An Ordinary Day (6 page)

A dozen containers worth over a million rands disappeared into the night every week, while shipping clerks, drivers and security personnel greeted investigators with a shrug of the shoulders or a wry smile. Ali’s mixture of fear and reward was a perfect recipe for cooperation. Those who worked with the operation were reimbursed well. Those who were disloyal met a nasty end. In 1997, a truck driver refused to divert his load of electrical equipment to a warehouse as ordered by the syndicate, and he was found the next day beside his burnt-out truck on a farm road. He had been forced to drink petrol, then set alight. The few attempts by the police to investigate Ali were neutralised at the early stages. Mojo, Ali’s security consultant and close protector, was once a
SAPS
officer on a team which was close to arresting Ali. He had boasted to his colleagues that Ali had tripled his salary and given him a car. Mojo had his own network of contacts within the
SAPS
, who gave him weekly updates on the progress of any investigations which might threaten the operation.

Amina read through all the notes Durant and Shezi had made on the target-analysis report. It was clear that Ali was above the operational level of the syndicate on which the daily criminal processes were put into effect. He had outgrown hands-on management of the operation and relied on his lieutenants to ensure the enterprise continued to operate efficiently. A motivation attached to the briefing indicated that the intention of the eavesdropping operation was to link Ali to a specific criminal act as a co-conspirator, hand over the information to
SAPS
investigators, who would make the arrest, and then use the Prevention of Organised Crime Act to ensure he was jailed for the maximum period. Emphasis was placed on the element of surprise and unpredictability. Ali’s security wing could only respond to known threats. The
NIA
’s approach would be stealthy and clandestine, undetectable until it was too late for Ali. The
SAPS
would not be involved in the investigation until close to the end, when a group of handpicked detectives would take the court-related evidence and present it to the Prosecuting Authority. Amina smiled when she realised that Durant was surely going to be Ali’s worst nightmare – he had the persistence of a pit bull terrier and the integrity of a high-court judge, a formidable combination.

The monitoring room at the
NIA
was a quiet and warm area. Operational assistants stared at computer monitors, headphones on, and wrote notes. Amina always arrived early so that by 7 a.m. she could quickly catch up on the evening’s conversations and skip through the video-feed file to see if there was any activity. The operation had run for three weeks, and Amina hadn’t seen or heard from Ali. The video feed from his office remained motionless, and the audio feed produced only the sound of unanswered telephones ringing, birds singing outside and the occasional aircraft flying overhead. Conspiracy theories began plaguing her. Had Ali somehow received knowledge of the interception operation? Was his enterprise connected all the way to the office of the judge who had approved the interception? Impossible, she thought. Ali was known to spend periods overseas and travelling the country. Passport control hadn’t picked him up leaving the country and a low-echelon source indicated that Ali was ‘around’ and busy. The surveillance unit also failed to detect Ali and it was clear he wasn’t at any of the obvious places in Durban.

Amina had no way of knowing Ali was, in fact, in Cape Town. He’d returned from a world circuit, visiting countries most tourists don’t visit, using a passport that wasn’t his, and doing deals with powerful – and evil – men. He hadn’t planned to spend three weeks in Cape Town when he returned, but something happened which demanded his personal attention.

He met a man called Joe Vitoli. Ali was initially sceptical of Vitoli. He had arrived from the
US
and introduced himself as the sales director of Cimex Corporation, a specialised manufacturer from which Ali had ordered a consignment of electronic components. Ali specifically stated in the order, for which he’d also placed a substantial deposit in cash, that no technical or other assistance was necessary, as his client had the required skill and technical expertise to install the purchased components in their existing equipment. Vitoli’s presence surprised him and it was difficult for Ali to refuse the meeting.

Vitoli was a bear of a man in his early fifties who habitually ran his hand over his bald head and frowned deep furrows into his forehead.

‘Mr Ali, it’s our company’s policy to inspect the equipment you’re putting our components into.’

‘I know it’s a policy. But is it mandatory? My clients want discretion.’

