Allegiance (29 page)

‘You gentlemen have assured me the sheikh is not an extremist and he himself has confirmed this publicly by condemning the action of Mohammed. He’s also given Miss Ford and me the assurance that he will cooperate fully in any investigation.’

Khalid cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but that investigation into the centre is far from conclusive. We’re not sure who else is involved there.’

Fulham answered. ‘I hear you. We’re waiting for forensic reports and we’re cooperating with the local boys. Could still take a while before anything comes back.’

Berkeley leaned back in her chair. ‘If we exclude the sheikh, we’re in effect accusing him of being part of the conspiracy. We’re pretty sure he’s not a threat. In fact, I have it on pretty good authority he’s an asset of one of our partners.’

‘One of our partners?’ Fulham asked.

‘I was told confidentially that he belongs to a friendly service. Not sure which, but as long as they’re friendly, I’m satisfied he’s not going to be a problem to us. Let’s move on. Miss Ford, will you quickly go over the arrangements for Friday night?’

Ford stood up and moved across to a laptop and touched a button. The first slide on the screen showed a seating plan. ‘There’ll be a hundred guests at the reception representing, as the
CG
said, a good sample of political, business and community leaders. The Secretary will present a twenty-minute speech and this will be followed by a dinner. The original guest list was longer, but unfortunately the ship’s helicopter hangar can only accommodate a maximum of a hundred. There has to be an allowance for staff, security, protocol, waiters and so on. Catering will be done on board, so no external service providers to screen. The Secretary comes with her own security detail and staff, so all we’ll be doing is facilitating. Anything to add, Special Agent Fulham?’

‘There’ll be strict access control onto the ship, by accreditation only. Guests will be individually accredited with photo identification and pass through various screening processes such as X-ray machines and explosives detectors. We’ll have divers in the water protecting the boat from attacks from below and there’s a defence perimeter on the seaboard and landside of the ship. The Secret Service has also ordered a no-fly zone over the ship for the duration of the reception. Once I’ve had a full security brief from the Secret Service guys, I’ll give you a heads-up.’

Stephanie’s mother, Angela, reminded Durant of an efficient personal assistant to a busy bureaucrat. She loved organising, directing, facilitating and managing other people’s lives. Tough in the beginning, but Durant had learnt to live with it and love her for it. She was born in the thirties and lived a relatively tough life, and probably just wanted her children and grandchild to be spared the hardships she’d had. So if that meant bringing around blueberry muffins every Thursday or offering to babysit Alexis every second Friday night, Durant was fine with it. Sort of. It was blueberry muffin day and Angela was making the tea in the kitchen and fussing about the organisation of the cutlery in the drawer.

‘Steph mentioned you’d had some calls from an Arab person,’ Durant ventured.

Immediately Angela put the teapot down on the tray and put her finger to her lips.

Durant frowned as Angela motioned for them to step onto the porch. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, puzzled.

‘Stephanie told you?’ she asked.

‘Well, yes, she mentioned it to me. Wasn’t she supposed to?’

‘We must be careful; this is quite a delicate matter. He’s not Arab, he’s from Afghanistan. His name’s Jamaal. He first contacted me about a year ago. He had some information about a bomb-making factory in Kabul.’

Durant shook his head incredulously, confused. ‘You’re joking, Mom, right?’ This was impossible. This wasn’t some deep-throat agent in the heart of a radical organisation providing him with top intelligence. This was his mother-in-law. Stephanie’s mother. It was all delusion.

Her eyes fixed on Durant’s. ‘This is serious business. I couldn’t tell anyone. I had to verify the information. I had to make sure.’

Durant put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Very funny, Mom. I’m the spy, remember? Anyway, Jamaal isn’t even an Afghan name. Can we have some of those muffins now?’

The old lady held up her arm. ‘Careful, Kevin. They record everything. mi6 put a microchip in my arm. I’m their best agent, I can’t betray them. Jamaal is doing so well.’

This was serious. Much worse than he thought. ‘Let’s go inside, Mom.’

‘Not a single word about what I told you, Kevin. It’s need-to-know. You know the protocols.’

Durant nodded and led Angela inside. ‘Let’s have some tea,’ he said.

The old lady smiled and spoke again in a loud voice. ‘I baked the muffins this morning, I’m sure they’re still warm.’

