Pharmageddon Chapter 10

Johannesburg Monday 10 January

‘Hope we didn’t get you out of bed, Gipsy?’

I held up my middle finger, and slowly moved it toward the video lens at the top of my screen until my rectangle on the screen was finger-colored – which got the round of hurfs I was looking for. I had, in fact, spent most of the morning in bed with the do-not-disturb light keeping the Michelangelo’s housekeepers and switchboard at bay. What can I tell you – I need my sleep.

Enoch must have spilled the beans because he had to hammer on the door to wake me up when I didn’t appear for our pre-conference lunch. With the lens still covered I pushed out my tongue at him, as he sat across the room, and he made an ‘I surrender’ gesture which of course the others saw and enjoyed.

I whipped my finger away and stared hard at the lens. ‘So how are YOUR hit-rates doing?’ There were bellows of ‘touché’ and ‘ouch’ from the gang. They all knew the hit-rate on the new ‘Xhosa-nostra’ page which I’d posted to the conspiracies page before breakfast was simply off the charts.

‘Okay, let’s get to it.’ Jim called the meeting to order.

‘As Gip has modestly reminded us – we’re riding the wave, folks. I’ve had a note from our marketing people to tell me there’s a feeding frenzy among advertisers trying to get a slot on the pharmageddon forum. Mainly the corporate social investment types and the drug companies, to say they are working tirelessly and yadda yadda.’

I saw Enoch’s reaction, and wondered if my own face showed the same revulsion that the philanthropy business – and our own medium – should be exploiting the horror which was hanging over the world. But then again, that’s what news is.

‘At the same time, guys, a word from an old surfer – waves are fickle things. We’ve got other users and other stories, so we’ve got to keep it together. So, breaking news?’

I had something. ‘Jim, I just got a call from the minister of health’s lackey – it seems the man has suddenly found a slot in his diary, so he can see me tomorrow.

Our executive editor’s expression said he wasn’t at all sorry that I was hogging the limelight, but then it switched to concern.

‘That’s great Gip. Just be... careful, woncha?’

I didn’t make light of that. ‘I will.’

‘Do you need anything from us?’

‘Actually, It’d be really helpful if we could run through some scenarios – help me prepare for the interview, if that’s okay?’

‘Sure. What are you looking for?’

‘Well, it’s about this Xhosa-nostra thing.’ I couldn’t do the click with the side of the tongue which locals did when they said ‘Xhosa’ so I pronounced it like the Spanish for ‘thing’ – cosa.

‘I’ve been doing some checking, and I confirmed this with Enoch over lunch. The police here are drawn from all the tribes and ethnic groups. Enoch says there are probably a lot more Zulus in the police than Xhosas. So it’s hard to square their looting of ARVs with some anti-Zulu conspiracy.’

‘Gipsy, who is the top cop?’ Georghe wanted to know.

‘His name is...’ I checked my notes, ‘Henry Chamu.’

‘And he’s a Zulu,’ Enoch put in. ‘Just like our president.’

‘Okay, so it’s unlikely either of them are part of a conspiracy against their own people. In which case this Xhosa-nostra is outside of government...’

‘If the Xhosa-nostra exists, Georghe.’ Enoch had no trouble with the ‘X’ click, or adding a slightly reproachful tone to his voice. ‘As I told Gipsy at lunch, I would be very surprised if it does...’

‘Out of curiosity, Enoch, what tribe do you come from?’ Somehow the question was okay coming from Ume. ‘I am from the Tembu clan of the Xhosa, Ume. The same as Nelson Mandela.’

‘Okay, so you would have a better sense than most of whether such a thing is possible.’

The old man was quite unruffled. ‘There have been rumors for many years about some kind of Xhosa cabal – it surfaces in the media from time to time – but there’s never been any proof. It’s probably driven by resentment or jealousy, at how well my people have done in public life.’

‘Okay people, let’s try to help Gip with this. Assuming for a moment that this group exists, and that they’re outside government, how would they get the cops to play ball?’

‘Maybe they didn’t, boss.’ 

‘How’s that, Linus?’

