'Be
quiet till we're outside,' Lana said, and they exited the building to the sound
of boxers' gloves smacking muscle. 'Now keep moving in the direction of your
car. Don't look back and, for god's sake, do not run.'
'Okay.'
Emmanuel
kept a quick pace and fought the urge to check the street behind them for
danger. They skirted a group of grubby-faced white boys playing marbles on the
pavement and walked on. The Bedford truck came into view.
'That's
us,' Emmanuel said.
'Keep
going,' Lana said when they drew level with the driver's window. 'We'll stop
behind the truck and talk there.'
Zweigman
leaned out to say something but Emmanuel spoke first. 'Give me ten minutes.
I'll tell you the news then.'
Lana
ducked behind the truck's covered tray and listened. The click of the boys'
marbles hitting together made the only discernible sound.
'That
was a nice move back in the office,' she said after her breathing slowed to
normal. 'Pretending to walk out on Khan. He hates being ignored.'
'I
wasn't pretending,' Emmanuel said. Tiny red bruises marked the surface of her
pale skin. 'I don't like the way he does business.'
'You,
me and the rest of Durban.' Lana held out her hand. 'Let's see the address.'
He
gave her the piece of paper. Khan's 'good luck/goodbye' was fresh in his mind.
Was the Indian man involved with Jolly Marks's murder?
'I
know this place.' She flicked the edge of the page with her fingernail. 'It's
an old rope storehouse. Hasn't been used for years. Not to store rope at any
rate.'
'How
do you know that?'
The
disquiet born in Khan's office resurfaced. Lana had ties with both the police
and the criminals in Durban. She was van Niekerk's girlfriend but her loyalties
might lie elsewhere.
'My
father was a stores supervisor.' It was clear from Lana's smile that his
confusion amused her. 'He worked in this building for five years before he
retired. Khan owns it. It's a strange place for a person to stay. There's not
much there besides shelves, pulleys and an outdoor toilet.'
'A
dead end?'
'There's
something at the storehouse.' Lana handed back the address. 'Khan could have
sent you away empty-handed but he didn't. Don't meet with this Brother Jonah
alone. Take your men with you. It's important to have backup.'
'They're
not my men, they're friends.'
'Friends
with transportation are extremely useful, Emmanuel.' Her tone was brisk. 'And
the Zulu will come in handy. You'd be surprised how many Europeans are still
scared of them.'
'You
think it's a set-up?'
'Or
Khan has found God and the good fairies on the same day. Take your pick.'
Emmanuel
pocketed the address. 'Okay. I'll go in on foot and see what the situation is.'
Lana
gave an impatient sigh. 'Drive there in the truck and park a few doors away. If
Brother Jonah is hiding, three people at the door will scare him away. You'll
have to go in alone. Your friends will wait fifteen minutes then come looking.
Do you still have the Walther?'
'Yes,'
Emmanuel said, taken aback by the speed of her suggestions.
'Good.
You might need it.' Lana dug into her white leather handbag and removed a
tattered telephone book with faded gold letters on the front. 'This will also
be useful. It's Khan's.'
'You
stole it?'
'Yes.'
'You
stole it right now?' Emmanuel said, feeling like Khan's parrot.
'He
shouldn't have left that mess on top of his desk.' Lana gave Emmanuel a look
that demanded, 'Do you have a problem with that?'
'Why
did you take it?' Emmanuel heard that stranger's voice again. This time
suspicious and bemused.
'A
favour for a friend,' she said and smiled.
Did
she mean him or van Niekerk? With the clock winding down it barely mattered.
The phone book was his. Besides, if Lana and Khan had been intimate, it was now
over. The theft of the book made it clear that she was firmly in van Niekerk's
camp.
'Thanks,'
Emmanuel said and put the book into his pocket. There was a part of him, not
too deeply hidden, that delighted in her criminal ways.