‘Discretion worries me. There’re maniacs out there who’d use these damn components for all the wrong things.’

Ali took off his glasses for effect and looked at Vitoli scornfully. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr Vitoli, are you questioning my bona fides?’

‘We make stuff that’s not application-specific.’

‘You have my assurance the stated application is the correct one.’

‘Your assurance?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘We don’t want our components being used in the wrong applications. Shareholders don’t like it. Bad for business. Could lose my job if I get it wrong.’

‘The components are being used in medical equipment which will help black South Africans. Shareholders can sleep soundly.’

‘Krytons are nuclear triggers. You understand the implications? Some countries would give their
GDP
for a crate of krytons.’

Ali didn’t like the American, and it was time to let him know.

‘Mr Vitoli, I’ve paid your corporation good money in good faith. There was no mention of a personal inspection in the contract and I don’t see the need for it. My client prefers confidentiality.’

Vitoli nodded and consulted a notepad. ‘And your client is the Southern Medical Group in Cape Town?’

Ali was visibly angry. ‘You appear to have all the paperwork, Mr Vitoli, so why are you asking me?’

‘I’m asking because I haven’t been able to substantiate much of this Southern Medical Group, far less anything else of what you’re claiming.’

‘I’ve sent faxes and e-mails continually over the past month. Have you read any of them?’

‘Oh I’ve read ’em, Mr Ali. But a fax maketh not a company. You see, Mr Ali, the Southern Medical Group’s an office with a desk and a phone and a very naïve young lady who answers the phone and refers all calls to third parties.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Let me finish. Now these third parties I’ve looked at. Some of them have only a working knowledge of the medical equipment these components will be installed in.’

‘Mr Vitoli. We are confident we will be able to install the components to specifications. Are we finished?’ Ali closed his briefcase to reinforce his point.

‘I had to dig a little deeper.’ Vitoli raised his eyebrows and nodded slowly. ‘Your visit to Tokyo last month. Business or pleasure?’

Ali answered quickly. ‘Pleasure. I take a lot of vacations, is there something wrong with that?’

‘Nothing wrong with vacations. I wish I had more. Travel to exotic places, meet interesting people.’

‘You should—’

‘Like the people you met while you were on vacation. Yeah, most of us meet interesting people in hotel lounges, but I must say, none as interesting as yours.’ Vitoli slipped an envelope from his jacket pocket and flipped it towards Ali.

‘What’s this now?’

‘Some colleagues of mine were also on vacation in Tokyo same time as you, and hey, guess what, same hotel as you too. They came back with a photograph and some rather disturbing news.’

‘So you spied on me. That’s illegal, sir.’

‘This is illegal. Take a look at the photo. Doesn’t really do you justice, but photos taken secretly rarely do. The other guy in the photo’s someone we all know pretty well. Lieutenant Colonel Ansari. A guy who’s spent the past three years travelling around the world trying to find someone who’d sell him – yip, you guessed it – krytons.’

‘You can’t prove that’s me. Doesn’t even look like me.’

‘No, that’s Hussein, the interpreter. This is you here, with your back to us.’

‘The insinuation is insulting, sir.’

‘Who’d want to sell an Iranian military attaché krytons – they’d surely put ’em into nuclear weapons, wouldn’t they?’

‘That could be anybody.’

‘Who’d let the Iranians buy a component which would contribute to their being a hostile nuclear power? You would, Mr Ali. You would.’

‘Prove it.’

‘Okay, if you insist. Hussein works for us.’

Ali shrank back into his chair like a badly made mannequin. For an uncomfortable twenty seconds, he searched for the right words, knowing full well there were none. ‘I didn’t know he was Iranian. He told me he was a businessman from Yemen.’

‘Sure he did.’

‘He had contacts in the medical profession. I cut him loose, didn’t trust him.’

‘We know exactly what he asked for, and what you offered him. We even know what he offered to pay. The commodity was krytons and capacitors and the amount was four million
US
dollars.’