‘Well, if something doesn’t make sense, we should check our assumptions. We’re assuming the looting of the drugs was part of some grand-plan. But what if it came as a surprise to the conspirators?’

‘Good point...’

‘Or...’ José cut in. ‘Or it could be that the cops are ... fantoche?’ Words failed him, but he bounced his shoulders up and down, and wagged his head from side to side.

‘Puppets?’ I don’t know if Mandy recognized the charade or the Portuguese.

‘Está bem! Maybe the police involvement came as a surprise to the saboteurs, like Linus says, or maybe they didn’t care who took the drugs – as long as someone did.’

‘That’s it!’ Russ hadn’t said a word until now. ‘Didn’t you say these ARVs are made in South Africa, Gipsy?’

‘Yes, in East London. I was at the factory yesterday...’

‘Let me guess – that’s in the Xhosa part of the country?’

I looked over at Enoch and he nodded sadly, looking like a soldier about to climb out of a trench at Gallipoli. ‘Yes, in the middle of it...’

‘And that’s where the contaminated drugs came from?’

‘That’s right, Russ.’

‘So, maybe the conspirators needed the hospitals to be emptied of ARVs so that orders would be placed for fresh supplies – for drugs that they knew would be contaminated. The contamination is enough to force the authorities to recall the drugs...’

I’d got that far in my own thinking. I needed the group to take it further. ‘Fair enough, Russ, but why?’ 

‘Because the police started returning the drugs, and they needed to stop it...’

‘No, wait a sec, Russ. This doesn’t scan, somehow. The perps needed someone to loot the hospitals so they would restock with contaminated drugs. But the reason for the contamination was to stop them from returning the looted drugs? It sounds too... circular.’

‘Maybe not, Gipsy. Maybe it was planned from the beginning like that. The contamination was a safeguard... to make it impossible for whoever took the drugs to return them. By undermining their belief that their hospitals could be easily restocked.’

We stared at each other in the little squares on our computer monitors, both wondering why anyone would think those ARVs could be easily replaced when we, the mass media, were telling them the exact opposite?

Russ’ frown of concentration was replaced by a beatific smile. ‘They have a stockpile of ARVs. Uncontaminated ARVs. Whoever is behind this. And the police know it. Or some of them do.’

José vented one of his terrifying cackles. ‘Exatemente! They have enough to... preserve... the Xhosas, while the Zulus die. That’s why they don’t care who took the old drugs, as long as someone did. Because the looted drugs are very little, compared to what they have hidden...’

‘Maybe it’s not the ARVs, but the active ingredients to make them?’ I didn’t mean to lead the discussion – it just slipped out.

‘Even better, Gipsy! They can keep making drugs for their own people, long after they are no longer available to the Zulu!’

That’s what I wanted to hear! I now had a legitimate source for the idea of the stockpile, since I couldn’t use Bettina. But Enoch couldn’t contain himself any longer.

‘José... Gipsy... I know how it looks, but there is too much wrong with this idea. You talk about the Xhosa and the Zulu as though they are the only tribes, when there are many. Are you saying the Xhosa are trying to kill everyone else, or only the Zulu? If it’s only the Zulu, does it mean the other tribes are part of their conspiracy? And, by the way, if the Zulu think anyone is trying to kill them, they will not go quietly! They see themselves as warriors...’

Jim nodded, looking like he wanted to move on. ‘Good points, Enoch. Anyone else?’ 

‘Jim, a rider to Russ’s idea of a secret stash of drugs... or active ingredients.’

‘Go ahead, Georghe.’

‘Well, if it’s true, it would explain why Gumede – their ambassador at the UN – walked out of that emergency meeting at the UN, after it was suggested that everyone should submit an inventory – a verifiable inventory – of their national reserve of ARVs. He didn’t want anyone discovering this stockpile.’

I was waiting for someone to ask the obvious question. It came from Linus, right on cue. ‘Enoch, what tribe does ambassador Gumede belong to?’

Enoch didn’t look like he was enjoying himself at all. ‘He’s a Xhosa.’

