An Ordinary Day (7 page)

There are about 50 000 jacaranda trees in the Pretoria suburb of Arcadia, and these purple-flowering giants line the streets of the second-densest concentration of embassies in the world, after Washington
DC
. The United States embassy compound in Park Street looks more like a monument than an embassy, with stark off-white concrete walls stretching up three floors, few windows and little imaginative detail. The detail is hidden in the security features, and although the building is centred in lush, landscaped lawns, the menacing barbs on the black perimeter fences and the dozens of cctv cameras remind the passer-by that the focus of the design is to keep those onlookers out.

Mobile patrols walk the fence and any onlooker who lingers too long in the area or stares too hard at the building is usually challenged. If he is seen again, the police’s diplomatic unit is there for backup at the push of a button and the onlooker’s details are captured into a database located in Washington. Undercover surveillance detection unit members scout the area’s streets, coffee shops and buildings, looking for suspicious vehicles or individuals who may pose a threat to the embassy. These are lessons learnt from the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania.

Heavily fortified, with well-armed Marines guarding the inside perimeter, the us embassy is probably one of the most protected buildings in South Africa. Inside the compound, it’s America. It looks and feels like the inside of a government building in America, apart from the sprinkling of South African employees who mostly speak with pseudo-American accents. These local employees are barred from entering the third floor, unless with permission and under escort. Permission is seldom granted. This floor is a restricted-access area and houses the
FBI
,
DEA
and customs offices. Down a passage and through another controlled-access gate is a reinforced door bearing the legend ‘Program Co-ordination – Authorized Personnel Only’. This area, shielded from external high-tech attack by a modular shielded core, is the
CIA
’s regional operations centre for Africa.

There is a hive of bare, unmarked offices running off the central corridor, with nothing on the walls except floor plans and fire-escape details. At the end of the corridor, Daniel Baker, the
CIA
Head of Station in South Africa, has an office. Baker is a twenty-year intelligence veteran with an impressive record of service in various countries, many of them conflict-ravaged. It had taken him weeks to adjust to the laid-back South African lifestyle, but in the six months he had been at Post, he’d developed a good working relationship with his counterparts in the local intelligence community. His office was neat and functional, windowless, and with the ubiquitous
TV
in one corner silently playing
CNN
.

He looked up from the decrypted message sheet and frowned above the small rimless glasses perched on his nose at the man sitting opposite him, who was beaming from ear to ear.

‘I can see why you’re smiling,’ he said to Paul Scott, one of his field agents, a tall, well-built man in his early thirties. Scott’s thick blond hair was neatly styled, and despite the fact that he’d had corrective surgery to a hair lip years previously, he was still good-looking. He leaned back in the leather chair and his square face broke into a laugh. ‘It was clear-cut, boss,’ he said. ‘The fellow had no choice but to cooperate. I can picture old Joe Vitoli talking to him and saying, “Look, buddy, here it is – Export Commodity Control Number 3
A
41
E
. You’re nailed, or maybe we can talk.”’

Baker looked up from the document. ‘Had the capacitors and krytons already been rerouted to Iran, or hadn’t they arrived?’

‘They’d arrived. They were in a warehouse in Cape Town. The shipping documents were with them, noting the final destination as Iran. And, you know, he didn’t even know what the stuff was for. When Joe told him they were nuclear triggers he said “used for?” and Joe told him to look it up on the internet. You gotta listen to the tape. It’s a hoot!’

Baker nodded. ‘What was the stated use?’

‘Stated use? Scanners for medical use, the papers said. And, you know, the boys at Cimex Technologies in Texas let us know about this order very late – it’d already arrived when they became suspicious. Ali paid cash up front, didn’t quibble about the price and didn’t want Cimex to send a technician to install the equipment. That’s what got the radars goin’. This thing had red flags all over it and they only informed us when the consignment was delivered. If we’d been a day later, we woulda missed it. Some Iranian colonel is gonna have his butt kicked – he’s spent the money and his shipment ain’t comin’.’

‘So now this importer – Ali. He belongs to us? Are you sure he understands this?’

‘Trust me, boss, he understands. We own him. He can kiss his empire away if he screws us.’

‘Do we liaise this with our local counterparts?
NIA
or saps?’

Scott rubbed his chin momentarily, as if in thought. ‘Not this one, boss. I don’t advise it yet. We want to get some more mileage out of this guy, Ali. They’ll just arrest him. He’s involved in all sorts of stuff. He’s too valuable to lock away. We know there’ll be more illegal imports through diversion. This time krytons, next time sarin, or centrifuges or uranium.’

Baker felt uncomfortable. ‘I hear ya, Paul, but this ain’t our country. We’re guests here.’

‘Boss, dual-use applications are a problem. Unless we identify the middleman, as we’ve done here, this stuff could easily be diverted from the us to any lunatic out there. If we take this guy out, they’ll find somebody else who we don’t know about and we lose control. I’ve got children at home.’

