Face-Off. Chris Karsten
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taken care of.”
Majid thought of Mr Heilbron of Home Affairs, with his swanky car and expensive shoes. He had demanded eighty thousand rand for Sajida’s illegal South African documents. A delicate procedure, he’d called it, because he would have to arrange for a birth certificate as well; it wasn’t just a case of pressing a button here and there.
“No tracks leading back to us?” asked the mullah.
“None,” Majid assured him.
The mullah didn’t ask any more questions, just sat for a long time with his head bowed, musing.
“I wish I could go myself,” said Majid. “To meet Sajida in Islamabad and bring her here.”
His uncle nodded. “I know. We all want to go. Our relatives need us at this difficult time. Everyone is nervous; stress levels are still high after that business in Abottabad. The emotions won’t be assuaged any time soon. But it’s the best we can do at the moment. We’ll send money, as usual, to help our people over there, and we’ll get Sajida out. Then we’ll hit them where it hurts, in retaliation for the death of my brother and his two sons.”
“With the greatest global publicity for our Cause since 9/11.”
“That’s right. And we have time. Step by step, no hurry. What’s the next move?”
“The Home Affairs official,” said Majid.
The mullah nodded and looked satisfied. And the conversation turned to their shops and the expansion Majid was planning: a new EasySave store in Chatsworth, Durban, and one in Mitchells Plain near Cape Town. And additions to their flagship superstore in Moroka, Soweto, which housed Majid’s office and those of the administrative staff. They needed more storage space, more fork-lifts and operators, a second cold store for perishables, especially frozen chicken, which they imported: two thousand five hundred boxes per container, with a shelf life of a hundred and twenty days.
They would also have to recruit additional security guards – not among untrustworthy locals, though. Majid imported his guards from Pakistan only: Pashtuns, but not from the tribal areas. He wanted streetwise men who had some experience of trade, specifically in the bloody labyrinth of Karachi’s Shershah spare-parts market, where never-ending turf wars raged between the traditional Mohajir dealers and the usurpers, the Pashtuns and Balochs, who were trying to take over this profitable industry.
Majid sent in his recruiters among Shershah’s Pashtuns, all originally from the northern tribal areas. The chosen ones didn’t think twice about his offer, for in Shershah a man’s shelf life was uncertain.
Faisal and Tariq were recruited in Shershah. For a few years they had worked at EasySave in Moroka, first at the loading zone, taking delivery of truckloads of chicken. They were responsible for ensuring that the entire order ended up in the cold store, ticking off on the consignment note the boxes of drumsticks, wings and breasts, and the larger boxes containing whole chickens, standard and halaal.
After they had proved their dedication and won their spurs, he’d entrusted Faisal and Tariq with more important tasks and allowed them to work out of doors.
* * *
The next morning Majid asked his personal assistant to summon Faisal to his office. They discussed the Home Affairs official and Majid told Faisal he wanted feedback on Mr Heilbron’s every move. The feedback was to be conveyed via Majid’s PA, so there would be no direct electronic communication between Faisal and himself.
Three days later, at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon, the PA entered Majid’s office with a message: “Faisal phoned. He said the official is enjoying a leisurely lunch with a journalist. He asked whether you had any instructions.”
“Tell Faisal to invite the official to visit EasySave, as soon as possible. I want to talk to the official this afternoon.”
13.
The first thing Jake noticed when Mr Heilbron arrived half an hour late for their lunch appointment was the shoes, ankle boots made of fancy leather, with gold buckles that glittered in the sun. Aviators pushed up on his forehead. Face and head smoothly shaved, skin shining like varnished wood.
“Wasim calls government officials penpushers, but you don’t look like a penpusher, you seem to be earning good money at Home Affairs, Mr Heilbron. What are those shoes made of: snakeskin, ostrich leather?
Mr Heilbron ordered fillet, told the gaunt waiter he wanted it just seared; he wanted to see blood in his plate. And a double Chivas, neat, no ice. Jake asked for a glass of chardonnay with his salad.
As the waiter left, Mr Heilbron looked at Jake across the table and lifted an eyebrow. “My shoes? You’re a smartass, aren’t you? Are you trying to say I do deals under the table? I can’t have a taste for stylish shoes?”
Jake put his palms up in a gesture of surrender. “Hey, cool it, man. I was just admiring your shoes, nothing more.”
“Crocodile skin,” Mr Heilbron said after a pause. “By Paciotti of Milan.”
Jake whistled through his teeth, brought his leg out from under the patio table and pointed at his own shoes. “Hush Puppies, my personal preference. Though I can also afford handmade shoes, of course, of . . . potoroo skin.”
Mr Heilbron sipped his drink, smacked his lips appreciatively, and lifted another eyebrow. “Potoroo? What’s potoroo?”
Jake waved dismissively. “You’re some kind of big shot at Home Affairs?”
“You could say so. Supervisor: Status Services, regional office, that’s my official title. Citizenship, passports, identity documents, birth, death and marriage certificates.”
Jake watched Mr Heilbron take another sip of the eighteen-year-old Chivas and thought of the description of “Counter Corruption and Security” he’d read on the Home Affairs website, the seven warning signs of possible corruption. Especially the first one: An official clearly living beyond his/her means. In his shirt pocket was a digital recorder with automatic voice response. It could be taken for a cellphone.
“And it’s a good job? Good money?” asked Jake.
“No, the salary is pathetic,” said Mr Heilbron. “My wife is the one with the money. Well, actually her father: he’s an entrepreneur. She likes giving me expensive gifts. What did you want to talk to me about?”
The waiter brought the food and Jake looked at the fillet. He would have loved to bite into a tender cut of meat himself, but his cholesterol levels forced him to choose the Caesar: fresh lettuce with croutons, parmesan cheese, grilled chicken strips, Worcestershire sauce for the salty anchovy taste, coarsely ground black pepper, olive oil, a splash of lemon juice.
“As I told you on the phone, Wasim recommended you . . .”
“I looked in my records and couldn’t find a Wasim Khan.”
“Er . . . Like I said, Wasim is a friend of a friend you helped. I don’t know the friend’s name. Is it important?”
“Personal references, it’s the only way I work.”
“He said Mr Heilbron doesn’t like clients throwing his name around.”
Jake watched him considering this snippet. “What do you need my help for?” he asked after a while.
“Four things, four status things” said Jake. “One: I want to change my name.”
“You don’t need my help for that. Form B1-85 to change your first name, Form B1-96 to change your surname. Do you want to change both?”
“Yes.”
“Seventy rand for each name change. You wait until it’s