Jim was definitely getting antsy now. ‘Okay, so we have a mythical mountain of pharmaceutical ingredients supporting an imaginary cabal of Xhosas. Or vice versa. Has this been useful, Gip? I’d like to move forward...’

‘Sure, Jim. But can I drop in one last thing? Just as I was leaving the meeting this morning, someone said they’d heard that the minister of health actually owns the ARV factory...’ Okay, so I made that up. But once again I needed a source other than Bettina. A casual comment in a crowd would do.

‘Oh, that’s just incredible!’ Mikaela was aghast. ‘Next you’ll tell us that the minister is a Xhosa!’ 

‘Actually he is.’ Enoch’s face was a mask. Time to end this.

‘Thanks, everyone. This’ll give me a lot of ammo for the battle of Makeba tomorrow.’

++++

‘Baba, what I don’t understand is that you were the first to suggest that the perpetrators were right here in South Africa, but you don’t like the Xhosa-nostra theory...’

Enoch chuckled and shook his head, chewing on a wad of steak. There was nothing wrong with his appetite, and there was nothing wrong with my salad. I just didn’t feel like eating it, even though I had missed lunch. But the sauvignon blanc was good. 

I continued. ‘Also, why doesn’t your government simply order the cops to return the ARVs? Unless... they’ve done so already, and the cops have just ignored them?’

Enoch swallowed. ‘I don’t think so, no. But the politicians are unlikely to give a direct order. It is not our way. They would discuss the situation with the national commissioner, who would point out difficulties. Or vice versa.’

‘Vice versa?’

‘Yes, it is possible to imagine a situation in which the commissioner wants to order his subordinates to return the drugs, but the politicians tell him not to.’

‘You’re a constant source of mystery and surprise to me, baba.’

He chuckled deeply. ‘It is life that is mysterious and surprising, Gipsy, not me.’

‘Okay, so mystify and surprise me. If it’s not a Xhosa conspiracy, what else could it be?’

He put down his knife and fork and sat back, his eyes telling me he was ordering his thoughts. ‘To understand this, you need to understand two... no, three issues.’

I gave him a twinkly and pulled my notebook toward me. He smiled at our pseudo role-play.

‘The first thing is that South Africans do not trust ARVs. In their heart of hearts they worry about plots to enslave them, or poison them, or make them impotent. When they are desperate they take the drugs, but when they get better they persuade themselves that they have recovered in spite of the drugs, not because of them, so they stop taking them.’

I nodded. ‘So a lot of people die, even though they’ve been on ARVs?’

‘That’s right. We – all of us Africans – have a strong, maybe even an over-developed, sense of the supernatural. Fate. Spirits. Whatever you want to call it. So when ARVs are taken away from us we believe it is divine intervention. It is meant to be. We don’t like to meddle with these forces. We accept the consequences – even if it means death.’

‘So... you are suspicious of these drugs, and then something – fate, god, terrorists – confirms your feeling by taking the drugs away?’

‘Yes. Many believe it is their ancestors who have intervened to save them from these drugs. It’s a sign. The fact that nobody knows who is responsible for the bombs makes it even more convincing.’

‘And the third issue?’

‘No my girl, I’m still on the first one. Our government is positioned somewhere between the west and the rest of Africa. They try to balance science and economics and all the other holy cows of the developed world with the traditions and perceptions of our people. These ARVs fall right into... that space. Science supports the drugs, but our ancestors do not.’

A thousand questions popped into my mind, but I didn’t want to divert Enoch. ‘Okay...’

‘From government’s point of view, if they restore ARVs it looks like they are agents of the west, or big pharma. And it looks like they do not respect our ancestors who intervened to save us...’

It was getting really hard to keep quiet, but I did. He must have seen it because he gave a knowing smile and held up his hand in a ‘wait’ gesture.

‘On the other hand, if the government refuses to restore ARVs to the hospitals, they are seen to respect these supernatural forces and to oppose any attempts to enslave our people. But, when people get sick and start to die, they will be blamed for being ignorant peasants. So they offer a way out. They spread the word that those who do NOT respect the will of their ancestors can find the drugs... elsewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘The police. City councilors. Off-duty nurses. Street traders...’ 

