An Ordinary Day (32 page)

‘These are pointers, not proof, Durant. We checked his itemised phone billing. He received a call from Mojo on his phone the evening he was killed. After that, he made a number of calls to you. What was that all about?’

‘He did phone me, but I didn’t actually speak to him. I was in a meeting, I couldn’t speak.’

‘Kevin, this was late in the evening. What could have been more important? When your colleague calls you at that time, it’s obviously something urgent.’

‘I realise that now, chief, yes. It was Stephanie’s birthday, I couldn’t take the calls, we were at a restaurant.’

Masondo frowned. ‘Don’t you think it’s relevant that Shezi spoke to Mojo and then tried to get hold of you a number of times immediately thereafter?’

Durant shifted uncomfortably in the chair. ‘Sir, I had no idea he’d spoken to Mojo. This is the first I’m hearing of it.’

‘Perhaps Mojo had some important information he wanted to share. Perhaps he wanted to meet Shezi to give him the information. He called you for backup or advice. It’s quite possible Mojo ambushed him when he got there and killed him.’

Durant shook his head. ‘That’s all speculation, chief. We don’t know what he and Shezi spoke about. We don’t know if they arranged a meeting or swapped information. We’ll never know.’

‘Speak to Mojo. Take your cop friend with you; lean on him a bit. I want to know exactly what Shezi was doing in the last forty-eight hours of his life. Get to work on it right away.’

Durant nodded and stood up. As he reached the door, Masondo’s voice stopped him. ‘Durant, we checked in his safe to see if there were any notes or letters or anything suspicious.’

Durant nodded, a somewhat reserved nod. ‘Find anything?’

There was a moment’s silence and Masondo sat down behind his desk. ‘His operational diary for the two days before his death was empty. I was hoping there would be something else that could provide a clue.’

Durant looked at the floor.

‘Durant, are you sure there’s nothing you’re holding back from me?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nothing you want to tell me? Security tells me Mrs Yusuf got the key for his safe on your authorisation. She only took the file?’

‘Yes, sir, she took the file and brought it to me.’

Masondo stared at Durant for an uncomfortable twenty seconds and Durant could feel cold perspiration creeping down the small of his back. ‘Okay,’ Masondo said. ‘If you remember anything else, call me.’

‘Of course.’ Durant stepped through the doorway into the passage and closed the door after him.

***

Vitoli was growing increasingly impatient with Paul Scott. Scott still hadn’t informed the head of station about the developments, and he felt this was compromising their progress. He’d spoken earlier to Scott, who had asserted that they needed another twenty-four hours to properly figure out the relationship between Durant and Elhasomi. Vitoli felt tempted to contact Baker directly, but as a non-official cover agent, he knew this broke the security protocol. Paul Scott was arrogant and self-centred, and he didn’t need to be. He was young and showed promise, but nobody liked a guy who wasn’t a team player. And team playing was the new creed in the Firm. He held a photograph up to the light: a dark chanting goshawk he’d spotted in Kloof Gorge. He wished he’d used a faster shutter speed to capture the detail on her wings more clearly. The door chime interrupted Vitoli’s thoughts, and he put a shirt on and walked downstairs.

‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he said to the neatly dressed man at the door.

‘Can I have a few minutes of your time, Mr Vitoli?’

‘You are?’

‘Kevin Durant. Can I come in?’

Vitoli concealed his surprise well, considering that at that exact moment he knew his career as a non-official cover agent, an was over, and within forty-eight hours he’d be spirited away to Langley for a humiliating debriefing and from there drive a desk at
HQ
until his dishonourable retirement. ‘I guess so.’ Vitoli stepped aside and allowed Durant to enter.

‘Can I get you a beer?’ he asked, feeling he probably needed it more than Durant.

‘No thanks, I won’t be long. I’m investigating the disappearance of a guy called Farouk Ali. Do you know him?’

Vitoli rubbed his unshaven jaw and then shook his head slowly. ‘I know a lot of people. Farouk Ali … Nah, doesn’t sound familiar.

Who’s he?’

‘He’s a businessman – shipping.’

‘Nah, I definitely wouldn’t know him. I’m a photographer,’ and he motioned to the wall where his pictures were displayed.

Durant cast a cursory glance towards the gallery. ‘I see. So you don’t know Ali then?’

‘Where you from, buddy?’

