Allegiance Page 7

  Durant sloshed the milk into the cups, clicking his tongue when it overshot the rims. ‘Well, obviously they’re going to convince us how bad South Africa is and how cool New Zealand is. It’s run by people who make money out of moving people there.’

  ‘I know I don’t talk about it, but I’m scared now. After what happened to you, I’m so scared of losing you.’ Her lip trembled, almost imperceptibly. She took a step towards him, looking for comfort. She put a spoon in the pot and stirred the tea while Durant thought of the right thing to say.

  ‘I hate being scared,’ she said, still stirring the pot.

  Durant smiled and put his hand on hers. ‘I think it’s stirred now. I’m really okay, Steph.’

  ‘But I’m not.’ The first tear fell and landed on the tray. ‘You nearly died, it was so close – and look at the damage it’s done.’

  Durant took the spoon from her and put it in a saucer. ‘We’ll both be fine eventually, love. Emigration’s a major move, I don’t know if I even want to leave this country.’

  Stephanie touched a tissue to her cheek. When she spoke, her voice was cold, agitated. ‘We don’t want to leave, I don’t want to leave either, nobody wants to leave, but I think sometimes we have to leave to retain our sanity. And for the sake of our child.’

  ‘Ja, well, don’t you think maybe we have to stay for the sake of our child and our sanity. What about your mom?’ Cunningly, Durant had introduced his wild card. He knew Stephanie and her mother were inseparable.

  ‘We’ll all have to make sacrifices, Kevin.’

  ‘Come on. She’s getting older. Sometimes she acts a bit strange. She might need care someday.’ Durant thought about how Stephanie’s mom’s health had changed over the past few weeks and how she had gone from her usual, organised self to becoming more and more dependent on them for getting her things done. There were small, subtle changes in her behaviour which bothered him. She would repeat herself a lot. Fuss over small issues, like the location of her glasses. Be more argumentative about people she knew or places she’d been to, insisting she was right.

  ‘Our future’s not here. Our lives aren’t here any more. What’s keeping us here?’

  ‘Faith, belief, hope. I don’t know.’ Durant took a sip of tea. It was cold and bitter.

  ‘Don’t be so idealistic.’ Stephanie tossed the wet cloth into the sink and huffed. ‘Faith, hope and belief nearly got you killed.’

  Durant pursed his lips against the cold rim of the cup for a moment and then put it down on the saucer with a clatter. ‘Let’s not talk about this now. Thanks for letting me know how you feel, and I’ll think about it and we can chat about it again. I’m over this conversation now.’

  Stephanie put her hands on her hips and scowled. ‘So that means “no” then?’

  ‘It’s not a yes or no answer. It’s just not “yes” yet. Give me some time. This is big; I need to think it through.’

  Durant thought it through for about five seconds before he arrived at the answer. The answer was no. He poured the tea into the sink and watched it go down the drain.

  Khalid had spent a mandatory few weeks in Dubai after leaving Kabul. Readjusting to normal life helped soldiers, UN workers, diplomats and security officials adapt more easily to life outside of the warzone. After a while there, it was easy to accept wearing body armour and travelling in a convoy of Humvees when leaving the green zone as the norm, but it was actually a very messed-up place. Landing in a regular city after Kabul without adjustment first can be as traumatic as hearing the explosions and seeing bodies being blown apart in Afghanistan. You’re jumpy, feel vulnerable, feel guilty. You ask yourself how people can live such insulated lives in these bubbles of illusion while hell on earth is happening a few thousand miles away and people are dying. Denial. War is for soldiers and politicians and perhaps journalists. Normal civilians would rather change channels and watch Desperate Housewives. Watching CNN can lead to paralysis of conscience – witnessing the carnage, the IEDS tearing up the marketplaces and streets, demands a reaction because it makes it real to the observer. And the natural reaction is the switchover, because if seeing is believing then not seeing gives a person room to deny it’s real.