‘In other words, the black market?’

‘I suppose so, yes. But...’

‘But Enoch, surely you can see how bizarre this is? Nobody was forced to take ARVs before, but at least if they wanted the drugs they could get them without paying, and in a medical setting where they could be tested...’

‘Well, your idea of being “forced” may be different to mine, but I understand your point. Still, you must understand that this approach makes perfect sense to most South Africans. It is... respectful.’

I kept reminding myself that Enoch was a man who tapped into the soul of his nation, while I was an outsider. I remembered the incredulity I felt when Zimbabwe’s Robert Mugabe told his thugs to confiscate white-owned farms. It was economic suicide, but they did it anyway – and their people kept re-electing Mugabe, even while the unmistakable stench of collapse grew stronger. Somehow what Enoch said made sense. Maybe it was the sauvignon blanc.

‘Have we reached the second issue?’

‘Yes, it’s the ANC youth league celebrating the end of ARVs.’ 

‘What about it?’

‘Well, the youth league has a special place in our country. In our history. It was established in 1944 by Nelson Mandela, Oliver Tambo and Walter Sisulu among others, specifically to take control of the parent organization, ANC, which they did. And they have more or less held onto that control ever since.’

‘So when the youth league celebrates the end of ARVs, the government craps in its pants?’

For a moment I thought I’d gone too far, but as always Enoch was an indulgent teacher. ‘No, but they would certainly have expelled a lot of hot air!’

‘So you’re seriously suggesting that the government would hesitate to restore ARV treatment because... the kids don’t want them to?’

‘Yes, I’m suggesting exactly that. Remember the president owes his position to the support of the youth league, and the rest of the cabinet owe their positions to the president.’

‘Jesus, that’s bizarre! Let’s commit national suicide because the kids don’t like these drugs!’ The faintest sign of irritation crossed Enoch’s face.

‘Don’t forget most of those kids are adults in their twenties or thirties. Leaders in waiting. Of course the government doesn’t want to sacrifice millions of people with AIDS, but it must show respect for the views of the youth. That’s where the alternative channels for the drugs come in.’

‘Wow, Enoch, it really is hard to wrap my head around all this. Suddenly life in Australia or England seems so... simple.’

He laughed. ‘I’m sure it would seem complicated to me.’

‘I can’t imagine what the third issue is.’

He pulled a glum face. ‘Unfortunately I think you can. It’s simple corruption.’

Ah! ‘How’s that?’

‘Even if the police were not ordered to take those ARVs out of the hospitals, we know they did. And unfortunately the line dividing the police from the criminals in our country is not... clear.’

That was putting it mildly, but this wasn’t the time to discuss the endless exposés of police corruption which filled the local media.

‘So...?’

‘And I’m afraid there is also a culture of entitlement among our politicians.’ 

‘You mean the gravy train?’

‘We might say political decisions are made by balancing personal and public interest.’

‘In other words your politicians lost no time climbing into bed with the cops...’

‘I would not be surprised.’

‘How can they sleep at night? Knowing that they are keeping life-saving drugs from people who need them?’ 

‘They aren’t keeping them from the people, they are selling them instead of giving them away.’

‘But... what’s the difference? If you’re poor, it’s the same thing!’

‘I’m not suggesting that poor people will be happy about this. But they will see it as fate. Something unexplained took the ARVs away, and now the only way to get them is to buy them on the street.’

‘I guess that’s where we come in?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We turn the unexplained into the explained. We tell them what the cops and politicians are up to.’

‘Do you think Makeba will admit these things to you tomorrow?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he won’t. I was thinking about our stringers. All we need to do is throw the stick, and they’ll fetch it.’

And all I had to do was post this theory to the pharmageddon forum, and thousands of people would be scrambling to prove – and disprove – it. In the end the truth would come out. It always did.

‘Ah yes, I see what you mean. This way of doing things is still new to an old man like me.’