Shabalala entered the Byte Me Internet café in downtown Durban alone. It was procedural not to continue having personal meetings with sensitive agents beyond the first two months. Tradecraft dictated that clandestine communication should be used to transfer information from agent to handler once rapport had been established. Shabalala determined that the relationship with Ruslan was sufficiently developed to set up a virtual post box at the Internet café and dispense with the high-risk personal meetings. Shabalala had created a Yahoo address and both he and Ruslan had the password and simply left messages to each other in the draft box. Shabalala logged in and opened the draft. Ruslan’s message said that the sheikh had been invited by the Americans to attend the Secretary’s reception and that he had accepted. It went on to say that the dinner would be held on the
USS
Endeavour
on the Friday night and that he would be driving the sheikh there.

Shabalala’s reply was short. ‘Please monitor and report,’ was all it said.

Westville prison was a landmark in Durban. It was a comparatively modern complex as far as prisons went, and driving through the main gates one was left with the impression that it was relatively well run and secure. Durant knew there was corruption and there’d been some high-profile escapes. But this was the norm at all prisons. Faizel Mohammed’s cell was in a high-security block where escape was impossible. Or near impossible. Durant was pleased to see
SAPS
Task Force members in the corridor leading to the interrogation room. Pather was making sure that this rabbit wasn’t going to run. This part of the prison had a clinical feel about it. The floors were polished, all the overhead fluorescent lights worked and the paint on the walls smelt fresh. The prison commissioner himself escorted Durant to the interrogation room, a windowless area which reeked of disinfectant. Significantly, Durant didn’t sign any visitors’ logs on the way in, and the
CCTV
cameras were shut down for routine maintenance in the high-security block. If Mohammed cried harassment or his lawyer cited paragraphs from the Criminal Procedure Act or the Constitution, deniability was key. Records of his visitors negated deniability. The commissioner pointed Durant to the steel door, which was slightly ajar, and walked away. Mohammed was already seated at a small table, his feet shackled and his hands cuffed. He looked young. His folder put his age at 28 although he didn’t look much older than 20. Thin, short black hair and intense eyes. Not the sort who would be interested in light banter, Durant thought. He didn’t look like a terrorist though, but, then again, nor did Mohammed Atta and he took down an entire building on 9/11.

‘I want my attorney, Mr Khan, to be p-p-present, p-p-please.’ A stammerer. Yet his demeanour showed no sign of nervousness, just an expressionless face which was near-impossible to read.

Durant sat opposite him. No sense in trying to act tough and slapping the table. The good cop, bad cop thing only worked in movies. Anyway, Durant knew he wouldn’t be able to pull off the bad cop role. He didn’t have the face for it. He would be himself. ‘I know. That’s right. But this is all off the record. This is a friendly chat, not an interview or interrogation. I’m doing you a big favour by being here. I’m trying to help you, Mr Mohammed.’

The man wrung his hands. ‘Who are you and how d-d-did you come without my lawyer?’

‘Don’t ask who I am because I don’t want to start this conversation with a lie.’ Durant paused, hoping for a reaction, but there wasn’t one. ‘All you need to know is that I’m here to help you, if you want to be helped.’

‘What am I d-d-doing here?’ he asked, putting his head in his hands. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’ He struggled to get the words out smoothly.

‘Mr Mohammed, you have. You used your laptop to communicate.’

His throat crackled and popped as he stammered the words ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Durant leaned back. This interview felt like it was going well. ‘Didn’t you know the Americans scan all emails and if you use words like “jihad” or “shaheed”, a little red flag pops up. In your case, it was a huge red flag. You used just about every search word on the Americans’ intercept database.’

‘I am i-innocent of the charges.’ He got stuck on the first part of the word ‘innocent’, but Durant didn’t know if that was in any way relevant.

‘I know. Nobody’s that stupid. You were set up.’

‘I am innocent.’ This time he didn’t stammer at all.

‘Are you listening to me? I’m agreeing with you.’

‘You b-believe me?’ He looked up and met Durant’s gaze momentarily.

‘If you wanted to blow yourself up, you wouldn’t be telling people that over the Internet. That encryption programme you’re using is made in America, so obviously they can decrypt it. So tell me what’s really going on.’

