Stephanie seemed unfazed by all of this, even amused. Durant marvelled at the resilience of the woman. She was a master diplomat, and he was falling for her.
From that moment, she lived in him like a dream, like a sweet and arousing fragrance from which he couldn’t, wouldn’t escape. From that moment, she had him. All that remained for Durant was to devise a strategy, an infallible plan of action which would make the dream real and make Stephanie go out with him. He wouldn’t have to kill King, because King was already dead, or may as well have been; he’d disqualified himself from any type of romantic encounter with her. Durant went into scenario-planning mode: he visualised various scenarios from best case to worst case, including the whole spectrum in between. The worst-case scenario was inaction: if he was too afraid to say anything to her she’d leave and he’d never see her again. The best scenario he could imagine was Stephanie dismissing him with a coy smile and a wave which would have had him tied up in knots.
But while Durant was sitting quietly by himself at a table, contemplating these outcomes, Stephanie approached him.
‘Hi,’ she said, and before Durant could say anything, he realised he couldn’t. His mouth was so dry that even getting a ‘hi’ out was a physiological impossibility.
‘I’ve heard some interesting stories this morning from your colleagues; really impressive stuff. Especially from Mr King over there – he seems to be quite the specialist.’
Durant nodded. It was as much as he could do. He mentally rearranged his scenarios and adjusted the risk factors – it could go either way.
‘You didn’t mention any of your successes. You have some, being a professional and all.’
‘How do you know that?’ Durant asked, shocked at the calmness of his voice.
‘While everyone else was giving me their best stories, and probably trying to impress me, you just sat there reading my notes. That’s what a true professional would do. Study the material in his hand and find loopholes, seek out new information, look for useful bits.’
Durant managed a smile, but he avoided looking her in the eye. That was still beyond his functional ability. ‘Or I was pretending to read so I didn’t have to look up at you and be distracted like every other guy in the room.’
‘That’s a bit forward, isn’t it?’
Embarrassed, Durant looked up and saw Shezi lurking behind her. Shezi’s laugh bellowed across the room. ‘He’s not very good with the ladies,’ he said, landing a stinging slap on Durant’s shoulder. Stephanie giggled and blushed and the ice was broken.
The lunch encounter led to a dinner, followed by a short period of dating in which a deep friendship formed. Durant’s colleagues were amazed when he announced his wedding plans a few months later. They believed he was already married – to his work. Shezi later commented that Stephanie was the perfect match for him – someone whom he could speak to about his work and who would understand. Someone who shared his passion for discovery and adventure, who was driven, goal-motivated and determined.
And for Durant, the six years had brought its ups and downs. They had both focused on their careers and done well; they still spoke affectionately to each other and were generally happy in each other’s company. Their lives were relatively uncomplicated because they both chose it to be so. Their biggest difficulty had been trying to conceive children.
Then, four months before, Stephanie had announced she was finally pregnant. Durant often wondered how a child would fit into their busy schedules. Stephanie had left the bank and started her own business and he had been promoted to head of organised crime investigations at the National Intelligence Agency’s provincial office. But he was willing to make sacrifices, and he knew Stephanie was too.
Durant raised his glass. ‘To my lovely wife. Eighty years with you and beyond!’
She smiled and her hazel eyes sparkled.
Durant knew there would be troubles in the future as there had been in the past, but that evening, life was great.
JULY 2002
It was no coincidence that the African Union was launched in the African Century. The African Union was a vision which encapsulated the rebirth, revival and renewal of Africa, and which, it was envisaged, would empower the continent to free itself from a history characterised by economic and political hardship. New partnerships were being fashioned which were to be different from previous conditional and imposed ones. On their own terms, Africans would determine what was best for Africa. The African Union was a new baby, born to succeed its ageing predecessor, the Organisation of African Unity, which had been founded in 1963 and which by the late nineties had become structurally and politically ineffective. The Ghanaian leader, Kwame Nkrumah, originally envisaged a united Africa along the lines of the United States of America, a dream which was doomed to failure in a continent where individual countries were torn apart by warring factions and territorial disputes in the postcolonial period. The OAU became nothing more than a club of African presidents who sat around large tables, drank expensive port, and blamed the colonialists for the legacy of failure in their countries.
The launch of the African Union and the last meeting of the OAU brought delegates from all over the African continent to Durban’s International Convention Centre. The launch date was 9 July 2002, and preparatory and plenary meetings were planned for the preceding fortnight. Durban would become a gathering place for some of the most powerful and influential people in the world. And for spies.
International events are the hunting ground of spies. Casual conversations in lobbies and at smokers’ corners become recruitment pitches. Agents of influence and compromise agents are born here. Business cards are swapped, money changes hands and deals are done. The event itself becomes a sideshow. The real actors are the case officers, the undeclared officers, the recruitment specialists, and the compromise functionaries who watch the diplomats succumb to human weakness and get lured by the dangles which are hung before them. The heads of state are merely supporting actors. The real work is done in the back rooms and at intelligence headquarters. Report-backs to principals cover who was successfully pitched, not who said what at the plenary.