  Khalid hated Afghanistan. He was only there for the generous financial incentives, but his social life went to hell. Despite the release of the Sharia grip the Taliban had on the country after 2001, many of the local women remained traditional, if not in the way they dressed – many had shed their blue garb and face coverings – then in their values. They were largely out of bounds for diplomats, firstly geographically because they tended to stay away from the diplomatic precincts, but also because they couldn’t really be trusted. The Taliban would use women to infiltrate the security forces and information would be the reward. In diplomatic circles, relationships were impossible too. Khalid asked Amber Stafford from the British High Commission on a date after being in Kabul for a month. It was a date from hell. Her security detail had to liaise with his about routes, contingency plans and radio call signs. The restaurant had to be assessed first, the owners screened and observation posts set up at access routes to prevent ambushes. Then they both had to wear heavy flak jackets and helmets, carry their weapons and stay in radio comms with the command post. The date had lasted twenty minutes and they never saw each other again. And for the same reason, affairs were out of the question. In Kabul, everything was monitored, regulated, controlled, recorded and then discussed at meetings and briefings. Afghanistan wasn’t for him. He wanted some freedom and Durban would give him that.

  There was a tap at his office door and Cheyenne Ford entered. A shapeless woman, he thought. Her tired, stringy black hair was pulled into a pony tail and her fingernails were too long and a tarty red. She had heard about Imraan Khalid from her colleagues. The management officer had told her his social security details put him at 52 years of age. He didn’t look a day over 40, perhaps it was the remarkable and puzzling ability of the Indian skin to hide age well. She was told he had an air of allure and mystery about him which made him particularly attractive. They were right. She looked at his dark, dreamy eyes and she thought of her own appearance. She knew she hadn’t taken care of herself since her posting in India. McDonald’s and burritos for four years had to carry a price. Khalid was single and so was she. Lonely and bored in this country, no harm in a little harmless flirting.

  He greeted her with a handshake. They had met on a few occasions, mainly at the country meetings held on Fridays.

  ‘Cheyenne, you look adorable in red, you should wear it more, red really does it for you.’

  Ford blushed and sat down. ‘You serious? Imraan, you’re embarrassing me.’

  ‘I’m just being honest with you; you always look great to me. What’s happening? Is there a man in your life?’ Khalid eyes met hers and there was sincerity behind the shallow words.

  She could never admit that she had upped her style and grooming since Khalid’s arrival at Post. ‘Of course not, Imraan, you clown. I don’t have time for men.’

  ‘Except me, of course.’ He smiled and paused. ‘And I hope it’s not because I have access into the Muslim community and you need my help.’ He knew the drill. The US embassies and consulates always struggled to get contacts in the Muslim communities overseas. They pumped billions of dollars into exchange programmes and scholarships for Muslim kids and organised media showcases presenting how kind the Americans are to Muslims. Everyone smiled and waved and felt good. But they still didn’t have real contacts. Deep contacts. The type the cia wanted – contacts who knew what was going on in the minds of the jihadists. He didn’t have those contacts either. He could get some comments from influential Muslims in the community, informally, chats in the car park after jumma. Of course his local brothers knew he was American, so they would be very careful about what they told him. Gossip mainly. Nothing of consequence. This was South Africa. Extremism was non-existent in this country. But, he would humour this girl. She was only doing her job. />
  ‘Aw, you know me so well! Do you feel a little used right now?’

  ‘You can use me all you want.’ There was that charming smile again. ‘We’re all on the same team here. What’s your brief?’

  Ford paused for a moment then blushed awkwardly. ‘Pretty much the usual stuff. The level of extremism in the province. Organisations, individuals, imams preaching radicalism, that kind of stuff.’

  Khalid found her nervousness attractive. ‘Well, there’s a whole bunch of religious and cultural institutions around. Plenty of mosques, schools, colleges, radio stations, publications. Some people consider some of them a little extremist. Depends on how you define “extremist”.’

  ‘Answered like a true American Muslim, Imraan. So you define “extremism” and then profile those things you’ve mentioned based on your interpretation. What are your views on extremism?’

