LITMIR.BIZ

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We are going to get to know each other very well.’

      He was a slim man with a compact, athletic body. A good-looking man, his youthful baby-face topped with well-groomed short hair. He bore a striking resemblance to Richard Dean Anderson, the main character in the American MacGyver television series popular at the time.

      ‘Are you in charge?’ I asked, the words hardly audible.

      ‘Yes, I am.’

      ‘Why am I here?’

      ‘You know why.’ Again, that lazy smile.

      I observed him closely. Despite my fear, I still had the presence of mind to watch him. To note the way he held his cigarette, the way he spoke, his body language, the neat clothes he wore, the deference others showed him. He was a man of purpose, deliberateness, importance. Despite myself I was impressed. This was a man who wanted to take himself seriously and wanted to be taken seriously by others. He would be a formidable foe. Yet his ready smile and his relaxed posture beguiled me.

      ‘You look like MacGyver from the television show,’ I said, not sure why I made the remark. ‘Has anyone ever told you that?’

      Botha chuckled. He oozed charm. ‘Women always tell me that.’ He leant forward on the desk. ‘Listen, I don’t believe you are a terrorist, but my colleagues believe that you are. They want to punish you. I want to help you; I want you to go home as soon as possible. I want you to go back to your family, your work, your life, to go back to your girlfriend Soraya, that is her name, yes?’ He extended his pack of cigarettes across the table. ‘Please, have one.’

      I took a cigarette, alert to his every move and gesture. He spoke calmly, as if he really cared for me. ‘Please, let me help you, all I want is to know where Ebrahim is. He is a terrorist who wants to plant bombs inside the country. If you tell me where Ebrahim is, I will ask my colleagues to let you go. They will listen to me, but you must help me to help you.’ He held up a photograph of Ebrahim. ‘Do you know this person?’

      He had my full attention, but it was too early to admit anything, so I kept quiet.

      Through the smoke that swirled between us we observed each other. The game had begun. We both knew the routine, the good cop, bad cop one. In truth, I knew it only in theory. It was often spoken about among comrades and was passed down as knowledge. Yet, despite all the cautionary tales, I searched for the good in the eyes of my ‘good’ cop. There seemed to be a kindness in him. Maybe he was a good guy.

      Later, I learnt how wrong I was. Lieutenant Botha had long since lost his humanity. But now he said, ‘Look at these photographs. Look at all these weapons – bombs, hand grenades. So many people might die from them. You can save those people. Just tell me where Ebrahim is!’

      I studied the photographs, relieved that I was not in any of them. In a few Ebrahim was with a woman. Lieutenant Botha never took his eyes off me as I concentrated on the photographs.

      ‘Do you know her?’ he asked.

      Before I could answer he slid another photograph of a bearded, bespectacled white man in front of me. ‘Do you know him?’

      I shook my head. ‘No, I don’t. Neither of them.’

      ‘So you know Ebrahim then!’

      ‘No, I don’t. Who is Ebrahim?’

      ‘Yes! You do know Ebrahim!’ Lieutenant Botha snapped. ‘If you didn’t, you would have said so when you were asked earlier but you just kept quiet. Now you are quick to say that you don’t know the woman or the man.’

      I had fallen into a trap. Lieutenant Botha was a skilled interrogator. He beamed at me.

      ‘By the way, I believe you. The woman’s name is Hélène and the guy is named Klaas, damn fucking foreign terrorists. But we have them locked up.’ His contempt for them was palpable and undisguised.

      For a few moments we looked at one another in recognition of the game that was unfolding. Lieutenant Botha smiled his MacGyver smile again.

      ‘I really need to use the toilet,’ I said.

      ‘Sure. We’ve got all the time in the world. Let me get someone to take you.’

      He picked up the telephone and called for assistance. An officer soon entered the room. I was pleased to be released from the handcuffs. On the way to the toilets I passed the open door of another interrogation room. There was Shirish hunched over a table.

      I took my time in the toilets. Relieved myself, then washed my hands and face with hot water seeking energy from the warmth. My body hurt. My pulse was too high. I studied my reflection in the mirror to see if the fear that consumed me was visible. I couldn’t tell.

      All the time, the officer stood beside the door watching me.

      Then a remarkable thing happened. He said softly, ‘Take more time, there is no need to rush back. Gather your thoughts. They are going to keep you here for a long time, be strong.’

      I was taken aback. His voice and tone were empathetic. I hadn’t expected this. Hesitantly, unsure how to interpret this concern, I thanked him for his kindness.

      The officer glanced into the corridor to see if anyone was within earshot. Then he turned to me, ‘We are not all monsters like the ones who are dealing with you.’

      Not knowing how to respond I nodded.

      Back in the interrogation room I was made to stand. There was no sign of Lieutenant Botha. One of the officers switched on a tape recorder. This was to be the pattern of the game. I readied myself for another bout of torture, but none came.

      ‘Tell us your life story,’ said an officer. ‘Start from the beginning, where you were born.’

      This was easy. I could draw this out. I went through the broad strokes of my life. I wanted them to ask for the details, in this way I could stretch time. They complied and I responded vaguely. They would ask for more specific detail, and I would release a little more. Eventually they wanted to know about my brothers. Carefully I minimised the roles of Yunis and Shamim, lest I gave away something.

      I had settled on a strategy. I would not deny being a political activist. On the contrary I would embrace this role making it bigger than it was. I would take refuge in the legal struggle against apartheid, concealing my illegal activity. I felt I could drag this out over three days.

      The interrogation was interrupted frequently by other officers coming into the room to ask questions about Ebrahim, Hélène and Klaas. I stuck to my denials. In response they either stared at me or slapped my face or yelled that I was lying before storming out. At times, the officers interrogating me would be called out of the room. I would be left with a minder, wondering what was going on. They would give no explanation when they returned, simply take up where they had left off.

      The hours crept by, my weight beginning to bear heavily on my legs. To get some relief I shifted from one leg to the other.

      My mind was on Shirish. I was confident that he would stick to the legend. After all we had rehearsed it a few times.

      He was to say that we were friends. That I wanted to make an investment into his business, but before I did so I needed first-hand experience of his operations and clients. This explained why we were in Ermelo and the surrounding areas. Regarding Ebrahim, we agreed to say that he was my friend Ahmed from Cape Town. I’d brought Ahmed along for the ride. Shirish would confirm that this was the only time that he had met Ahmed. We had also agreed that Shirish would stress Ahmed’s quiet, reserved character. A man who didn’t say much. We were confident that the legend would hold.

      By the middle of the second day I was mentally drained and tired. All I could think of was sleep and I started to daydream. My muscles ached everywhere, I struggled to stand upright. Every now and then I would let my body sag onto my heavy legs only to be brought back to consciousness by screams of ‘Stand Up!’

      Then Lieutenant Botha walked into the interrogation room. He looked agitated and tired. His eyes

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