'Should
van Niekerk send in the troops?' Lana asked and fished a set of jangling car
keys out of her bag.
'Not
yet,' Emmanuel said. 'We'll go straight to the storehouse and try to find
Brother Jonah. An hour or two and we'll head back to the major's.'
'Watch
your back,' Lana said, then hurried off in the direction of Point Road. She'd
parked a few streets away and come to Khan's office on foot, like a thief.
Emmanuel
put on his hat and a mental flash of his ex-wife appeared: shy and pretty,
sitting on a London bus and wrapped up against the freezing winter. The war was
over but life was still grim. His physical wounds were healed. Angela,
sheltered and innocent, seemed proof that softness could still exist in a hard
world. She was his opposite and Emmanuel had married her because of it. Hoping
for...
what?
A new man to emerge: happy and content with life?
Lana
vanished around a corner, hips swinging, heels clicking. It was no wonder his
marriage to Angela failed. He'd asked too much of her. His buried childhood,
the war, police work and an attraction to women with experience of life's dark
places ...
he couldn't change who he was. There was no cure for the past. Whether or not
he got out of this, he resolved to write to Angela and wish her well.
Emmanuel
moved back to the passenger side of the truck and leaned into the open window.
'A
meeting has been arranged?' Zweigman pushed the keys back into the ignition and
rested his hands on the wheel, ready to start the trip.
'I've
been given an address,' Emmanuel said. 'It could turn out to be nothing.'
'Or
something?' Shabalala said. His whole life he had tracked and hunted around Jacob's
Rest. He knew about trails and ambushes.
'Brother
Jonah might be at this address. I have to take the risk.'
'I
will drive,' Zweigman said and turned the key. The engine spluttered then
settled into a rhythmic chug. Shabalala opened the door and motioned to
Emmanuel.
'Okay.'
He gave up the fight and squashed into the Bedford. He needed backup. He'd been
alone too long. 'Go down Timeball Road. Take the next left.'
Emmanuel
kept low but stole a glance at Khan's office a half block ahead. An Indian
woman and two young men approached the front stairs and talked to Khan's guard,
who flicked a spent cigarette into the gutter and disappeared inside.
'What
are they doing here?' Emmanuel wondered aloud.
Maataa,
Parthiv and Amal were dressed for a formal occasion. Both the boys wore suits
and Maataa's purple sari glittered with gold and silver thread.
The
door opened and Khan appeared on the top step. He smiled and shook hands with
Maataa then reached over and slapped Parthiv's shoulder like a jovial uncle.
Amal stuffed his hands into his pockets to avoid physical contact and the
unlikely quartet filed into the brick building. It was not an impromptu
meeting. Khan had been expecting them. The Duttas' loyal strongman, Giriraj,
was nowhere in sight.
'Is
everything well, Sergeant?' Shabalala asked.
'Yes.'
Emmanuel concentrated on locating the next turn. He glimpsed port cranes and
harbour tugs between wide brick warehouses and shipping agents. A tight bunch
of Afrikaner rail workers took a smoke break on a corner.
The
urban landscape became a blur. His mind was back in Khan's windowless waiting
room and on the old woman with the henna-stained hands. He suspected the Dutta
boys' names had come from the murder scene directly to Khan. And now the Duttas
had been invited to his office. To declare war or to initiate peace?
Zweigman
turned into Signal Road and slowed the Bedford down. The truck crawled past the
offices of the harbourmaster, a two-storey Victorian building with a dash of
Gothic, and continued towards the address Khan had provided.
'There
it is.' Shabalala pointed to a utilitarian wood-and- iron warehouse with
double-fronted doors barred with a heavy piece of wood. 'You will not be able
to get in that way, Sergeant Cooper. Maybe there is an entrance by the side.'
Zweigman
parked the truck in front of a row of trim workers' cottages detailed with lace
ironwork on the verandas. An old black man and woman, stooped with age, hauled
buckets of wood into one of the cottages for the evening fire.