The launch, like all high-profile international events, was a challenge to the security services. Hundreds of presidents, ministers, delegates and other VIPS arrived in Durban, expecting not only South African hospitality, but also a high level of diplomatic protection. A large area around the International Convention Centre and Hilton Hotel was turned into a security island, to which access was prohibited without an accreditation card and where roads were closed and manhole covers welded shut. Advance teams of security and protocol officials started arriving from various countries, each with their own demands testing the patience of security officials. Tempers flared. Diplomats are known for their intolerance, and often the poorer the country, the more demanding its diplomats.
The South African Department of Foreign Affairs received a late note verbale from the Libyan government requesting permission to bring a dozen presidential camels for President Gaddafi. South African health officials had a hard time explaining to diplomats that there was a mandatory period of quarantine for animals and that the president’s camels would be isolated until long after the launch was history.
Further chaos erupted on 1 July, when an unscheduled Libyan aircraft arrived at the airport bringing an advance party of ninety-seven Libyan security officials. Their mission was to smooth the way for the Brother Leader, like the magi from the east. With them came an arsenal of mp5 automatic weapons, each loaded with sixty rounds of ammunition, and over a hundred loaded revolvers and automatics. On 6 July, a Libyan cargo Antonov delivered fourteen vehicles to Durban International Airport, including two presidential limousines, a bus, and two truck-mounted portable generators, while further aircraft dispatched thirty-one Land Cruisers with communications gear, tents, an ambulance and security vehicles. Two further Libyan cargo aircraft arrived the same day, along with four passenger jets. The presidential jet and two more pa
ssenger aircraft carrying Libyans arrived shortly afterwards, and dispatched President Gaddafi and his female close protectors and hordes of security guards into the air force base’s reception area.
The international arrivals hall at Durban International Airport looked like an eastern bazaar. Prem Maistry had been a customs officer at the airport for thirteen years and had never experienced anything like this. Aircraft were arriving unannounced. He was shuttling between aircraft in the holding area, where all sorts of vehicles were being off-loaded, and the customs hall where he and his team had to examine bags, traditional Arab musical instruments, pots and pans and an assortment of other paraphernalia, and ensure that all weapons were being declared and registered with the local police. Overcoming obstacles like language and protocol, Maistry had to politely indicate to individuals that they were not allowed to go through to the waiting bus with their loaded automatic weapons, and the South African police were indeed able to protect them from whatever threats they envisaged. South Africa was not the Wild West and their weapons would be returned to them on departure. Diplomatic officials from the Libyan embassy intervened at every suitcase search; at every argument, arms were seen flailing in the air.
Maistry turned to a colleague. ‘Judy, we need the other shift back here, we can’t go on like this – thank you, sir, please open the suitcase – we’ve had four international arrivals in the past hour, more than we usually do in a week.’
Judy Abrahams looked at a schedule. ‘And there’re another two inbound now.’
‘We can’t do our job like this – thank you, sir, please exit that way.’
‘The other shift worked till late last night, they’re finished.’
Maistry wiped his hands on his reflective jacket and sighed.
‘We need someone that speaks Arabic here. None of these guys speak English except the guy from the embassy, and he’s not much help.’
Abrahams rushed into an office and made some calls while Maistry waved the next group of visitors to the search table.
‘Afternoon, gentlemen. I need you to open please,’ and he gestured to the bags. The Libyan officials looked around nervously. Maistry was used to the procedure; there would be a silent protest, sometimes a vociferous one, but the visitors usually complied and opened their suitcases. This time, the carrier of a large brown suitcase looked particularly nervous – nervousness Maistry had learnt to recognise as a red flag. The Libyan looked at the man beside him and Maistry noticed he was carrying an identical suitcase, as was the man beside him. ‘Please open the suitcases,’ he said again and the Libyan shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and then gestured to the diplomatic official from the embassy who came scurrying over, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his jacket. He exchanged some words with the three men.
‘No guns, please, they have no guns,’ the diplomat said.
Maistry was tired. He was tired of standing, he was frustrated by not being able to do his job properly and he was frustrated by the man who was telling him that he was not going to check the three suitcases on the table in front of him. ‘Sir,’ he said, as calmly as possible, ‘I have to check the suitcases.’
The diplomat looked upset. He spoke again with the three men who were accompanying the suitcases and then said to Maistry, ‘Look, cannot open these, please? They are locked, yes?’
Maistry looked at Abrahams and said, ‘Judy, please pass me the master key.’ She reached under the counter and produced a small pair of wire-cutting pliers. ‘Sir, I can open this suitcase – with this – or you can open it for me without this.’
‘Wait,’ the diplomat said and tugged again at his tie, which still seemed to be suffocating him. He produced a cellphone and walked a few steps away where he conducted a soft, strained conversation in Arabic. The queue behind this group was growing, and there were loud protestations coming from the tired travellers, protestations that had no effect on Maistry.
The diplomat returned. ‘Who is in charge, sir?’ he asked, hands clenching together as if he were crushing something between them.
‘I am in charge, sir. I’m the duty customs officer and the law permits me to search any bag that I consider to be suspicious. And frankly, sir, I now consider these suitcases to be suspicious.’
