Allegiance (2 page)

‘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.

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 didn’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.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting.’ Her voice was soft, pensive.

‘Salaam,’ he said.

‘Salaam. Please take a seat, sir; I’ll be with you in a minute,’ and she exited to the back room with a file.

He took the minute to reflect on what he had to do. This was the first small step he had to take and he had to put all his preconceived ideas and emotions aside. Once he’d refocused on the goal, he felt his shoulders relax. Mariam returned.

‘Sorry about that. I’m all yours.’

He smiled. That she would be. ‘Arshad Tanveer. Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I was told you could help me with my papers.’

Tanveer noticed an almost imperceptible frown creasing the otherwise flawless skin of her forehead. ‘Of course,’ she said, opening a file on the desk without looking up. ‘When did you arrive and what papers do you need? You realise the Refugee Centre is up the road?’

Tanveer smiled and leaned on the table, folding his arms. ‘I was there. They sent me here. They can’t help me. I don’t have a status. I was hoping you could change that.’

Mariam shook her head and sighed impatiently. ‘You want refugee status? Where’re you from?’

‘Pakistan.’

‘Pakistan? That’s not a conflict country.’

Tanveer cocked his eyebrow and smiled. ‘Do you treat all your clients this badly, or do you just not like Pakistanis?’

Mariam leaned forward slightly and looked at Tanveer thoughtfully. ‘You came to me for help. This is an immigration consultancy. I’m giving you advice.’

Tanveer shifted uncomfortably in his chair, momentarily aware that Mariam’s strong opinions could be both useful and troublesome. ‘The advice isn’t helping. You’re telling me I’m not welcome in your country. I have money from my parents in Pakistan. I’ve come here to start a small business and try to make a living. I don’t want to cause trouble here. You know what happens if they catch me without papers. I’m telling you the truth, please don’t chase me away.’

Mariam Suleiman looked into Tanveer’s eyes for the first time. What she saw was passion and determination. He also looked a lot like Shahid Kapur.

Tanveer reached for his top button again, and for a second he saw the moment of deliberation in her eyes.

‘It’ll take about three weeks, is that okay?’ she said with a shy smile that only just reached her eyes.

Tanveer nodded. ‘That’s fine, Mariam, thank you.’

‘Give me your contact number and I’ll phone you.’

‘You want the cash now?’

Mariam smiled and nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes. The people who do this for me want cash up front.’

‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Tanveer asked, his eyebrow cocked but his smile giving him away.

Mariam bit her bottom lip and stole a quick look at Tanveer. ‘This is my business. I’m not a thief, so don’t worry.’

Tanveer looked at his watch. They were thirty seconds late. Timing was everything, the man at the shed had said. He stood up and extended his hand to Mariam. ‘Thank you so much for helping me.’

As their hands touched, two men, one black, one Indian, in police uniform entered through the open door and pushed Tanveer against the wall, a small table with files crashing over in the process. Mariam put her hand to her mouth as one slapped him hard on the side of the head.

‘Stop that,’ she said firmly, involuntarily taking a step towards Tanveer.

The larger of the two policemen, not willing to entertain her interruption, put his finger in her face. ‘You shut up,’ he said.

‘Get your finger out of her face,’ Tanveer said, trying to shake himself loose from the other policeman. The policeman twisted Tanveer’s arm behind his back and the Pakistani groaned with pain.

Mariam stepped forward, her slender body stiff. In an instant, she had a stapler in her hand which she hurled at the Indian policeman. The other cop, enraged, grabbed Mariam, turned her around and tried to put handcuffs on her. Tanveer broke free and, though smaller than the policeman, dived at him and pushed him off his feet. He fell awkwardly and cried out in pain or perhaps embarrassment. His hand went for his gun holster and hovered over it momentarily as the room fell silent.

‘You going to shoot me?’ Tanveer said in a firm voice that mercifully cut through the silence and made the cop gesture rudely at him. ‘Leave her alone,’ he said, snatching the envelope with the R3 000 cash off the table. ‘Here. It’s yours. Go away now.’

The policeman indignantly pulled himself up, looked at his partner and then motioned for him to take the envelope. Without another word the policemen left the office and closed the door behind them. The whole incident had taken less than a minute.

‘Are you okay?’ Tanveer asked, placing an arm on Mariam’s shoulder.

‘I’m fine. Are you okay? You didn’t have to do that for me,’ she said shakily, trying to regain composure.

‘It was the only way to get rid of them. I’ll replace that money, don’t worry.’

Mariam sat down, still perplexed at the whole event. This had never happened before. Fortunately Tanveer was there otherwise she didn’t know what would have happened. In some way, he was a hero. She looked at him, a handsome man, a trickle of blood coming from a crack on his lip. He looked more like her Bollywood hero than ever. She took a tissue and touched it to his mouth.

‘Thank you, Arshad, you’re a gentleman. I don’t see many in this place.’

Tanveer smiled and the crack opened up, spilling blood onto his chin. The first blood had been spilt in the operation.

Kevin Durant kept telling himself Splinters was worth the thirty-minute drive down to the beachfront, even though it was close to midnight and a freak storm was lashing Durban. As he drove over the bridge that spanned the Warwick Road market, the city lights were barely visible through the torrent of rain. He didn’t mind the rain. It was better than the humidity they’d had over the past few days. His Land Rover didn’t mind the rain either, although the raindrops on the metal cab made it incredibly noisy inside. Durant twirled the volume knob. The radio was reporting some loss of life in the rural areas from lightning strikes and in Inchanga a roof had collapsed, killing a mother and two small children. His thoughts went to his wife and daughter. Alexis was asleep when he left, and Stephanie was not only awake, but had made her reservations known about his going out. She understood he was a field worker, he handled agents, but could anything possibly be happening on Christmas Eve at 11:30 p.m.? He couldn’t answer her because he didn’t know. He only knew that when Splinters contacted him and wanted a meeting, it was important. As far as informers went, Splinters was a benchmark lowgrade informer. Good access. Years of puzzling and using his twisted financial skills and contacts had built him a reputation which got him, and Durant, valuable information from the criminal underworld. That’s what intelligence was all about. And the best intelligence often came at inconvenient times. Durant wasn’t going to let the weather stop him. And Stephanie had given up trying to stop him years ago.

Five minutes later, Durant had parked the Land Rover outside a residential hotel where the lighting was reasonably good, and sprinted across the road and down a narrow side street to the meeting place. He was soaked to the skin within seconds and by the time he got to Splinters, there was no doubt in his mind that he would spend Christmas Day in bed, dosed with foul-smelling medication and wishing he’d been more prepared for the weather.