Apartment 901

Situated at the far end of Kotze Street, Hillbrow, a T-junction is formed with Catherine Street. A few hundred metres from the well-known Chelsea Hotel, in Catherine Street, a moderately tall apartment block is the location of Apartment 901. It was a rather dingy one bedroom flat on the ninth floor, occupied by a quiet, rather unremarkable fellow in his mid-forties. The accommodation consisted of a tiny kitchenette, bathroom/toilet combo, a sitting room and single bedroom leading from it. A balcony accessed from the sitting room, overlooked the bustling junction, surrounding buildings and, what was in the early 1980s, still the Chelsea Hotel. 

Discreet in all respects, the tenant didn’t mingle with neighbours and never bothered to have his name appear on the board in the downstairs foyer proclaiming who lived in which apartment. In all likelihood neither the owner nor caretaker of the block knew who he was either, as the rental agreement was entered into by his employer on his behalf. The rent was paid for him as part of his terms of employment.

Even in the early 1980s, before the tsunami of degradation turned Hillbrow into a cesspool of unadulterated squalor, this block was not deemed to be the most desirable address. Some buildings in the surrounds were at that juncture, holding their own and maintaining a semblance of order and tidiness. Not so, though, the location of flat 901. Whereas some neighbouring blocks still sported highly polished marble floors in their foyers, buffed up copper name plates at the entrance and lifts that worked, this was not the case where our slightly odd, eccentric middle aged tenant resided. The elevators were something of a hit and miss operation – usually out of order or, if working, dark inside because light tubes had not been replaced and had delivered their last few flickers of light before giving up entirely. To reach 901 was usually a toss-up between stairs and a rickety old Otis lift. 

The nameless tenant parked his Volkswagen Beetle that had also seen better days, in the basement. There, too, it was the heart of darkness – light bulbs were not the caretaker’s “thing”. It is doubtful if “caretaking” was his “thing.” The Volkswagen had a rather clapped out engine that made a noise as most air-cooled engine relics do. It belched out smoke as it spluttered to the most convenient bay. The few times he attracted attention to himself happened to be when he nudged the loud VW to negotiate Hillbrow’s jam-packed roads and entered or departed from the block. Otherwise, the silence he surrounded himself with, was deafening. His thick moustache and unkempt beard filtered out his few words when he felt compelled to answer a greeting from other tenants. His muttering was unintelligible and he never looked anyone in the eye.

Never was anyone, other than this enigmatic and shadowy figure, permitted to enter his flat. Although the apartments were cleaned and tidied as part of the lease, he declined that service. It was not really noticed that his working schedule was also erratic. Most of the tenants were crepuscular (active at dawn and dusk) as they went about their day jobs. It was simply assumed that their tenant 901 in all likelihood worked odd hour shifts. He would sometimes disappear for days or weeks at a time and unobtrusively blend into the shadowy background upon his discreet return. Flat dwelling in Hillbrow had an unwritten code in those days – mind one’s own business. Each to his own and no fraternising with the neighbours.

Had the caretaker cared to nosily open the front door to 901 he would have been horrified. There were several gun safes that had somehow been installed in each of the rooms – lounge and bedroom. Secreted in smaller safes were wads of cash – large denominations. The contents would not have been visible, obviously, but on the table in the kitchen were electronic detonators, the residue of gunpowder and explosives and cartridge casings by the dozen. Most of the square meterage seemed to have been assigned to working space. Although he appeared to keep his working area meticulously tidy, it belied the lifestyle and living conditions of a slob. The meagre furniture (really only a bunk bed with a foam matrass) gave the impression of a hoarder’s lair. Filth and grime abounded. The kitchen sink was overflowing with dirty dishes for the most part. 

The peculiar occupant of 901 resided there for at least three years before he mysteriously vanished and agents of his employer cleared the apartment before handing it back to the lessor – spic and span. No trace was left of their weird employee.

Unbeknownst to the lessor, the factotum and the neighbours, the tenant in 901 had been all too active and a man with a mission. An excellent cover was provided for a slick assassin. Had he drawn undue attention to himself and not moved around extremely clandestinely, he could on many a night have been followed to one of the many Hillbrow nightclubs. There at prearranged times and venues he would receive assignments and brief his covert handlers. In the dark corners they would plot the targets, the noise of live bands drowning out their hushed exchanges. The details of operations could, his handlers knew, be left in the capable, bloody hands of 901.

The 1980s were heady times for shadowy figures plying their trade in South African cities. Front companies conducted legitimate business, whilst they operated with ruthlessness and stealth under the proverbial radar. 901 worked for just such a front company and was paid handsomely for the excellent work he executed on their behalf. It was a time during which the State ran clandestine operations that skirted the edges of legitimate security duties. It was not beyond their scope, it later transpired at the Truth and Reconciliation Commission enquiry, to order hits on figures deemed to be posing a threat. It was also an era in which the Cosa Nostra was blatantly involving itself in the nefarious trade of the underworld in the economic hubs of the country. Mafia-style, Made Men, pulled dangerous strings behind a façade of legitimate business interests. Political organisations opposed to the apartheid government did their damndest, too, to cause mayhem with a view to making the country ungovernable and overthrowing what was deemed to be an illegitimate government.

901 could have been the sharp end of any of the listed groupings. It would not have been inconceivable that he might not have known who he really served. As long as his sticky palms were crossed with silver or gold, or at the very least wads of filthy lucre, he would render service in line with his field of expertise. 

What took place from the base of flat 901 could not be pinpointed with absolute certainty. From the snippets of information that were exposed during numerous hearings and enquiries into mysterious assassinations throughout the ‘80s and early ‘90s is that more than a few arrows pointed in the direction of 901. Unexplained explosions claimed lives and were never owned up to by the scores of shady characters, front organisations, political movements and the State. There were members of the clergy, political hacks, and leading figures both within the borders of South Africa and beyond, who were cut down with pinpoint accuracy by a single bullet, often through the windows of their homes or in drive-by shootings. Most of these “jobs” were never properly investigated, or else the cunning of 901 and chaps of his ilk was simply too good for them to have been linked to the crimes. It was not beyond the scope of the shadowy handlers to have taken out the trigger men to cover suspicious tracks.

901 and his fellow hired guns (or explosives experts) may have blended into the new society that emerged in the early ‘90s. They may be among us, guarding their secrets. They might have married, had children and become subsumed in regular social circles. They may be the very people with whom we work and do business every day. Within the ambit of democratic legitimacy they may indeed still be working for the state, even if they had previously been actively engaged in activities of a dubious nature.

901s still lurk in all corners of the country. They had such consummate skill in the world of long shadows that their secrets will perish with them as they fade away into oblivion.

©Paul M Haupt