Emmanuel
checked the time. Ten minutes past one. He had to be back by twenty-five past,
or Zweigman and Shabalala would pile out of the car and follow him into the
storehouse.
'Fifteen
minutes.' Zweigman withdrew a fob watch from the medical kit. 'Your time has
begun, Detective.'
Emmanuel
took off without a goodbye, an old superstition from the war, when saying the
words out loud was tempting the gods to grant your wish. He moved to the
storehouse where a wide driveway, built for truck access, led to a side door. A
tortoiseshell cat slept in a spot of sun that hit a steel ramp leading to a
loading bay. Emmanuel tried the handle to the loading dock
doors ...
no movement. He circled around to the backyard. A brick outhouse crumbled amid
knee-high weeds and the rusted remains of a wood- burning stove leaned against
the brick wall in defeat. A paint-flecked rear door was also locked.
He
returned to the side dock and knocked four times. The cat awoke and sprang with
agile grace from the platform and into flowering weeds. He hammered again,
louder.
'Hold
on there. Give me a minute.'
Separate
metal locks turned with rusty clicks. Emmanuel checked the Walther on the
chance that Brother Jonah's easy manner was a ruse.
The
door opened. Emmanuel stepped back and almost lost his balance. Brother Jonah
was completely naked but for a small white towel wrapped around his waist. His
Jesus hair was tied back in a ponytail and beads of sweat covered his wiry
frame. If fat was a sign of sloth, the street preacher was clear of that sin.
He was lean muscle wrapped in skin.
'Sister
Bergis's friend.' The street preacher made the connection. 'The one who refused
to share his name.'
'It's
Brother Emmanuel.' Emmanuel held out his hand and tried to maintain a neutral
expression. A knife, a gun, a
shambok
or a metal chain, those things
were on the list of possible hazards. A near-naked man with a ponytail was not.
'I've come seeking answers to some questions that are bothering me. Can you
spare a few minutes of your time?'
'I
offer guidance where and when I am able.' Brother Jonah gave Emmanuel's hand a
quick squeeze and retreated into the storehouse. 'So long as you understand
that man's time clock doesn't mean anything in here. Nature is in charge. She's
the one who rides shotgun on all our earthly journeys and I am her servant.'
Emmanuel
nodded even though he had no idea what Brother Jonah was talking about. A row
of grimy glass-brick windows positioned just under the roofline admitted a
minimum of light into the interior of the wood-and-iron building. Pigeons
roosted on three wide beams that ran across the width of the ceiling. Steel
shelves, mostly empty, took up uneven lengths of floor space. Wooden crates
stamped with the stag and crown emblem of an imported whisky brand were packed
on a middle shelf. One of the trucks that rolled out of the Point freight yard
with stolen goods had unloaded here in this warehouse.
Emmanuel
checked the shadows for movement and detected nothing. An aurora of hard white
shone like an industrial sun in the far corner.
'My
workplace is down there.' Brother Jonah closed the door and Emmanuel followed
him towards the light. The evidence did not back up Khan's comment about the
preacher being scared off: nakedness and vulnerability went hand in hand. When
people sensed danger they clothed themselves and they armed themselves. Failing
that, they hid. Stand and fight or run and hide were the simple rules that
governed human response to a threatening situation. Brother Jonah had answered
the door naked but for a towel; a very small towel. He appeared not to have a
worry in the world.
The
light grew brighter and Emmanuel palmed the Walther. The unofficial motto of
the special air services, 'Bullshit baffles brains', came to mind. A naked
preacher rambling about mother nature in the middle of an abandoned storehouse
was the perfect distraction. The real danger was hidden in the unlit corners.
'Another
day or so,' Brother Jonah said, 'and my work will finally be done.'
Emmanuel
let the evangelist get three steps ahead of him. 'What work is it that you do?'
he said. 'I thought you were a preacher.'