Durant smiled. ‘Taxis are dangerous, Mr Mohammed.’ He motioned to the big man standing behind him. ‘Police, task force. All twelve of them. Quite strange to see them without all their gear, I mean, they looked like normal taxi passengers didn’t they?’ Durant turned up the air conditioning in the back of the van. The excitement was making it warm in that small space. ‘You’re done, Faizel Mohammed.’
‘This is p-p-preposterous.’
‘A guy called Frost told me he dealt with a stutterer in the arms deal. He pointed you out from a photograph.’ Durant felt elated, but there was no hint of it in his voice. ‘You’ve given me my life back.’
Mohammed wanted to spit in the face of this sickening infidel who sat in front of him and belittled him, but his mouth was too dry to muster any spit. Instead he turned his head away in disgust and reflected on his future. It looked bleak indeed.
To my family for all the cheering and caring during the long writing journey. To the many technical consultants and advisors I can’t name, except Sia Antonakas, whom I must name. To Carla Potgieter, my editor; Fourie Botha and Frederik de Jager at Umuzi. Thank you.