drive. Mercedes s600 and it’s the long wheelbase version, not many of these in the country. Twelve cylinders, top speed governed to 250 kilometres per hour.’ The sheikh looked serious for a moment. ‘But I don’t expect you to test her limits, you understand?’
‘Of course not, Sheikh.’
U-Haq laughed. ‘Ruslan, you and I don’t share a love for good cars, I see. How about a whisky?’
Ruslan narrowed his eyes. ‘Sheikh, I abstain.’
‘I’m blessed to have you, my brother. Myself, well, I take a drink or two, but privately. You’ll indulge me. It’s medicinal.’
U-Haq looked intently at Ruslan, a man in his thirties with a face which reflected sincerity, intensity and perhaps a little anger. ‘You condemn me for it, Ruslan?’
‘No, Sheikh. You are a man who has done so much for Islam, so who am I, a humble boy, to judge you?’
May 2009
Durant pushed open his office door and put his briefcase on his desk. Five months since he’d been there. The office smelt musty and his plant was dead. Nobody had been into his office in that time; in the intelligence world your office is sacrosanct – it is only entered if the occupant is present. Or dead of course. His coffee cup still stood on his table with a hard grey residue at the bottom and he remembered this was his Christmas Eve cup before he left the office to buy Alexis a Christmas present. He probably should have washed the cup when he left, but he’d expected to be back after two days, not five months. He tossed the cup in the bin, hearing it shatter and finding a sense of comfort in the dissenting action. He felt like a stranger in the office, disoriented and uncertain what to do next. The office. In an instant a lifetime of fears and insecurities surfaced. Why had he chosen this profession in the first place? He’d always told himself it was to make a difference, now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was a selfish motive, the rush of being a thief and getting away with it; the excitement of secret meetings and late-night encounters, like an affair, but staying faithful. The gratification that came with seeing operations succeed. It wasn’t about the work at all, it was all about him. And this selfish, almost nihilistic tendency had nearly got him killed.
The days leading up to his return to the office were a blur. He’d hardly slept and when he did it was a disturbed and troubled sleep characterised by nightmares. Storms were the worst. Up until March when there were still almost nightly thunderstorms he’d struggled to get the flashbacks of Christmas Eve to leave him. The flashes and bangs terrified him and the fact that he was so fearful dragged him into depression. The turmoil in his head settled a month earlier, but as his return to the office loomed nearer, so had the fear resurfaced. He wasn’t sure he was ready to get back to work. The doctor said it would take longer for the mind to heal than the body and he was right.
There was a brief knock on the door and Shabalala framed the doorway.
‘Welcome back.’
Durant didn’t shake his hand.
‘Thanks. I had to come back to this miserable place eventually,’ he said bitterly.
‘Post-traumatic stress. Twenty per cent of all—’
‘Thanks, Cedric,’ Durant said, easing himself into his office chair and lifting his eyes to the row of commendation certificates on the wall. ‘Only certificate I haven’t got is a death certificate. I’ve got the rest.’ His voice was soft, tinged with sadness.
Shabalala leaned forward and smiled disarmingly. ‘Everyone says you’re a fighter, Kevin. I want to see some of that fighting spirit. On a scale of one to ten, how do you feel?’
Durant sighed and tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I rate myself a four, but it’s still early. We might need to adjust the rating later in the day. Sorry I never returned your calls, but I really just wanted to be left alone the last couple of weeks.’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of, Kevin. I’ve been
‘Of course not, Sheikh.’
U-Haq laughed. ‘Ruslan, you and I don’t share a love for good cars, I see. How about a whisky?’
Ruslan narrowed his eyes. ‘Sheikh, I abstain.’
‘I’m blessed to have you, my brother. Myself, well, I take a drink or two, but privately. You’ll indulge me. It’s medicinal.’
U-Haq looked intently at Ruslan, a man in his thirties with a face which reflected sincerity, intensity and perhaps a little anger. ‘You condemn me for it, Ruslan?’
‘No, Sheikh. You are a man who has done so much for Islam, so who am I, a humble boy, to judge you?’
May 2009
Durant pushed open his office door and put his briefcase on his desk. Five months since he’d been there. The office smelt musty and his plant was dead. Nobody had been into his office in that time; in the intelligence world your office is sacrosanct – it is only entered if the occupant is present. Or dead of course. His coffee cup still stood on his table with a hard grey residue at the bottom and he remembered this was his Christmas Eve cup before he left the office to buy Alexis a Christmas present. He probably should have washed the cup when he left, but he’d expected to be back after two days, not five months. He tossed the cup in the bin, hearing it shatter and finding a sense of comfort in the dissenting action. He felt like a stranger in the office, disoriented and uncertain what to do next. The office. In an instant a lifetime of fears and insecurities surfaced. Why had he chosen this profession in the first place? He’d always told himself it was to make a difference, now he wasn’t so sure. Perhaps it was a selfish motive, the rush of being a thief and getting away with it; the excitement of secret meetings and late-night encounters, like an affair, but staying faithful. The gratification that came with seeing operations succeed. It wasn’t about the work at all, it was all about him. And this selfish, almost nihilistic tendency had nearly got him killed.
The days leading up to his return to the office were a blur. He’d hardly slept and when he did it was a disturbed and troubled sleep characterised by nightmares. Storms were the worst. Up until March when there were still almost nightly thunderstorms he’d struggled to get the flashbacks of Christmas Eve to leave him. The flashes and bangs terrified him and the fact that he was so fearful dragged him into depression. The turmoil in his head settled a month earlier, but as his return to the office loomed nearer, so had the fear resurfaced. He wasn’t sure he was ready to get back to work. The doctor said it would take longer for the mind to heal than the body and he was right.
There was a brief knock on the door and Shabalala framed the doorway.
‘Welcome back.’
Durant didn’t shake his hand.
‘Thanks. I had to come back to this miserable place eventually,’ he said bitterly.
‘Post-traumatic stress. Twenty per cent of all—’
‘Thanks, Cedric,’ Durant said, easing himself into his office chair and lifting his eyes to the row of commendation certificates on the wall. ‘Only certificate I haven’t got is a death certificate. I’ve got the rest.’ His voice was soft, tinged with sadness.
Shabalala leaned forward and smiled disarmingly. ‘Everyone says you’re a fighter, Kevin. I want to see some of that fighting spirit. On a scale of one to ten, how do you feel?’
Durant sighed and tapped his fingers on the table. ‘I rate myself a four, but it’s still early. We might need to adjust the rating later in the day. Sorry I never returned your calls, but I really just wanted to be left alone the last couple of weeks.’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of, Kevin. I’ve been
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