  Khalid ran his fingers through his goatee. It was a loaded question. He couldn’t tell her there were indeed some things about the American dream that he was pretty sceptical about. He also had mixed feelings about 9/11. He condemned the act, but not the motivation behind it. He couldn’t blame some religious desert dwellers from wanting to exact revenge on a callous superpower that invaded their countries and soiled their cultures. But he left that to the zealots. ‘Cheyenne, I’m not a zealot.’ And almost as the words were spoken, he felt disappointment. He expected his colleagues in the State Department to understand. Cheyenne was educated in the Ivy League and even she had to ask. Why not ask his views on South African politics, the rise of the right wing in Europe and America, hell, even his views on the office décor. But no. His views on extremism. And she didn’t say ‘Islamic extremism’, because you don’t even have to say it these days – ‘extremism’ is enough, add the word ‘Islamic’ and it becomes tautology. Disappointed indeed.

  Tanveer’s cellphone shop was more like a cubicle, a small rented space that was part of a larger building hosting other businesses, including a barber shop, a small clothing store, a tearoom and an Internet café.

  The call to Durant came through at ten past nine. Tanveer was tipped off that some thugs were in the building, harassing the tenants and demanding money. Durant promised he would be there in twenty minutes. No time to deploy the surveillance unit. Durant grabbed Shabalala’s arm while he was talking on his cellphone and they ran for the exit. After a fast drive in Durant’s Land Rover that had Shabalala clutching the dashboard, they made it outside Tanveer’s shop in eighteen minutes.

  Durant dialled Tanveer’s cellphone number. ‘It’s Dave, I’m here. Where are these guys?’

  Tanveer’s voice was strained. ‘I’m sorry; your phone is not repaired yet, perhaps call back in a week.’

  ‘Are they there?’ Durant whispered into the phone.

  ‘That’s right, about a week.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Any time after two.’

  ‘Thank you, bye.’ Durant turned to Shabalala. ‘Okay, there’s two of them in the shop right now.’

  His partner shook his head. ‘This is a terrible neighbourhood. You stand out like a sore thumb.’

  ‘You and me both. Well, me, definitely. You could probably blend in.’

  ‘It’s because I’m black, isn’t it?’ There was no malice in Shabalala’s voice.

  ‘Afraid so. The only whites in this area are lost German tourists so this is yours, bru. You’ll be fine. Take your cellphone in for repairs.’

  ‘But I’m not going to really give it to him, am I?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘What if something happens to it? I mean, we don’t even have a travel authorisation for this trip. I’m not comfortable with going in.’

  ‘Cedric, get out the car and go to the shop before they leave. We just need to know what they look like. Then come back.’

  Shabalala drew in his breath. ‘Cover me.’

  Durant raised his eyebrows and smiled. ‘With what? Just go.’

  Shabalala hesitantly walked towards the complex and disappeared from Durant’s sight.

  A minute later he was back.

  ‘Right,’ he said.

  ‘So? See anything?’

  ‘Ja. Tanveer and two others. One, 1.8 metres, 95 kg Asian male, small moustache, brown eyes, red fez, brown-and-white tracksuit jacket, blue jeans; the other 1.6 metres, 120 kg, Asian, brown eyes, grey jacket and black pants with a tear on the left back pocket.’

  There was a ten-second silence then Durant said ‘You didn’t get the colour of their shoelaces?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Catch any conversation between them?’

  ‘I was there for thirty seconds; they stopped talking when I walked in. Tanveer looked a bit tense. The other guys looked a bit mean.’

  ‘Still got your phone?’

  ‘Of course. I told him I’d come back once I’d copied my address book to another phone.’

  ‘Okay, so now we wait for them to come out.’ Durant reached into his pocket, took out a packet of gum and offered one to Shabalala.

  ‘Have you any idea what gum does to your insides? That stuff ’s like poison.’

  ‘So what do you eat? I never see you eating. Do you actually eat?’

  ‘You’re thinking “He’s so big, and never eats, how’s that possible?”’

  Durant smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I’m thinking.’

  ‘Well, I’m not going to tell you what I eat, when I eat or how I eat. I don’t know you well enough to share everything with you yet.’

  ‘Ced, you come up with the—’ Durant pointed towards the complex. ‘There’s our target.’