Mohammed wiped his face with the sleeve of his orange prison overall and he closed his eyes, as if in prayer.

The stammer seemed to get worse as he recounted his story. ‘It s-started about a month ago. I got an email from s-someone in Saudi calling himself “Hunbali”. I d-didn’t know who it was b-but he said he knew me or knew of me and that I was a faithful Muslim brother. We s-started communicating and then he s-suggested we s-start using an encryption programme.’

Durant leaned forward. ‘Didn’t you think that strange?’

‘I w-wanted to know more about who I was t-talking to. He gave me verses from the Quran and Hadith that spoke of jihad. I j-just answered back what I thought he wanted to hear.’

Durant nodded. ‘Did you report it to anybody?’

‘I should have. I was g-g-going to, I j-j-just didn’t know who.’ Durant felt uncomfortable interviewing the man. The stammering definitely gave him a sense of vulnerability.

‘How about the sheikh?’

‘I thought the sheikh would be c-c-cross with me. I respect him. He’s very a-a-against extremist views and sometimes I’ve c-crossed swords with him. I am a d-dedicated Muslim, sir, and I am opposed t-t-to the injustices that keep Islam in a place of subjugation. I am opposed to the western hypocrites who support Israeli occupation in P-P-Palestine.’

‘Okay, but you’re not willing to die for these beliefs?’

‘I am willing to die.’ These words came out smoothly.

‘So you see our problem. You’ve said you’re willing to become a martyr for your beliefs; you’ve told someone in Saudi and you’ve told us, and now we find evidence of explosives in your room. Yet you’re innocent? Help me, Mr Mohammed. Give me something that will make us believe you.’

‘Insha ’Allah’. I believe I am in God’s hands. I d-d-don’t understand what is happening in my life, but I know I am p-pleasing Allah. If that is a crime, then you can do what you want with me.’

‘I want to let you go. Honestly, if you’ve been set up, then you’re innocent and should be released. But only you can prove it. You can’t expect
US
to prove it. We’re only going on evidence that we can see, and what we see is someone fitting the profile of an Islamic extremist, possibly jihadist, with explosive residue in his room.’ Durant paused. The room felt as though it was shrinking. The interview was starting to sound more like a father reprimanding his wayward son. Durant was relieved the conversation wasn’t being recorded. This man didn’t look like a terrorist. Perhaps it was the stammer. Perhaps Durant just didn’t know how a terrorist was supposed to act.

‘I’m part of Ahl-Haq – I am on the right path, the true path. You can’t speak for Islam. A Muslim who refuses occupation, who wants to live according to Islamic rule is an extremist. Then I am an extremist.’ The stammer had subsided. He seemed to relax when speaking of his religious convictions.

‘I respect that. Look, Mr Mohammed. This isn’t helping and I don’t want to get into an argument with you about Islam. But be careful of your choice of words, because there aren’t many ways of interpreting what you’re saying.’

‘There is only one way of interpreting jihad. I don’t have to be a martyr to believe that.’ The stammer had gone.

‘Jihad kills people, innocent people.’

‘Muslims try not to kill innocents, the Prophet laid down strict rules regarding jihad in the path of Allah. But if innocents are killed, they are also killed by the American bombs in Iraq and Afghanistan and by Jewish bullets in the occupied territories. In the end, Islam will have victory, you will lose. I am in the den of the lion, but I hold on to the truth.’

‘Did you handle explosives?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ No stammer.

‘Did you use a prepaid phone to make a threatening call to the
US
consulate?’

‘No.’ No stammer.

‘Would you kill people if you believed your faith justified it?’

‘Yes. And I will meet my death with dignity.’ Again, no stammer.

‘These are all just words, Mohammed, words you’ve learnt and told yourself so many times you’ve started believing them. Listen to yourself. How can you be innocent, and at the same time tell me you’re willing to kill? It’s called “intent”.’

Mohammed’s eyes darkened and Durant noticed the frown deepen. ‘Being willing to kill for my faith doesn’t take away my innocence. To become shaheed doesn’t make me guilty. You asked me three questions and I answered each one honestly.’

Durant shook his head. ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, Faizel. But if anything bad happens in the next few days or weeks or months that hints at a terrorist attack, you’ll be in here for a long time. Not your virtual mentor Hunbali. You.’