An Ordinary Day (3 page)

The international arrivals hall at Durban International Airport looked like an eastern bazaar. Prem Maistry had been a customs officer at the airport for thirteen years and had never experienced anything like this. Aircraft were arriving unannounced. He was shuttling between aircraft in the holding area, where all sorts of vehicles were being off-loaded, and the customs hall where he and his team had to examine bags, traditional Arab musical instruments, pots and pans and an assortment of other paraphernalia, and ensure that all weapons were being declared and registered with the local police. Overcoming obstacles like language and protocol, Maistry had to politely indicate to individuals that they were not allowed to go through to the waiting bus with their loaded automatic weapons, and the South African police were indeed able to protect them from whatever threats they envisaged. South Africa was not the Wild West and their weapons would be returned to them on departure. Diplomatic officials from the Libyan embassy intervened at every suitcase search; at every argument, arms were seen flailing in the air.

Maistry turned to a colleague. ‘Judy, we need the other shift back here, we can’t go on like this – thank you, sir, please open the suitcase – we’ve had four international arrivals in the past hour, more than we usually do in a week.’

Judy Abrahams looked at a schedule. ‘And there’re another two inbound now.’

‘We can’t do our job like this – thank you, sir, please exit that way.’

‘The other shift worked till late last night, they’re finished.’

Maistry wiped his hands on his reflective jacket and sighed.

‘We need someone that speaks Arabic here. None of these guys speak English except the guy from the embassy, and he’s not much help.’

Abrahams rushed into an office and made some calls while Maistry waved the next group of visitors to the search table.

‘Afternoon, gentlemen. I need you to open please,’ and he gestured to the bags. The Libyan officials looked around nervously. Maistry was used to the procedure; there would be a silent protest, sometimes a vociferous one, but the visitors usually complied and opened their suitcases. This time, the carrier of a large brown suitcase looked particularly nervous – nervousness Maistry had learnt to recognise as a red flag. The Libyan looked at the man beside him and Maistry noticed he was carrying an identical suitcase, as was the man beside him. ‘Please open the suitcases,’ he said again and the Libyan shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and then gestured to the diplomatic official from the embassy who came scurrying over, loosening his tie and unbuttoning his jacket. He exchanged some words with the three men.

‘No guns, please, they have no guns,’ the diplomat said.

Maistry was tired. He was tired of standing, he was frustrated by not being able to do his job properly and he was frustrated by the man who was telling him that he was not going to check the three suitcases on the table in front of him. ‘Sir,’ he said, as calmly as possible, ‘I have to check the suitcases.’

The diplomat looked upset. He spoke again with the three men who were accompanying the suitcases and then said to Maistry, ‘Look, cannot open these, please? They are locked, yes?’

Maistry looked at Abrahams and said, ‘Judy, please pass me the master key.’ She reached under the counter and produced a small pair of wire-cutting pliers. ‘Sir, I can open this suitcase – with this – or you can open it for me without this.’

‘Wait,’ the diplomat said and tugged again at his tie, which still seemed to be suffocating him. He produced a cellphone and walked a few steps away where he conducted a soft, strained conversation in Arabic. The queue behind this group was growing, and there were loud protestations coming from the tired travellers, protestations that had no effect on Maistry.

The diplomat returned. ‘Who is in charge, sir?’ he asked, hands clenching together as if he were crushing something between them.

‘I am in charge, sir. I’m the duty customs officer and the law permits me to search any bag that I consider to be suspicious. And frankly, sir, I now consider these suitcases to be suspicious.’

‘I am Mr Albirai, Libyan ambassador to South Africa. You are, sir?’

‘Prem Maistry, customs officer, South African Revenue Service.’ The handshake was formal and rigid. He hoped Albirai’s attitude would not be as unyielding as his handshake.

‘Mr Maistry, let me be brief. My people have travelled far, please, they are tired. They just wish to go to the hotel and sleep.’

‘I understand, Excellency. So let’s get finished here. Have them open their cases and you can be on your way.’

‘I would like you to waive inspection on these suitcases.’

‘I can’t do that, sir.’

‘I can give my personal assurance that there is nothing dangerous inside these suitcases. I can vouch for them.’

‘Thank you for vouching for them, Mr Albirai. I would still like to confirm their contents though.’ Albirai clenched and unclenched his fists. Maistry didn’t have anything against the man, but he was making the night longer than it needed to be.

‘I must insist, sir,’ Albirai said, barely getting the words out.

‘Sorry, Mr Ambassador, but it’s not negotiable.’

Albirai slapped his forehead so hard with his hand it left a red imprint. ‘You … you …’ he shook his head, unable to find a word that would adequately describe his frustration. Albirai’s rage took Maistry by surprise and he considered calling for security. The ambassador reached for his cellphone again, mumbled to himself, thought better of it, and thrust it back into his pocket. He barked an order in Arabic at the three men accompanying the cases. They looked incredulous for a few seconds and then fumbled in their pockets for keys and proceeded to unlock the cases.

Maistry concealed his surprise well when the first suitcase was opened. Inside, neatly stacked in bundles, were piles of new us dollar bills.

Maistry looked at Albirai who shrugged his shoulders. ‘Official, yes, for our delegation.’

Maistry reached under his counter for a wad of documents. ‘I assume, sir, the other cases also contain foreign currency?’

Albirai nodded.

‘How much foreign currency are you declaring to me?’

Albirai looked perplexed at the directness of the question. All diplomacy seemed to have vanished. ‘There is … ah … twelve million us.’

Maistry was distracted by a figure running towards them. It looked like trouble: a tall, gangly character in his late fifties, dressed in a 1970s-style black suit and wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Only bureaucrats still wore 1970s suits.