  He flipped open his phone. ‘Thanks, Arshad, we see them . . . Did they take your money? . . . Okay, later.’

  Shabalala wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. ‘So how do two of us in one car actually do surveillance on two people, without equipment and without authorisation?’

  ‘I don’t know. I guess we make it up as we go along. We just need to follow one, not both. They’re obviously together. When they’re done extorting, maybe they’ll go back to their car.’

  ‘We should still get the surveillance unit in; we’re not authorised to do this.’

  ‘By the time they get here, those guys are gone. Come on, Ced, it’s not really surveillance. We’re just sitting in our car watching people go by.’

  ‘But what if something happens? We’re not covered. Does Masondo even know we’re here?’

  Durant frowned in mock disbelief. ‘Didn’t you phone him?’

  ‘What? Our ops head doesn’t even know? I thought you’d cleared it with him? This is – this is so bad.’

  ‘Everything happened so fast, no time to think. I’ll phone him when we’re finished,’ Durant said, his voice feigning nervousness.

  ‘I’m finished now. Let’s go.’

  ‘Um, have you noticed we’re together in one car? I’m not finished until I’ve ID’d those guys. If you don’t want to participate, just sit there and pretend nothing’s happening.’ There was a slight edge to Durant’s voice.

  Shabalala was visibly flustered. ‘Kevin, you know, I hate working like this, this is wrong, man. We’re going to be in so much trouble. I’ve still got a long career ahead of me.’

  ‘Shhh. Look.’ Durant drove forward and pulled into a loading zone. ‘They’ve gone into that building. Babar’s Plaza.’

  ‘And look at those guys standing outside, hectic man. They’re like bouncers from hell.’

  ‘Mmm. Ced, can you go in there?’

  ‘Are you crazy, man? In there? You’re joking, right?’

  ‘I’m joking, Ced, relax. They’ll kill you, chop you up into little pieces.’

  ‘Really?’ Shabalala looked serious for a moment.

  ‘Really. Let’s head back to the office before you have heart failure and I’ve got to resuscitate you.’

  Horizons wasn’t a particularly fancy restaurant, but it was cheap and the food was edible and Durant had be
en visiting the seaside hangout for more than ten years. There was a certain affinity to the place; perhaps he associated it with his old partner Mike Shezi and the good memories of deep discussions and plots and ideas they used to have there. His new partner, not surprisingly, didn’t like the place at all. A cesspit of greasy garbage is what Shabalala had called Durant’s breakfast the first time he’d been dragged there and seen the fare. Durant hid his disappointment well; it wasn’t just about the food – it was a place to regroup and bond and gather thoughts in an otherwise insane environment. But he could understand why Shabalala had an issue with the place: he had issues with the purity of bottled water. Amina came occasionally, although she also wouldn’t touch the food and normally just had a fruit juice. It had been a while since they’d caught up, and Durant was missing his greasy breakfast, so arranged to meet Amina at Horizons that Friday afternoon.

  ‘So, how’s Mr Anal?’ Amina said, throwing her head back and laughing as the waitress left the menus on the table.

  ‘Don’t refer to my partner like that.’ Durant smiled. ‘Ced’s a good man and a good operator.’

  ‘Must frustrate you, though. You’re the exact opposite.’

  ‘I’m not a good man?’ Durant feigned surprise and then laughed.

  ‘No, I mean you just do things first and think later, or sometimes not at all.’

  ‘Thanks, I think. The problem is, he’s actually doing it the right way. Better that than working with someone who’s reckless.’

  ‘Welcome to his world.’ Amina looked at her phone. ‘I can’t be long. I need to go back to the crèche.’

  Durant leaned back in his chair and shook his head. ‘Come on, Amina, you know I get stuff done. Maybe we’re a good combo, give us time.’

  Amina didn’t look up from her phone. ‘Is he married?’

  ‘No, you think he’d be like that if he was married?’

  ‘He obviously never eats out.’ Amina smiled cautiously.

  ‘Don’t be nasty to my partner.’ Durant’s tone was playful. ‘He’s happy with himself like that. I admire the guy. I know every Wednesday night he goes somewhere because he can’t work late.’