‘And new to your cops and politicians. But they’ll learn soon enough that the old saying “you can fool most of the people, most of the time” needs revision.’

Enoch suddenly looked serious.

‘Please be careful, my girl. These men are not known for their... sense of humor.’ 

I laughed at his choice of words, but I didn’t take his advice lightly.

Pretoria Tuesday 11 January

Minister of health Colin Makeba kept writing as I was shown into his office. Perhaps he thought I’d stand at the door like a small girl admitted to the headmaster’s office, waiting for the Almighty’s attention. I walked over to his desk, planning to sit down, but when I arrived I thought, fuck this for a lark, and leaned over his desk, my head just a few inches from his.

‘Good morning Mr Makeba.’

I got my money’s worth – he started and reared back. I suppose he isn’t used to people inside his personal space, especially when he doesn’t have bodyguards around. But I was giving him the full 32-tooth routine, like we were old mates. Very confusing I’m sure. He recovered and gave me an uncertain smile, his eyes flicking to the empty office behind me.

‘Ah, Dr North. You... surprised me.’ He hesitated a second then held out his hand. I held out mine, but his desk was too wide for us to connect unless I leaned forward, or he got out of his chair. I didn’t lean forward. Another hesitation and he rolled out of his chair and onto his feet, and we completed the ritual. His hand was round and flabby, like the rest of him, and he didn’t close it around mine but used his thumb to briefly press my hand against his. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. But you are welcome. Please sit down.’

I didn’t point out that his secretary had knocked on his door and he’d called ‘come’. I plonked my handheld on his desk, where it would pick up his voice and image clearly, and dropped into a chair. He was rummaging through some papers on his desk, no doubt looking for his crib-notes. He found a sheet of paper and peered at the top of the page, and then at me. 

I gave him another bright smile. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Makeba. I’m sorry your trip didn’t materialize.’

‘My what?’

‘Your trip. Your secretary said you couldn’t see me until Friday because you were traveling...’

‘Oh. Yes. Well we thought it was important to see you...’

‘We?’

‘Myself. On behalf of the government. So we could find out...’ his eyes flicked down to the page in front of him, ‘why you have started this very dangerous rumor.’

Oh, this was going to be fun! ‘Which rumor is that, Mr Makeba?’ His expression hardened – maybe because I didn’t blather something about being a responsible journalist who didn’t start rumors, or that I wasn’t calling him ‘Mr Minister.’ Who gives a shit?

He tried to get stern, fixing me with his slightly bloodshot brown eyes. ‘The one where the Xhosa are trying to wipe out the Zulu by withholding antiretroviral drugs.’

I tried to look shocked. ‘ARE you? Trying to wipe out the Zulu?’

Give the man his due, he didn’t fall into the trap, but I could see him holding himself together. ‘Dr North, how much do you know about the history of the ANC?’

I held up my notebook and pen. ‘I’m always willing to learn.’

‘I would have thought you’d do some learning before writing such dangerous nonsense.’ 

‘Please tell me which parts I got wrong, Mr Makeba.’

‘All of them.’

‘Okay, so the Zulu are not the largest ethnic group?’

‘Yes they are...’

‘They don’t have the highest HIV prevalence?’

‘We don’t know that.’

I gave him a ‘oh come on’ half smile.

‘Dr North, we know that prevalence is highest in KwaZulu-Natal, so it is possible that it is higher among the Zulu people as a whole. Our surveys do not record tribal affiliation.’

‘Okay, and what about the tribal origins of Mandela, Tambo, Sisulu, Mbeki... and yourself?’

He stared at me a moment longer, than smiled slightly. ‘Maybe I should rephrase what I said. There are points in your story which are correct, but that doesn’t mean there’s any truth to the rumor itself. We had no part in the sabotage of those factories in India. Nor in the contamination of the drugs from NguniMed. We are not trying to keep these antiretroviral drugs from anyone, including the Zulu people.’

I waited.

‘There’s no Xhosa-nostra, and the Xhosa people are not afraid of the Zulus.’

‘Mr Makeba, why haven’t you instructed the police to return the drugs they... confiscated from your public hospitals?’