‘I am Mr Albirai, Libyan ambassador to South Africa. You are, sir?’
‘Prem Maistry, customs officer, South African Revenue Service.’ The handshake was formal and rigid. He hoped Albirai’s attitude would not be as unyielding as his handshake.
‘Mr Maistry, let me be brief. My people have travelled far, please, they are tired. They just wish to go to the hotel and sleep.’
‘I understand, Excellency. So let’s get finished here. Have them open their cases and you can be on your way.’
‘I would like you to waive inspection on these suitcases.’
‘I can’t do that, sir.’
‘I can give my personal assurance that there is nothing dangerous inside these suitcases. I can vouch for them.’
‘Thank you for vouching for them, Mr Albirai. I would still like to confirm their contents though.’ Albirai clenched and unclenched his fists. Maistry didn’t have anything against the man, but he was making the night longer than it needed to be.
‘I must insist, sir,’ Albirai said, barely getting the words out.
‘Sorry, Mr Ambassador, but it’s not negotiable.’
Albirai slapped his forehead so hard with his hand it left a red imprint. ‘You … you …’ he shook his head, unable to find a word that would adequately describe his frustration. Albirai’s rage took Maistry by surprise and he considered calling for security. The ambassador reached for his cellphone again, mumbled to himself, thought better of it, and thrust it back into his pocket. He barked an order in Arabic at the three men accompanying the cases. They looked incredulous for a few seconds and then fumbled in their pockets for keys and proceeded to unlock the cases.
Maistry concealed his surprise well when the first suitcase was opened. Inside, neatly stacked in bundles, were piles of new us dollar bills.
Maistry looked at Albirai who shrugged his shoulders. ‘Official, yes, for our delegation.’
Maistry reached under his counter for a wad of documents. ‘I assume, sir, the other cases also contain foreign currency?’
Albirai nodded.
‘How much foreign currency are you declaring to me?’
Albirai looked perplexed at the directness of the question. All diplomacy seemed to have vanished. ‘There is … ah … twelve million us.’
Maistry was distracted by a figure running towards them. It looked like trouble: a tall, gangly character in his late fifties, dressed in a 1970s-style black suit and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Only bureaucrats still wore 1970s suits.
‘Ah,’ said Albirai, visibly relieved, ‘Mr Cloete, please, we have these …’
Maistry froze in amazement as Cloete somehow aligned his centre of gravity in such a way that he managed to bow down very low without falling over. His bowing and scraping muscles had obviously been well honed during a long career in the diplomatic service. ‘Excellency, Excellency, a thousand apologies – for dis misunderstanding,’ and he glowered at Maistry – evidently the misunderstanding. ‘The Department of Foreign Affairs is most embarrassed at dis … um … delay … please, let me assist Your Excellency in … sorting dis out right now.’
Cloete’s tone changed immediately as he addressed Maistry.
‘Mr Cloete, Acting Assistant Director, DFA. What is de problem here?’
Maistry looked down at the suitcases and then back up to Cloete. Did he not see the twelve million dollars? ‘Sir – we have foreign currency here, which according to—’
‘Young man,’ Cloete said impatiently, ‘the Libyan government has informed us frew a note verbale that they is travelling back by road frew Africa to Libya after de AU.’
‘Sir, all foreign currency has to be declared and noted—’
‘Obviously there are expenses. The Min
ister have taken a political decision to allow dis cases frew.’
‘I must insist on—’
‘Mister?’
‘Maistry.’
‘Mr Maistry. A ministerial decision have been made, and these people must be now let frew.’
Maistry nodded without saying a word. His hands trembled with anger as he shut the suitcase. He knew it was futile to argue with an Acting Assistant Director in a black suit who called himself ‘Mister.’ He was also tired and whatever fight he had left in him had all but dissipated the closer he got to the end of his shift. ‘Come through please, next,’ he gestured to the wide-eyed Libyans who’d stared open-mouthed at the preceding events, their attention fixed on the verbal exchange as attentively as though they were watching a tennis match. The cases were quickly locked and Cloete ushered Albirai off to the airport VIP lounge. Bilateral relations would have to be restored over snacks and drinks.
Maistry felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten, and he turned to Abrahams as the Libyan delegation filed past. ‘That went well,’ she said.
‘We haven’t seen the last of this, Judy,’ he said gravely as the three Libyans and their suitcases hurried towards the exit and were ushered into a waiting minibus, which immediately drove off into the late afternoon traffic.
Durant woke up with an eye-popping headache, his wage for too few hours’ sleep, an overload of stress and too much cheap coffee distilled through his 38-year-old veins. The bedside alarm clock told him that he had climbed into bed just under four hours previously. The African Union meeting in Durban had kept him busy every night instructing agents in various crime syndicates to report on any threats to the delegates or visitors to the event. The biggest problem so far had been delegates and support staff visiting prostitutes in the red-light area and being relieved of their wallets while at play. A number of foreign credit cards were being offered around and Durant was tasking his informants to recover them before too much damage was done.
An Ordinary Day Page 2