‘I’m a private investigator.’

‘A private dick, huh? Wouldn’t figure you for one; you look too decent.’

‘The family of the missing man hired me to find him.’

Vitoli laughed. ‘Maybe he needs a break from his family. Maybe he don’t wanna be found.’

‘His wife mentioned some people who might know where he is.’

‘She didn’t mention my name, though, did she?’

‘She didn’t, no.’

‘Well then. What’s your business here, Mr Durant?’

‘I just wanted to know if you had any contact with Ali or knew where he was, that’s all.’

Vitoli sat down in a cane chair and motioned to Durant to sit opposite him.

‘I’m a photojournalist, Mr Durant. I can’t remember everybody I meet.’

Durant slipped a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Let me help you remember. Here’s a list of nine people you’ve spoken to recently.’

‘Are we done here buddy? ’Cos I got a lot to do.’

‘Mostly government officials, ruling-party members and one or two Muslim clerics. You keep strange company for a photographer.’

‘Where’d you get the list? This is privileged information.’

‘And I’m privileged to have it. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have figured out that you’ve actually got a network of agents in this country who are providing you with intelligence.’

Vitoli rubbed his chin and then the back of his neck with his hand. ‘The list doesn’t prove a thing, buddy. You’re gonna have to do a lot better.’ Vitoli knew the list, in fact, proved everything. His network of agents had been compromised through cellphone calls and he was done as an
NOC
.

Durant nodded slowly and then deliberately remained silent for a painful twenty seconds, allowing Vitoli to absorb the consequences of his error.

‘We’ve got you linked to Ali through a lovely old lady called Cathy Farrell.’

‘You’re gallopin’ ahead with stuff that just ain’t true. Son, I think you’re pretty mixed up.’

‘You know the penalties for conducting espionage on South African soil without diplomatic immunity?’

‘It’s not the firing squad any more, is it?’

‘Mr Vitoli, you’re putting me in a very awkward situation.’

‘I’m starting to feel a little awkward myself, right now.’

‘There’s been a murder, maybe three murders. I think you might know some of the people involved.’

Vitoli raised his dark eyebrows and shrugged. ‘Can’t help you, fella. My business is photos and birds, not murders, buddy. I think you’re in the wrong place.’

‘I’m desperate to get to the bottom of this thing and I don’t really care what gets damaged in the process. You can talk to me, or you can give a statement to the cops. The choice is yours.’

Vitoli rubbed his hands together. ‘The choice? I could choose to sink a left hook into your jaw and throw your sorry ass back through that door. Or I could offer you a beer again, ’cos I damn well need one.’

‘I’ll go for the beer.’

Vitoli stood up and walked to a neat bar in the corner of the lounge. He disappeared behind the counter for a few seconds and reappeared with two beers. ‘You know, Durant, I like you. And I really mean that. If I’d lost someone, I’d get you on the case, no question.’

Durant stood up and walked to the bar counter. Vitoli was more likely to feel comfortable talking at the bar.

‘Let me be straight with you,’ Vitoli said. ‘We’re dancing around each other like teenagers at the prom. From the get-go let me say I know you’re
NIA
and Leila Elhasomi was your agent until someone popped her.’

Durant sipped his beer. ‘That’s nonsense.’

‘Second, I’ve met Ali a few times, none of them particularly pleasant.’

‘Under what pretext?’

‘He’s as important to us as he is to you. We needed to know his involvement in the smuggling of contraband.’

‘Go on. What contraband?’

‘Well, mainly articles which can be used to make
WMD
s.’

‘Weapons of mass destruction? You were looking at that? When did you identify Ali?’

‘Couple of months ago. He’s been doin’ it for a while. He’s in the big league. He’s the local rep, you might say, for dozens of crackpot leaders who want
WMD
technology. We turned him.’

Durant leaned forward on the counter, his fists clenching unconsciously. ‘You recruited him? How?’

‘An effective but sometimes frowned-upon intelligence technique called “blackmail”. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. We run him as a compromise agent. He knew we had enough on him to sink him.’

The room was warm and the beer was bitter, but Durant felt elated. ‘So you’re with the fbi?’

Vitoli laughed. ‘The
FBI
gets the credit for everythin’! Nope, I’m a special agent for the us Department of Commerce – the Bureau of Export Administration. We look at these kinda deals.’