Again his eyes flicked to the page in front of him.

‘Well, firstly I don’t issue instructions to the police. But my colleague the Minister of Safety and Security was acting at my request when he asked the police to remove those drugs and place them in safekeeping.’

‘To keep them out of the hands of gangsters, so I’ve heard. But why are they not returning the ARVs? Nobody is being treated.’

‘I think you must be mistaken. My information is that everyone who wants treatment is getting it. But many people are no longer willing to take those drugs.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they are not working.’

‘A couple of weeks ago you had the largest ARV program in the world, with nearly two million people on treatment. Now you have nothing. Why the sudden change of heart?’

‘As I said, I don’t agree that nobody is getting ARVs. But it’s true there has been a change of heart, yes. We recently published the results of our latest HIV surveillance survey, and it showed that prevalence has risen sharply since we rolled out those drugs...’

‘But surely you understand that this is because fewer people are dying from AIDS?’

‘Dr North, we Africans are tired of white people coming here and telling us to do this and do that. It was white people who told us that HIV prevalence was an accurate measure of the epidemic, and that ARVs were the best way to fight this disease. Now you are telling us to be happy that prevalence is rising.’

It’s not that I couldn’t see it from his perspective, but this guy was in charge of the nation’s health. I was sure countless people had tried to explain it to him and I had to fight the impulse to do it again. ‘Mr Makeba, why did the west... white people... encourage you to give these drugs to AIDS patients? If it wasn’t to save lives?’

‘To make money of course. We are spending – we WERE spending – millions of dollars on ARVs.’ 

‘And the reason for setting up your own ARV manufacturing plant in South Africa?’

‘To keep some of that money in the country, instead of importing everything.’

‘Any other reasons?’

‘No. Well, maybe to reduce our dependence on foreign suppliers.’

‘Is that the same reason that you were building up your reserves of active ingredients?’

His eyes snapped into focus. ‘Where did... you get that idea?’

‘Just a rumor going around. Is it true?’

‘I’m not involved in determining drug inventories – I’d have to consult my staff...’

‘I’m not talking about your regular inventory, but a secret stockpile. Enough to last many months – years if you restrict the number of people who are treated.’

‘Who told you... this nonsense?’

‘Like I said Mr Makeba, it’s a rumor. Is it true?’

‘Well, if there was any such thing, you would not expect us to confirm it, would you?’

‘Why not? It sounds like a good idea, to have a cushion in case there’s a fall.’

He stared at me for a moment. ‘What else do you want to ask me, Dr North?’

‘Yes, I wanted to bounce another rumor off you. This one says that you personally are a major shareholder in NguniMed.’

Makeba’s color darkened, he was looking left and right as though the answers were painted on the walls, and it sounded like he was struggling to speak. ‘That’s ridiculous! Where do you get this bullshit from?’

‘Is it true?’

‘I can’t believe that you come in here, insult my country and question my honesty.’

‘Mr Makeba, if you tell me it’s not true then I will say that you denied it. Otherwise I must say you dodged the question.’

He wanted to throw me out, that’s for sure. Well, to tear my head off, but it might be difficult to explain a headless ozzie in his office. I could see him trying to think his way out of the box he was in. His shoulders dropped, and his tone switched.

‘Dr North – Gipsy – try to see this from our perspective. It doesn’t matter what I answer. If you publish these allegations, everyone will believe they’re true.’

‘Which ones?’

‘All of them. Well, it’s too late on that Xhosa-nostra nonsense, but people have been talking about that for years anyway. But the allegation of a strategic reserve of API, and that I have a stake in NguniMed. Do you realize what people will think?’

I had a fair idea. ‘Tell me.’

He really did look beaten. ‘They will take it that I, as a Xhosa, have been making money from this Zulu disease, and now I am keeping the drugs away from them so they die. And giving the drugs to my Xhosa friends.’

‘They might also suspect that your ambassador’s rather... surprising... statement in New York recently was made because he couldn’t commit South Africa to international verification of your ARV reserves.’

