drawer and slid a pamphlet across the countertop.

  ‘“Join your family and friends who are already in the land of peace and security – New Zealand – New Beginnings,”’ Durant read. ‘Come on, Stephanie. Are you serious?’

  ‘There’s a seminar on Thursday night in town. Let’s just go and listen.’ There was desperation in her voice.