‘Ah,’ said Albirai, visibly relieved, ‘Mr Cloete, please, we have these …’

Maistry froze in amazement as Cloete somehow aligned his centre of gravity in such a way that he managed to bow down very low without falling over. His bowing and scraping muscles had obviously been well honed during a long career in the diplomatic service. ‘Excellency, Excellency, a thousand apologies – for dis misunderstanding,’ and he glowered at Maistry – evidently the misunderstanding. ‘The Department of Foreign Affairs is most embarrassed at dis … um … delay … please, let me assist Your Excellency in … sorting dis out right now.’

Cloete’s tone changed immediately as he addressed Maistry.

‘Mr Cloete, Acting Assistant Director,
DFA
. What is de problem here?’

Maistry looked down at the suitcases and then back up to Cloete. Did he not see the twelve million dollars? ‘Sir – we have foreign currency here, which according to—’

‘Young man,’ Cloete said impatiently, ‘the Libyan government has informed us frew a note verbale that they is travelling back by road frew Africa to Libya after de
AU
.’

‘Sir, all foreign currency has to be declared and noted—’

‘Obviously there are expenses. The Minister have taken a political decision to allow dis cases frew.’

‘I must insist on—’

‘Mister?’

‘Maistry.’

‘Mr Maistry. A ministerial decision have been made, and these people must be now let frew.’

Maistry nodded without saying a word. His hands trembled with anger as he shut the suitcase. He knew it was futile to argue with an Acting Assistant Director in a black suit who called himself ‘Mister.’ He was also tired and whatever fight he had left in him had all but dissipated the closer he got to the end of his shift. ‘Come through please, next,’ he gestured to the wide-eyed Libyans who’d stared open-mouthed at the preceding events, their attention fixed on the verbal exchange as attentively as though they were watching a tennis match. The cases were quickly locked and Cloete ushered Albirai off to the airport
VIP
lounge. Bilateral relations would have to be restored over snacks and drinks.

Maistry felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten, and he turned to Abrahams as the Libyan delegation filed past. ‘That went well,’ she said.

‘We haven’t seen the last of this, Judy,’ he said gravely as the three Libyans and their suitcases hurried towards the exit and were ushered into a waiting minibus, which immediately drove off into the late afternoon traffic.

Durant woke up with an eye-popping headache, his wage for too few hours’ sleep, an overload of stress and too much cheap coffee distilled through his 38-year-old veins. The bedside alarm clock told him that he had climbed into bed just under four hours previously. The African Union meeting in Durban had kept him busy every night instructing agents in various crime syndicates to report on any threats to the delegates or visitors to the event. The biggest problem so far had been delegates and support staff visiting prostitutes in the red-light area and being relieved of their wallets while at play. A number of foreign credit cards were being offered around and Durant was tasking his informants to recover them before too much damage was done.

Fighting the urge to rebel against his routine of never being late for work, he rolled out of bed and took a minute to orient himself.

‘How was work?’ a cheerful voice asked softly, sensitive to Durant’s already delicate condition. He looked up at Stephanie standing beside him, already dressed in a tailored two-piece business suit which highlighted, rather than hid, the fact that she was six months pregnant.

‘Fine.’

‘C’mon, I need more than that.’

‘Okay, great. It was great. And tiring.’

‘So no detail?’

‘Sorry, love, no detail.’

‘I must be happy with fine, great and tiring? You could have been with a girl.’

Durant shook his head. ‘Nah, I would’ve remembered. No girl.’

‘I’m happy with that. Thanks for sharing.’ Stephanie smiled. ‘See you a bit later?’

‘Yip. For sure, my babe.’

Stephanie glanced in the mirror and examined her hair, making a small adjustment to what already appeared a faultless arrangement. ‘I was up early – feeling a bit exhausted, but I’m normally okay by mid-morning.’

‘Slow down a bit. Take it easy – it’s too hot for you to still be running around.’

‘I know, sweetie, but exciting things are happening at work. Mark got that overseas position he applied for, so his position is up for grabs.’

‘Good for him, but he’s so ambitious, that guy …’

‘Me too. He’s already told me there’s no one else that should get gm except me.’

‘Really?’

‘He said of all the agencies, mine had made the greatest contribution and the board was considering making me an offer. You know it’s what I’ve been working towards for the past three years.’

‘I know, but sweetheart, you need to be kind to yourself – and to the baby. We’ve tried for so long. Enjoy your pregnancy, don’t tire yourself out. Think about it – work is just a distraction.’

‘Kevin, my work isn’t a distraction. It’s a lot more than that. If I get the position, you can give up work. You can get involved in your photography and music. No more working until four in the morning.’

‘You’ll need to be there for baby in the beginning.’

‘The Agency can survive without you. I don’t mind being the breadwinner.’

Durant stood up and felt the blood rush out of his head, the pain replaced by numbness for a moment. ‘I love my job too; it’s all I’ve ever done.’

‘But really, honey, for what you do—’

‘I know I don’t earn what you earn, but I’m making a difference and that’s important to me. It’s more important than rands and cents.’

‘I’m making a difference too.’

‘I know, but the difference only affects you and me. My difference affects thousands or millions of people.’

‘All I’m saying is, you’re good at what you do, but look at you. You’re killing yourself, working like a dog, worrying about stuff. You’re growing old. And it’s dangerous.’

‘It’s not dangerous. When last did you hear of a member dying in the line of duty? Never.’

‘But, sweetheart, I worry when you’re out late at night. You’re going to be a dad soon. And there’re plenty of people out there earning more than you and doing less. What’re you trying to prove? Are you really making a difference?’

Durant glanced at himself in the bedroom mirror. He did look old and tired. ‘A few months ago, Mike and I were involved in something … If it works, we’ll take down one of the biggest organised crime bosses in Durban, if not in the country. To me, that’s making a difference.’