An Ordinary Day (15 page)

‘Maybe you should mention it, Mr Durant,’ Masondo said. ‘I think everyone can learn some lessons in manipulation.’

Durant looked embarrassed. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done. ‘She tried to book into two separate hotels. The first one I got Amina to phone the Libyan embassy. Amina, maybe you can recount the call.’

Amina stood up reluctantly and recalled the conversation. She had impersonated a receptionist from the hotel she had reserved, and phoned Elhasomi to reassure her the rumours about the hotel being targeted by anti-Islamic people were untrue, and that the fatal assault had merely been a coincidence. Elhasomi took the opportunity to cancel her booking.

Durant thanked Amina and continued. ‘The second hotel we had to really be creative with. I created a leaflet and made as though it was produced by a local but nonexistent Islamic group. The text spoke of the hotel being owned by American Jews and profits were going to Israel. I scanned the flyer in and e-mailed it to as many Islamic organisations as I could find in Libya from an internet café. She cancelled her reservation within two days of us mailing the flyer. Uptown Girl is coming to visit Durban again – and this time she will be our guest.’

There was spontaneous applause.

‘The applause may be premature, there’re still many indeterminables. We need more miracles here. We have a townhouse which we’ll need to rig up like the
Big Brother
house. Cameras in every room, microphones in every ceiling; when this lady sprays perfume on in the morning, we need to know the make. I’m not sure how wide our window of opportunity is here. She may arrive next week or next month, she may arrive tomorrow.’

Masondo stood up, his big frame casting a shadow over the presentation. ‘I want this to be a priority operation. No leave, no excuses, no “I can’t do it”. It must be done and it must be done properly. Durant is the project leader. Whatever he asks for, give him. Durant, you tell me if you don’t get what you need. You operationalise it. I’m phoning the dg and getting him on board. Good day, gentlemen, and ladies.’

Masondo was gone and Durant opened a file. ‘The townhouse we’ve got isn’t ideal, but it’s the best we could do at short notice. It had to fit in with the image of the agent, so it’s an upmarket affair with lots of rooms. It’s costing a small fortune, so I want you to treat it with respect. Don’t break anything. Mike, I need cameras that can cover all the rooms except the main bedroom and bathroom obviously – but everything else.’

‘Why not the bedroom? Isn’t pillow talk the best intelligence?’

‘Nice try, Mike, you evil man. Unfortunately, the judge won’t authorise monitoring of areas like that, unless you can really motivate. Do you know anything we’re not aware of?’

Shezi shook his head. ‘No, but let’s hope they’re not aware of that little piece of useful information.’

‘Right, I want the signals sent here. We’ll set up an ops centre here at the office. I want real-time monitoring. Amina, I know you’ll do it better than any of us. The smallest thing, call me, night or day. Uptown Girl is bringing a friend. We need to identify this person and understand what he or she is here for. I want profiles, I want pictures, I want to know of contacts and meetings. I want to understand this whole thing by the time these people go back to Malta. Any questions?’

There was just one from Shezi. ‘What happens if she’s just coming for a holiday?’

The question seemed too simple. Durant thought for a moment, and then said seriously, ‘Libyan intelligence officers don’t take holidays.’

Joe Vitoli was an unlikely-looking
CIA
field agent, and this is what probably made him a good field agent. Working undercover, and thus without any diplomatic protection, he took his double life seriously. He’d long dispensed with the suits and polished shoes that normally characterised
CIA
agents. He wore a suit a long time ago, but never felt comfortable in one. He wasn’t a suit type of guy. The brass at Langley had been too embarrassed to have him operating as a declared agent, attending meetings with foreign liaison officers and wearing the corporate cloth of the
CIA
. That’s why they gave him non-declared status. Or so he believed.

Vitoli had worked in South Africa for so long he had mastered two of the local languages, supported the Sharks, was an expert braai maker and had developed a network of contacts which gave the
CIA
an intelligence reach into the whole of southern Africa. He was glad to have dispensed with the formality and politics of Langley. His only human contact with the
CIA
now was the occasional third-country meeting with Paul Scott, who represented everything he didn’t like about the Agency. He didn’t mind. He was close to retirement and South Africa was a good place to retire. He could slip out of his role of intelligence officer and comfortably slip into a normal life far from the pressures of Washington or Virginia. He didn’t envy his colleagues in the States – they were so caught up in trying to fight terrorism on the home front that they had become victims of terrorism without even knowing it. They lived their lives in fear. Threats and counter-threats made up their daily diet. Fools, he thought. No quality of life.

Vitoli looked at the framed press photographs on the wall. Below them were various awards he had won for journalism over the past twenty-five years. It had taken him little effort to get into character. Covering various important events in the country, he blended in seamlessly with other journalists. He looked the part. Long, unkempt grey hair, unshaven; the mandatory khaki press jacket. It was a cover which had given him exceptional scope and access. Not to mention great personal satisfaction.

He loved his job. The only irritation was the weekly call on his encrypted mobile phone from Paul Scott, who never missed an opportunity to remind him of his true purpose in South Africa: to fulfil the intelligence requirements of the
CIA
programme in Africa.

Paul Scott was hounding him about Ali. He’d already had four meetings with Ali, and his instincts and training told him Ali was lying as often as he spoke. He didn’t like Ali; the man had an arrogance and attitude about him which was particularly annoying. The relationship was awkward, partly because Ali was only co-operating out of duress, and partly because Vitoli knew the duress was ineffective. Ali was beyond blackmail. He was clever enough to supply crumbs of information to the hungry Americans sitting under the table, their mouths hanging open, yet all the while he continued feasting from the smorgasbord of criminal opportunities which made up his daily fare. This made Vitoli angry and his impatience showed when he spoke to Ali. Ali responded in a condescending way as though he didn’t care. He
didn’t
care.

