The question was delivered almost casually, but the implication behind it was anything but ordinary.

A member of Parliament leaned toward the microphone and addressed the witness, Advocate Mashuka, who had been called to testify about investigations connected to the controversial figure Paul O’Sullivan.

“Is Paul O’Sullivan a double agent?”

The room quieted.

In political hearings, words like corruption, misconduct, or even interference are common. But “double agent” belongs to a different category altogether. It suggests a person who appears to serve one cause while secretly working for another.

Mashuka paused before answering.

He made it clear that his investigation had been narrow in scope. His work focused specifically on the Kameldrift matter, triggered by a complaint from General Patlani. Because of that limited focus, he said he could not provide a sweeping assessment of O’Sullivan’s broader activities.

He could not say whether O’Sullivan was a double agent.

The answer, cautious and measured, did little to cool the growing curiosity among committee members.

The next question pushed even further into dangerous territory.

Could O’Sullivan be connected to drug syndicates or drug cartels?

Again, Mashuka refused to speculate. His investigation had uncovered no evidence allowing him to make such a claim.

But the line of questioning had already revealed something important: members of Parliament were exploring the possibility that O’Sullivan’s influence extended far beyond what had been publicly acknowledged.

Then another pattern emerged.

One of the lawmakers began outlining a theory that had been forming in his mind during the testimony. He described a sequence of events involving state-seized properties.

According to the discussion, O’Sullivan had purchased the home of a man named Kicher after the property had been seized by the state. In a separate confrontation, O’Sullivan had allegedly threatened another official, General Patlani, telling him that his house might eventually be auctioned and that he himself might buy it.

To the member asking the questions, this sounded less like coincidence and more like a method.

Was O’Sullivan benefiting financially from assets seized through legal processes?

Mashuka acknowledged that the incidents existed but said he could not confirm any broader scheme.

The questioning intensified.

An email was introduced into the conversation—one that had been sent by O’Sullivan to General Patlani. In it, O’Sullivan reportedly claimed that he had secured pledges or donations totaling 20 million rand.

The room stirred.

Twenty million rand.

Where had it come from? What was it for? Who had pledged it?

Mashuka admitted he had no explanation.

The email mentioned the figure, but it did not clarify the purpose of the money.

For committee members already searching for patterns, the unanswered question only deepened the mystery.

Then the discussion shifted toward legal boundaries.

One lawmaker brought up the Code of Conduct for Security Service Providers, specifically a section dealing with interference in state operations. According to that regulation, private security providers are prohibited from obstructing state organs, conducting entrapment operations, or using unlawful threats and intimidation.

The member began reading portions of the regulation aloud, almost like a prosecutor building a case.

Private investigators, the code states, may not interfere with official investigations conducted by state authorities. They may not use illegal methods. They may not advise or manipulate official processes.

Yet according to the testimony heard by the committee, O’Sullivan had openly claimed that he investigated senior police officials and even provided technical tools to assist IPID—the Independent Police Investigative Directorate.

The implication was explosive.

If those claims were accurate, the member argued, O’Sullivan might have violated multiple provisions of the code.

He turned to Mashuka.

Could O’Sullivan be charged under those regulations?

Mashuka answered cautiously but clearly: yes, such charges were possible.

In fact, he explained, there had been discussions about referring the matter to the Private Security Industry Regulatory Authority, known as PSIRA. Even individuals who are not formally registered as security providers can fall under the authority’s jurisdiction if they perform security-related services.

At one point, he had even been contacted by a PSIRA official regarding the investigation.

What happened after that, he said, he did not know.

The member leaned back, satisfied that the record now contained something significant.

According to the interpretation being discussed, O’Sullivan and another associate, Sarah Jane Trent, may have had no legal authority to conduct the investigations they claimed to perform.

In that case, the committee member argued, they should have been charged.

He pushed the logic even further.

If officials inside state institutions had enabled or facilitated those activities, then those officials might also bear responsibility.

That suggestion brought the name of Robert McBride into the discussion, a prominent figure who had previously led IPID.

The member questioned whether McBride had effectively allowed O’Sullivan to operate within or alongside state investigations.

Mashuka responded carefully, emphasizing that determining McBride’s legal liability was beyond his role.

But he did acknowledge that the conduct being described was serious.

The word he used was simple but powerful.

“Egregious.”

The hearing continued with another unusual topic: a mobile phone connected to the investigation.

According to testimony, the phone belonging to Sarah Jane Trent had been seized during an earlier arrest. The device was eventually unlocked with the help of a forensic technology company called Cellebrite.

But the unlocking process had taken an extraordinary route.

At the time, investigators in South Africa reportedly lacked the capability to unlock that particular iPhone. The phone had therefore been sent overseas—to Israel—where the technology company was based.

Once unlocked, it was returned to South Africa and the data was downloaded locally.

The revelation seemed almost surreal to some members.

An investigation involving South African officials had required sending a crucial piece of digital evidence halfway across the world just to open it.

Another member raised a separate concern involving O’Sullivan’s citizenship and passports.

According to the statement made during the hearing, O’Sullivan held citizenship in three countries: Ireland, the United Kingdom, and South Africa.

Combined with the earlier revelation that a court order required authorities to give him 48 hours’ notice before any arrest, the member argued that the situation could potentially create a loophole.

If someone with multiple passports received advance notice of arrest, the member suggested, it might provide an opportunity to leave the country before authorities could act.

Mashuka acknowledged that the order had complicated investigative processes. At one point, police had arrested O’Sullivan and seized his phone, but the evidence obtained during that arrest later had to be abandoned because of legal challenges tied to the court order.

In his view, the only solution would be to apply for a legal rescission—essentially asking the court to cancel the order.

Why that had not yet happened remained unclear.

As the hearing began winding down, committee members reflected on the significance of the testimony.

The chairperson thanked the advocate for helping clarify complex issues surrounding the investigation. Some members even remarked that the testimony might have been more helpful if it had been presented earlier, before other witnesses had appeared.

Still, the discussion had filled in several missing pieces.

Questions remained unresolved—about donations, legal authority, digital evidence, and the boundaries between private investigators and state institutions.

But one thing had become undeniable.

The story surrounding Paul O’Sullivan was no longer just about individual accusations or legal disputes.

It had evolved into something far larger.

A puzzle involving law enforcement agencies, political oversight, private investigators, international technology, and allegations of influence reaching deep into the criminal justice system.

And as the committee adjourned for a short break before the evening session, the sense lingering in the room was unmistakable.

The investigation was far from over.

In fact, it might have only just begun.