He nodded but said nothing, his eyes fixed on the sheet of paper in front of him. I felt strangely sorry for the man. I also felt like I had swallowed twenty espressos.

‘Mr Makeba, I have the feeling that the truth is less damaging than the conclusions people will jump to.’ He looked up, with something like hope in his eyes. ‘Can we discuss this off the record?’

I held his eyes, reminding myself not to glance at the handheld on his desk. ‘I’m sorry. We have so much information already that we don’t need off the record briefings. I can’t commit to withholding information which could affect thousands of lives.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s millions of lives. If you publish these lies, it will be like setting fire to the country. The blood will be on your hands.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me! Your factory has been secretly stashing active ingredients for months. Then you stand by with your arms folded while any cop who fancies a few boxes of ARVs helps himself. And your ambassador turns down a rescue plan for millions of your fellow citizens because he doesn’t want the world to find out what you’re up to. And now that the cat is about to be let out the bag, it’s my fault?’

‘How much money do you earn in a year, Gipsy?’

‘A lot, Colin. What about you? When you add it all up?’

‘Whatever you earn, I will pay you twice as much to drop this story.’ 

‘That’s a great deal of money, Colin. Are you sure you want to do that?’ 

He seemed to bite his lip, and shook his head.

‘Well, this has been fun Colin, but it’s crunch time. What’s it to be? Confirm or deny that you have a controlling interest in NguniMed and a hidden stash of active ingredients? Tell me how you feel about Zulus? I’m taking calls on any of these topics.’

He was past desperation. I guessed his body was drenched in adrenalin. Like mine. He was looking at me as though he was wondering how hard it would be to kill me before I could write my story. I wasn’t feeling as butch as I sounded, by a long shot. I hoped that Nerisha was getting every word.

When he spoke his voice was soft. ‘It’s time for you to leave, Dr North. I believe you know the way out.’

I grabbed the handheld off his desk and pushed the panic button before I reached the door. Nerisha’s voice through the headset was soft in my ear.

‘I called them already, Gipsy. As you leave the building, three young men in jeans will greet you like friends and walk with you to your car. One of them has ginger hair and a green football shirt.’

By the time I got downstairs I was trembling, and my knees felt like jelly.

‘Hey Gipsy! Long time no see!’ The ginger-haired guy and his mates were huge, and grinning broadly. In a second they were around me and supporting me under the arms as we scooted across the road and into the multi-level garage where I’d parked. Once we were out of sight they dropped the act.

‘If you give me your keys Dr North, we’ve got a double who will drive your car. You’ll be safer riding with us.’

A double? Wow, I wanted to see her. Then the door of a battered delivery van slid open, and I could see it was fitted with seats and harnesses like those worn by airline pilots.

‘Jump in and we’ll take you to a safe-house until we’ve assessed your situation. Watch your head.’

If this was fiction I’d be telling you that we were chased by men with sunglasses and black cars. But it didn’t happen like that. We drove uneventfully to a suburban guesthouse where I was registered as the ‘Mrs’ part of Mr and Mrs Don Irwin. By the time I got into the room I was faint with exhaustion.

Don – the ginger-haired guy – was the soul of professionalism, offering me a cellphone and laptop in case someone was trying to track me through my own, but Nerisha whispered in my ear that the techies on the second floor said they had remotely switched my equipment to ‘satellite only’ and to stop worrying. I did.

Don must have known I’d be starving once the adrenalin wore off, because he knocked on the door an hour later carrying a tray with a really good piece of barbecued barracuda, steamed vegetables and an icy bottle of chardonnay.

I spent the evening writing up the interview. When it was done I stared at it for a while, thinking about what it might mean to Makeba and his country. Now that it was done, I felt strangely reluctant to commit it to print.

But my reverie was more of a prayer for grace than a questioning of faith. Shan didn’t invent the idea that everyone deserves the truth – he just made it possible. It’s something I always believed in, and often wrote about. Makeba said what he said. My job was simply to report it.

‘Don’t blame the messenger,’ I snarled like a Hollywood hero, as I prodded the send button.

