Johannesburg Sunday, 21 June 2009

34

While Pierre de Villiers was in the air on his flight from Auckland, James Mazibuko was in Johannesburg, having dinner with the senior deputy director of the National Prosecuting Authority. He had enticed the man to dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in the business district of the wealthiest suburb in the country with a hint of evidence which could result in a coup for the prosecutor. The NPA had endured some serious criticism for overspending its budget while pursuing a hopeless, politically motivated case against the president. The national director was going to lose his post as soon as they decided on his compensation. The deputy director was in line for the top job. All he needed was a high-profile success.

Mazibuko had hinted at the right sort of break when he’d phoned. He arranged for his guest to be fetched in the Aston Martin, driven by a white-coated, gloved chauffeur. The wine was a red from Chile and a white from the South Island of New Zealand. There were no prices on the wine list. Their table had its own maître d’ and chef. The two had spent some time explaining what the kitchen could produce for such distinguished guests. The setting, the menu, the attention lavished on the deputy director and the chauffeur-driven car were all reminders that there was now a new elite that revelled in being seen to be rich and powerful.

‘So James,’ the deputy director said, talking with his mouth full and his glass in his hand, ‘what you’re saying is that you have information that there is a major underground operation of the right-wing kind being planned, or already in the execution phase, is that right?’

‘For sure, AA,’ Mazibuko said, calling the deputy by the initials with which he signed all his decisions to prosecute. ‘It’s running, according to my source, and we expect some overt action in the next week.’

‘Your source thinks they are holed up somewhere in the northeastern parts?’

‘Yes, my informant couldn’t be more precise. Or he wouldn’t be. You know how it is with informants. They always hold something back for another payday.’ Mazibuko shrugged his shoulders. ‘I know he’s going to come to me with the exact location in the next day or two – his money never lasts beyond the next day at the races. Then I’ll let you know what I’ve got.’

‘And in the meantime you want to know if we have anyone under surveillance in that part of the world, so that you don’t step on our toes or perhaps ruin our operation by getting involved, unwittingly, so to speak?’

‘That is well put, AA. Precisely. We don’t want to take the risk that we might mess up one of your important operations,’ Mazibuko said. He put a tentative line in the water. ‘We have to find a way to work together for our mutual benefit.’

‘But James, what’s in it for me?’ the deputy director asked. ‘At my age, and with my position so precarious, one has to think of the days one might have to spend in early retirement.’

Mazibuko allowed himself a little smile. The conversation was drifting in the right direction. ‘It depends, my dear friend, on the quality and veracity of any information you might feel inclined to pass my way,’ he said.

The fish was hooked. ‘Try me, James. Be a little more specific. You have been, if I may say so, rather slow in coming forward with any real information that I could use, or any hint at what you are planning to do with the information you want me to divulge.’

‘You remember that lawyer in Durban whose wife was abducted?’ He waited for his guest to nod. ‘I’ve been given a brief to find her. If I were to find her and return her to him – unscathed, mind you – and if I were to do that, say, with helpful information emanating from your good self, there might be more than the usual political advantages for you arising from the success of the operation. Which, of course, we could dress up as if it had been your idea from the beginning.’

‘Give me a name, James, and tell me about the non-political advantages there could be in it for me. Be more specific, man! You are so cagey.’

Mazibuko leaned forward and dropped his voice so that the deputy director had to lean forward to hear. ‘I think, AA, that it could be arranged for the keys to the Aston Martin in which you drove here to be found in your Christmas stocking with the registration papers in the cubbyhole.’

‘Ah, James,’ the deputy director said, straightening up. ‘Now you’ve got me interested. The quality of the quid pro quo speaks volumes for the value of the information you seek.’

This was getting tiresome and Mazibuko was not a man for prevarication. Careful, yes. Indecisive, no. ‘I want to know only whether you have a current operation involving a right-wing underground movement somewhere in Mpumalanga, and if you have it, its general locality.’

The deputy director lifted the fork to his mouth. ‘This lamb is exquisite.’

‘Involving soldiers of the old order,’ Mazibuko said.

The deputy director almost choked. Mazibuko watched him controlling his reaction with great effort. He tapped his water glass. A waiter appeared, refilled it, then disappeared again into the shadows.

‘You’re talking big fish here, James. Really big fish. Although we don’t know their names.’

‘How big?’ Mazibuko asked.

‘Shark size. Great white shark size. Men who somehow managed to bridge the transition from the old to the new order.’

‘Worthy of an Aston Martin, do you think?’ Mazibuko enquired.

The deputy director nodded slowly. ‘I think so, but you didn’t hear it from me.’

‘Where?’ Mazibuko asked.

‘I need to go to the bathroom,’ the deputy director said. ‘Let me think about it.’

James Mazibuko’s wineglasses – both the red and the white – were still untouched. He now took an exploratory sip of the white and put the glass down again. He wondered if the deputy director was making a phone call from the bathroom. And if so, to whom. But it didn’t matter either way. He would rely on his own sources if he had to. That might take longer, but in the end he’d find her. Although he should have no interest in the outcome beyond the financial, he was intrigued by the fact that whoever was behind it could execute two abductions ten thousand kilometres apart with such precision. As a general orchestrating similar strikes, he had to admire their professionalism. They lay down a keen challenge here. Could he beat them at their own game?

‘I think we can talk business,’ the deputy director said when he returned. ‘I can’t be too specific, because we have a man on the inside and we are keeping them under observation from the air force base nearby.’

‘Air force, AA?’ Mazibuko said. ‘Surely they will hear you coming from miles away? They’d see you before you see them.’

‘No,’ the deputy director said. ‘They are in a game lodge – the owner is one of them – on the banks of the Great Letaba River. We monitor them from the Hoedspruit air force base. The lodge is on a farm adjoining the Kruger National Park and the air force regularly scouts for poachers for the National Parks people. They fly every day.’

‘But won’t they get suspicious?’

The deputy director laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Amusingly, the lodge’s owner asked the air force to check his land for poachers too. They make a special effort to buzz him when they do their rounds.’

‘Has there been any suspicious activity at the lodge recently?’

‘Some strange comings and goings. When we checked the registration numbers on the cars, we found that the owners were mostly engineers. Construction people, a retired mining engineer and a surveyor. When we checked them out from the air, it appeared that they were having a braai and watching the rugby on a huge flatscreen television with the other guests.’

‘What do you make of that?’ Mazibuko asked.

‘They’re obviously planning something, but we don’t know what. There are some foot soldiers being trained for something, you know, the usual thing. Army drills and shooting and so on. Their cover for that is that they have to train their game rangers to deal with poachers.’

‘But you know better.’

‘For sure. We think they are planning something big.’

‘And you won’t tell,’ Mazibuko said. ‘Interesting.’ Mazibuko looked at his watch. ‘You’ve got a man inside,’ he ventured, watching the deputy director closely. ‘But you don’t know their names.’

‘Well, not quite inside. It’s the head cook. He reports what he can, but he’s not in a position to monitor what goes on around those fires.’

‘Do they take black guests?’ Mazibuko asked, a plan forming in his mind.

The deputy director laughed aloud. The other guests, even those at the most distant tables, turned to look. He giggled through the explanation. ‘Funny you should ask. They consistently declined to make a reservation for the acting national director, and he then threatened to take them to the Equality Court. Now they take a token black from time to time, preferably a black family.’

‘I think I should test their hospitality,’ Mazibuko said. ‘Do you have a phone number for me?’

‘About that Aston Martin,’ the deputy director said.

‘The number first,’ Mazibuko said.