A lean, light-skinned man shifted in his seat, pulled out his phone, and looked at the screen. His eyes lifted to the parking lot. He didn�t answer the call. He didn�t need to.
He knew.
�That�s our man,� Mabena said.
The team moved in unison. Doors opened and closed like the clicks of a well-oiled weapon. One operative remained with the vehicle. The rest crossed the street.
Inside, greetings were brief and dry.
�Siyabonga Mabena,� he said, offering a hand.
�Luhwani Kgole,� came the reply, �Captain.� He shook only Mabena�s hand.
There were four chairs at the table. Kgole made it five, dragging one over and breaking the symmetry. A waiter paused, ready to intervene�then froze. The tension at the table was unmistakable. These weren�t casual drinkers. They weren�t here for almond croissants.
He backed away.
Then, with a sharp tilt of the chin, one of the operatives summoned him back.
�Five cups,� he said his voice low and precise. �Jacobs Cappuccino, Black.�
The phrase was code�an old verification ritual from General Kunene�s paranoid manual. As the tray arrived, Kgole casually slipped a sugar packet across the table, worn, faded SAPS emblem with a reversed date.
Authentic,
Mabena didn�t blink. The message was received.
Kgole stirred his coffee, the spoon tapping the cup like a slow alarm.
�Two kinds of cops left at Central Station,� he muttered, �Those who�ve taken bribes� and those still naming their price.�
Mabena smirked, dry and humorless, �Tough times for men like us,� he said, �Which is exactly why we�re here.