By midnight I was starving again, and ended up eating pizza and drinking beer with the guys. I learned something about the personal protection business, which sounded like fun. Don said my ‘double’ was watching TV in my room at the Michelangelo. He tried to break it gently that my double’s name was Dirk, and he was some kind of martial arts star. He wasn’t alone, though – he had a backup team in the next room, just in case. As to why they were there at all – it was the only way to find out if someone was actually after me. They had a way of patching calls from the hotel phone through to the guesthouse, but nobody called.

I told them that the primary motivation to harm me was gone – I’d posted my story. But that still left revenge. Don seemed to sober up suddenly.

‘Revenge is long-term stuff, Gipsy. We can keep you safe for as long as we can keep you out of sight. Maybe you should think about leaving South Africa?’

‘I am thinking about it.’

‘And what about your friends? There’s more than one way of taking revenge.’

My heart turned to ice! Bettina! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought about her earlier. That’s why I hesitated before sending off my story – my subconscious had been trying to tell me that it could get Bettina into a world of trouble. Makeba would be looking for the source of my ‘rumors’ about the ARV stash and his ownership of NguniMed, and who better than my good mate, the head honcho in his own department?

The horror must have been written all over my face, because Don leaned forward and took my hand between his.

‘What is it? What can we do?’

Suddenly I didn’t feel very tough. ‘I... don’t know. It’s a friend. A very good friend. She’s in government.’

Don looked at his colleagues, whose faces were saying ‘this-is-not-good’. 

‘How many people know that she’s your friend?’

‘Not many. I’ve visited her at her office in Pretoria. Oh... shit. Her staff may not know we’re friends, but they know we’ve spent a lot of time together recently. She’s got a family...’

‘Gipsy, the details... if you want us to help, I’ll have to know more.’

I started to tell him, but I hadn’t got much beyond telling him Bettina’s name when he was on his cellphone, speaking rapidly in Afrikaans. After a minute he was back with me.

‘Okay, we’ve located her home address, and we’re going to stake it out. Just so we’re there, if anything happens. Please carry on.’

I told Don about the story I’d just posted, and that Bettina would be suspected of being my source. 

‘When will the minister know what you’ve written?’

‘He probably knows already.’ Of course there was a remote possibility that my story had been lost in cyberspace, or delayed in the works. I grabbed Don’s phone and logged onto TWO. There it was, the hit counter was already close to seven digits, and the comments into the hundreds.

The three guys looked at each other for a moment, and one muttered something in Afrikaans. Don chuckled wryly. ‘He says they are probably too chicken-shit to wake up the minister. But...that’s a thought. Maybe it’s the minister who needs protection, not your friend?’

‘I don’t care about Makeba. Whatever happens to him is because of what he’s done. Dr Shabangu has only done good things for this country.’

‘I hear you. Well, if you want we can extract her, and her family. But we need to move fast.’ 

‘I must talk to her...’

‘Okay, let’s see what we can do.’ He was back on his phone, and I gathered someone was going to knock on Bettina and Ephraim’s door and to give her a phone, so I could speak to her.

I could see Don listening as they approached the door and knocked. He looked over at me. ‘No answer. They’re going to look around.’ He listened for another minute or so and then: ‘Their car is gone and the house is empty.’

‘Empty?’

‘Ag, I mean there’s nobody at home. But... hang on.’ He spoke again into the phone and then disconnected. ‘There’s no sign of packing, rapid departure, anything like that. No dinner prepared or dirty dishes. I’ve told them to get out of the house. We... aren’t supposed to be there.’

‘So it looks like they... what? Went to a restaurant? Just haven’t come home yet? Oh...’ 

‘What is it?’

‘They could be staying at her brother-in-law’s house. They’ve done that before.’

We spent the rest of the night trying to trace Ephraim Shabangu’s brother, without success.

Just before dawn we heard about the car wreck that claimed the life of South Africa’s director general of health, Dr Bettina Shabangu, and her husband and two children. Their Audi left the motorway between Pretoria and Johannesburg, landing in a concrete storm-water canal. They all died instantly. It looked like one of their front tires may have blown out.

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