‘Okay,’ Baker said, standing up, ‘let’s give it a while and see if anything else comes to this guy. Then we’ll have to start sharing with the local services. If we’ve learnt anything from September 11, it’s sharing.’

Durant reached the maternity ward as Stephanie was being wheeled in. He approached the trolley and a nursing sister took him firmly by the arm. ‘Mr Durant?’ she asked, but he didn’t look at her, just at Stephanie’s pale and drawn face. She managed a smile when she saw him, and lifted her arm, flinching in pain as the drip catheter pricked her. ‘Mr Durant, your wife is fine – she needs to rest for a few minutes. You’re welcome to go into the ward with her.’

Durant had still not looked at the sister. ‘The—’

‘Your baby’s fine, she’s in the nursery. She’s a healthy little girl, 3.2 kilograms, born at 14:32 by caesarean section.’ Durant glanced up at the wall-clock. It read 14:48.

‘A little girl. And my wife …? I left work as soon as I got the call.’

‘It was an emergency caesar, everything moved very quickly. I believe your wife did try and phone when she left for the hospital with contractions, but your phone was off. A friend brought her.’

‘I was in a meeting. Can I see the baby?’

The nursery was uncomfortably warm and bathed in a surreal blue light, which made Durant feel like he was under water. The sister led him into a separate area of the nursery where a little figure lay under bright lights, with just her eyes covered by a mask. Durant felt cold tears streaming down his cheeks. He longed to pick her up, hold and hug the little baby, but she looked too fragile lying there and he didn’t want to risk it. He put his finger on the baby’s hand, and she curled her fingers around it, gripping it tightly. Her face seemed to relax, he thought, or he could have imagined it, but it was almost as if she knew it was her father, and that everything was okay. He had dreamed of this moment for so many years. Since he left school he’d wanted to have children and he cursed himself for putting so many other things first and letting so much time go by. If he’d known the moment was going to be so momentous, so profound, surely he would have prioritised his life differently. It had been a chaotic day, a rollercoaster ride; he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but everything was fine now and Stephanie and baby were in good hands. Baby yawned lazily and squeezed his finger with hers, and at that moment Durant knew his life had changed. Everything around him seemed to collapse into a void, and it was just him and the baby. Nothing else mattered.

Click. ‘Embassy of Libya, can I help you?’

‘Good afternoon, I would like to speak to Miss Elhasomi.’

There was a delay of a few seconds and then a female voice came on the crackling line. ‘As Salaam Alaikum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatu.’

‘I hope you are engulfed by the mercy and blessings of Allah. This is Mohamed. The parcel is ready for delivery.’

‘Allahu Akbar, Mohamed. The funds are available immediately in cash. I will personally see to payment.’

‘Thank you. When can I expect you?’

‘I will arrange a visit next week. I have the list.’

‘It will be an honour to meet you.’

‘Mohamed, I thank you for your sacrifices. Allah is our goal. Goodbye.’ Click.

Amina pointed the mouse at the file and played the conversation again, this time writing out the words as she heard them. Her scribbled handwriting revealed the excitement she felt as she wrote the time of the intercept at the top of the page with the comment ‘F Ali and Elhasomi (unknown Arab female) – regarding payment for goods.’ She had no idea who Elhasomi was at the Libyan embassy, what the goods were or how much Ali was to be paid, but she knew she had hit the jackpot.

Ali spent much of the day on the phone, and Amina scrutinised each call for a positive lead. He made a number of calls to hospitals and spoke about treatment programmes. Mojo, his right-hand man, called him frequently and they spoke cryptically about ‘orders delivered’ and people not co-operating who needed to be dealt with by the ‘township boys’. Few names, places or dates were mentioned, and these were the crucial building blocks of intelligence. Occasionally Ali would answer the telephone and indicate he would phone the caller back. He would then walk out of the French doors and into the garden where he would speak on his cellphone for a few minutes. Amina wished Durant and Shezi had planted a few bugs outside too.

The Libya call and one other seemed to be the only two of value today, and she was satisfied that progress had been made. She dialled Durant’s number, but his phone just rang. She was glad. She dialled Masondo’s number and asked if she could see him.

Stephanie looked a lot better when Durant finally returned to the ward. She was still groggy from the anaesthetic, but smiled cheerfully when she saw his face. ‘Well done, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Good work for a first-time mom.’

‘I didn’t do much at all, the doctors and nurses did all the work. I tried calling you.’

‘I know, I’m so sorry, I was in a meeting and had my phone off. I came as soon as I got the message. How’re you feeling?’

‘Actually, surprisingly well. I felt terrible this morning and it just got worse and worse. I phoned the doctor and he said to meet him at the hospital. It feels like ages ago, but it’s probably only an hour or two.’

‘I saw baby – she’s beautiful – I told you it was a girl. Alexis?’

Stephanie nodded thoughtfully. ‘That was always our first choice. She looks like an Alexis.’