Vitoli looked at his watch. Ali was late again. He had driven two hours north of Durban, a half-hour of which was on dirt roads, to reach the game park and then walked twenty minutes to a bird hide on the banks of a watering hole. He thought the meeting place was both operationally and aesthetically perfect. It was the ideal place to hear terrifying plans of nuclear triggers and madmen wanting to make tons of deadly toxins which could kill millions of people in under a minute. It was also the perfect place to forget about the mad world and appreciate the magnificence of a zebra gently lapping at the water’s edge, sending ripples all the way to the far banks.

When Ali arrived thirty-five minutes later, Vitoli had to ignore the impulse to wrestle him to the ground. In his seven years of work in South Africa, Vitoli had never quite got used to the concept of African time. The tradecraft books always stressed the importance of punctuality during clandestine meetings, when a window of opportunity was sometimes only a few seconds long. Vitoli had never fully adjusted to the African way.

Ali arrived in khaki shorts, a flowery shirt and a baseball cap. He nodded a greeting to Vitoli and said matter-of-factly, ‘There were a few things I had to do, so I’m late.’ Ali was enjoying himself, Vitoli knew. Probably not the fact that he had to sacrifice half a day to drive into the bush and meet an American spy, Vitoli mused, but the indemnity he was getting in exchange for chicken-feed intelligence doubtless made that sacrifice more than worthwhile.

Vitoli got straight to the point. ‘We went over the wish list. It’s quite impressive. The equipment the Libyans want is used to grow biological toxins for use as a weapon. They’ve tried before but never really got any meaningful programme up and running. The Israelis have kind of tripped them up a few times, and so have we. Disruption is the best weapon against these guys. Make it hard for them, expensive, and eventually they’ll give up.’

‘They’ll defeat the Zionists some other way,’ said Ali. ‘The Arab world won’t rest until Palestine is free of occupation. There are hundreds, maybe thousands, of other Muslims like me around the world who would help rid the earth of Jews.’

Vitoli nodded slowly, trying to hide his contempt.

‘But today, buddy, you’re helping us and you’re protecting Israel from the Libyans. Isn’t that ironic? What would your brothers say about that?’

Ali snarled. ‘I’m only helping you because I have no choice, not because I believe in your cause.’

‘How noble of you. What’s the next move?’

‘Payment. I don’t place any orders until I have payment in cash, in dollars.’

‘Have they indicated how payment will be made?’

‘I said, in cash. The cash will be delivered to me in person. One of my companies will then arrange a letter of credit with the bank. Then the company delivers, I unpack the equipment at the harbour, repack it into another container and send it on to Malta. There it will again be diverted to Libya. I’ve done it before, it works. Are we finished here?’

Vitoli concentrated on staying calm. ‘We need to know who’s delivering the money. We want to identify the local people involved. Libyan diplomats, for example.’

‘The lady will deliver.’

‘Elhasomi? Are you sure? Will she carry the cash from Malta?’

‘The cash is already here. It must be. Probably at the Libyan embassy or one of a million other places. She’ll collect it and deliver it to me. The Libyans won’t risk exposing their diplomats, not even to me. They don’t trust me any more than you trust me.’

‘But they’re prepared to advance you twelve million dollars based on what you promise to deliver?’

‘It’s a very strange world, the global arms bazaar. It’s based on gentlemen’s agreements. If you are paid and don’t deliver, a gentleman visits you one night at home, and places two bullets in the base of your skull.’

‘You know we’re not gonna let this shipment get to Libya. We have a legal and moral obligation to stop it.’

‘Do I need to tell the
CIA
how to do its job? I don’t care where you stop the shipment as long as it’s out of my territory. Use the Maltese port police, use a nosy customs officer, sink the damn ship in the Mediterranean … It just mustn’t be in my back yard. I don’t want any blowback.’

‘I understand. Won’t they expect their money back?’

‘I earn commission on work done. By the time the shipment is intercepted, my work will have been done. I only guarantee security of the consignment when it’s in my territory. When it’s in a foreign country or in international waters … hey, the world’s a dangerous place. No self-respecting arms or drug smuggler will offer that type of guarantee. If they want that kind of guarantee, they must use dhl.’

‘Your safety is my concern; I have to have the assurance that we’re not putting you in harm’s way.’

‘I live in harm’s way, boss, you don’t put me there. I’ve survived a long time out there, and you know why? Because I have respect. People know that when they deal with me, they’re dealing with a professional. I don’t cut corners, I deliver on time, I don’t deal with fly-by-nights.’

‘I’m going to need a sign of life from you every day. I need to know you’re still in play and not lying belly-up in a gutter somewhere. This is important, because if I don’t hear from you then we have to assume they’ve got to you.’ Vitoli slipped Ali a business card.

‘This is a local person’s number. All you have to do is call this number and say you’re out of stock with stationery. That’s all. That’s your sign of life, buddy. If the call doesn’t go through to that number, we’ll come lookin’ for you. Don’t abuse it.’

Ali looked at his watch. ‘Are we done here?’

‘Almost. When the girl makes contact from Malta, or if there’s any other contact that I might be interested in, I’m sure you know who to call.’

Ali managed a genuine smile. He knew who to call. And it wasn’t Joe Vitoli.