He had enticed the man to dinner at the most exclusive restaurant in the business district of the wealthiest suburb in the country with a hint of evidence which could result in a coup for the prosecutor. The NPA had endured some serious criticism for overspending its budget while pursuing a hopeless, politically motivated case against the president. The national director was going to lose his post as soon as they decided on his compensation. The deputy director was in line for the top job. All he needed was a high-profile success. Mazibuko had hinted at the right sort of break when he’d phoned. He arranged for his guest to be fetched in the Aston Martin, driven by a white-coated, gloved chauffeur. The wine was a red from Chile and a white from the South Island of New Zealand. There were no prices on the wine list. Their table had its own maître d’ and chef. The two had spent some time explaining what the kitchen could produce for such distinguished guests. The setting, the menu, the attention lavished on the deputy director and the chauffeur-driven car were all reminders that there was now a new elite that revelled in being seen to be rich and powerful.