Ali stood up indignantly and buttoned up his jacket. ‘If you’re finished with your fairytales, I’ve got work to do.’

‘Mr Ali, this fairytale doesn’t end with “they all lived happily ever after”. No one will live happily ever after if we don’t resolve this issue right here and right now. Sit down, your career as a
WMD
broker is known to us, and when I say “us”, I mean …’ Vitoli threw a business card down on the table, ‘… us.’

The card bore the name Richard Pearce, Director, United States Department of Commerce, Bureau of Export Administration. The Department of Commerce wouldn’t have been pleased to know the
CIA
were misusing their credentials.

Ali looked at the card and then pushed it back along the table to Vitoli.

Vitoli placed it back in his pocket. ‘I think we need to talk a while longer, Mr Ali. I don’t wanna break your rice bowl, I don’t wanna put you out of business ’cos then you’re useless to me. But you also need to understand that if you’re useless to me, you’ll never do business on this planet again.’

Ali sat down.

Durant was frustrated. The operational meeting had gone on for three hours without a break and it felt like nothing had been achieved. Back in his office, he reached for his telephone and dialled his home number. No reply. Stephanie’s cell number went straight to voicemail. Stephanie had complained about cramps in the morning, but still went to a meeting with clients. She was unstoppable. He put the receiver down as Shezi burst through Durant’s office door with two cups of coffee in hand, spilling most of it on the carpet, and sat down on the chair facing Durant.

‘Don’t worry, brother, Ali will be back. It’s actually better – let him make his plans wherever he is, then he’ll sit in his office soon and tell us all about them. Don’t look so depressed. Coffee?’

‘Thanks. I’m worried about Stephanie, man. She wasn’t well this morning and then still went off to a whole lot of meetings.’

‘She’s still working?’

‘Yip. She hasn’t slowed down at all. She just doesn’t listen to advice.’

‘Kevin, you worry too much about small things. Be like me. I don’t worry. Thandi’s at my throat all day long. She rides me like a taxi.’

‘Thandi’s a good lady.’

‘Ja, but she can be grumpy too. She’s always complaining. Coming home late, earning too little …’

‘I can sympathise.’

‘But I don’t let it worry me, because she does things I don’t like.’

‘Thandi?’ Durant tried to look incredulous. ‘Never.’

‘She only wants the best of everything. She can spend the whole day in the shops.’

‘That’s normal. Women like shopping. My wife does.’

‘But she can spend, broer. She’s spending my salary for 2005. It’s unbelievable. I think she’s bored.’

‘They say women spend time shopping ’cos it’s therapeutic. I bet she’s relaxed by the time you get home.’

‘I think we need to have kids, it’s the only way to slow her down.’

‘Children? Ja, that’ll save you a lot.’ Durant reached into his pocket for his ringing cellphone as Amina came into the office.

Durant’s face turned pale. ‘Okay, thanks.’ He looked up at Shezi. ‘She’s at Westville Hospital.’

‘What happened?’

‘She’s gotta have an emergency caesarean. I’ve gotta go.’

Amina hovered at the door as Durant gathered documents from his table and stuffed them haphazardly into his safe. Amina cleared her throat. ‘Sorry, I know it’s a bad time, but it’s good news. Ali is at home – in his office, talking all the time – everything’s working perfectly.’

Shezi leapt to his feet and hugged Amina. ‘Our midnight call wasn’t in vain, then. Did we do a good job?’

‘Perfect, Mike. You guys are amazing. Feels like I’m sitting across from his desk. He’s actually looking at me when he talks.’

Durant didn’t look up from the cabinet he was locking. ‘Why today, why now? I really have to go.’

‘Go, be with her, brother.’ Shezi put his hand on Durant’s shoulder. ‘And God go with you.’

‘If you need anything, call us,’ Amina said as Durant left, briefly looking back to ensure he hadn’t left any documents on his table.

‘I need you to monitor those feeds and phone me if there’s anything. Phone me anyway.’

‘I will, I will. Don’t worry. Just get to the hospital.’

‘Maybe later we’ll both have good news.’