‘And you were handling Ali for how long?’

‘Coupla months.’

‘Department of Commerce – and you handle agents in foreign countries?’

‘Desperate times call for desperate measures. Terrorist threats are sometimes countered far away from the homeland. Since 9 /11 even the damn cooks in federal buildings are handling agents.’

‘I think Ali’s dead.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I think the guy who killed Elhasomi also killed Ali. No proof yet, but it’s a distinct possibility.’

‘Tell me about the guy who killed Elhasomi. You know who killed her?’

‘She wasn’t our agent. I wish she was. We were investigating her because of her contact with Ali. Ali’s been our target for years.’

Vitoli looked perplexed. ‘She had your contact number on her.’

‘You know a lot for a customs guy.’

‘Commerce.’

‘She had an accident and I gave her my number in case she needed help.’

‘Pity she didn’t use it. So who killed her, can you tell me?’

Durant nodded. ‘The guy she came with, Ben Salem, killed her. You know what a raven operation is?’

‘Yeah. Male version of a honeypot. You think he lured her out here to kill her?’

‘We’re sure of it.’

Vitoli shook his head. ‘You boys are way ahead of us. Care for another beer?’

‘No thanks.’

‘You’re not on duty, are ya?’

‘I’m never off duty.’ Durant paused for a few seconds. ‘I could never establish Elhasomi’s exact link to Ali. Was she some kind of a procurement officer?’

‘Damn straight she was. Libya’s most active and successful.’ Vitoli poured himself another beer and cradled it in his folded arms. ‘She’s a well-known figure in the nuclear arms bazaar.’

‘We’ve looked at Ali for years. Truth is, never been able to stop the guy – he’s connected everywhere.’

‘I was handling him as an informer and even I couldn’t pin him down. Gives a bit, takes a lot.’

‘Where’s he?’

‘Broke contact. Dunno. Wish I did, ’cos I really need info right now.’

‘He’s dropped off the radar completely, which is unlike him. He’s not afraid of anyone,’ Durant said.

‘Maybe Salem was just after the money. Ali was supposed to get payment of close on twelve million dollars for this deal.’

‘Last we knew, Salem loaded the cash into her car and bolted. But I think Salem’s motive is more personal than financial. Salem’s Jewish. May even be Mossad.’

‘Good Lord above! Mossad, or Shin Bet. It wouldn’t be out of character. This is how those guys operate.’

‘Ja, well, not in my country, they don’t. I’ll find Salem, and when I do, he’s going to jail like any other murderer.’

‘Noble thoughts, Kevin Durant. Don’t underestimate the power of political pressure and international bartering. Ask yourself if it’s worth all the trouble of tracking him down and havin’ him arrested, only to have some politician in Foreign Affairs tell you they’ve struck a deal and he’s goin’ back.’

‘I’ve asked myself if it’s worth it. That’s why I’m pursuing this thing, that’s why I’m here. I’ll find this guy. Murder is murder – it’s not a negotiable thing.’

‘You must be pretty sure he did it.’

‘I know he did it.’

Vitoli shook Durant’s hand firmly. ‘I hope you find him.’

***

It was the day before Mike Shezi’s memorial service, and Thandi was pleased the house was finally rid of the relatives and friends who had come to wish her well and ask, sometimes subtly, but other times unashamedly frankly, when she expected his pension payout. The modest house in the rural Valley of a Thousand Hills belonged to her parents, and there was hardly space for entertaining visitors. It had endured years of neglect and the interior was cold and impersonal. Much like her, she thought. But the rural dwelling was slightly less depressing than her home, which she’d moved out of the day after she’d learnt of Mike’s death. Staying there had become intolerable and she couldn’t imagine herself ever going back. Her parent’s home had become a refuge from reality, but she knew that after the funeral she would have to deal with the more practical issues of life and try to pick up the pieces.

Thandi hardly heard the knock at the door, which disturbed her thoughts. She opened the front door with little expectation, but smiled for the first time in days as Durant held out a huge chocolate cake. She hugged him, and he felt her body trembling and he wasn’t going to let go until she did.

‘You’re like an angel,’ she said as she finally released her grip and took the cake.

‘I know it’s your favourite. The deal is you have to share it with me.’

‘Of course,’ she laughed, making no effort to wipe away the tears which kept coming. ‘I’m sorry about the house. It’s a mess.’