Evil Eye

by Michael Slade

  At Seventh Street, a traffic cop signaled them to halt. ?nd Josiah Tongogara Avenue a block to their left. Seventh became Chancellor Avenue, residence of Comrade Robert Mugabe. President of the Republic of Zimbabwe. A ZANTJ guerrilla in the E ir, and target of several assassin runs in the 1980 election. Mugabe knows the dangers of African politics. From six p.m. to Chancellor is closed, and those testing the order are shot on sight. Along Seventh came an e motorcade, each black Mercedes flapping a tiny flag on the left front fender. Big Spears leading, with Canada far behind.

  Once it passed, the cop motioned them on.

  Jacaranda trees lined Josiah Chinamano Avenue. To the right was Greenwood Park. Facing the park Seventh and Eighth was a white Spanish-style building

  with a red-tiled roof. This was Police General Headquarters of the ZRP.

  Late last century, Cecil Rhodes (of Rhodes scholar fame) recruited 500 men as the British South Africa Police. The early days of the force were spent quelling black resistance to his British invasion. The symbol of BSAP authority was the sjambok whip, which lashed until the Second Chimurenga of recent years. With independence, the BSAP became the Zimbabwe Republic Police. The ZANU blacks who took over promptly adopted BSAP traditions.

  Passing Police General Headquarters, the cab drove further along the avenue to cross Tenth Street to a T wall. There Zinc paid the fare and stepped out into the sun.

  The Training Depot at the T end was a walled camp. The red-brick guardhouse was flanked by two high blue-metal peaked gates, In to the left, Out to the right. On the cream-and-brown wall beside the In gate was the badge of the ZRP: a lion with a Zimbabwe bird in police colors of blue and old gold. Through the gates stood a red-brick building with round windows. IDing Zinc from yesterday, the guard waved him in.

  Inside, the road forked left and right. Left was the armory for "musketry" drill, hospital, canteen, officers' mess, and sports club with bar and billiards tables.

  Zinc turned right.

  Past a row of pines stood three buildings, one on the left behind a hedge, two on the right in the open. The two were the forensic lab and police chapel, the latter— for no reason Zinc could see—barb-wired. The single-story structure behind the hedge was shaped like a horseshoe with a corrugated iron roof. The flags in front were bugled up and down at dawn and dusk. Beyond were the old stables and sergeants mess. Vehicles were parked in the inverted U. The sign above the walkway read cid headquarters.

  Zinc turned in.

  If Zimbabwe follows West Africa, Zambia, and other former British colonies, the infrastructure will crumble in thirty years. Currently fourteen years into such decline, CID HQ was run-down and poorly maintained. The office of Chief Inspector Prosper Vumba baked

  Zinc pink at 90 degrees F. The punkah-punkah fan overhead merely guided the flies. President Mugabe grinned on the wall behind the Victorian desk, the large yellow mark around him left by an earlier portrait of the queen or PM Ian Smith.

  "Ah, Zzzinc," Vumba said, rising from the desk and switching on his smile, swirling the name in his mouth like a wine taster before spitting it out. "Not still bristling from yesterday?"

  "You gave me time to sightsee the city," Chandler said dryly.

  "All you expected?"

  "What I expected, Prosper, was tit for tat. Before I left Canada, I faxed Interpol. Interpol—I checked—sent you my request. If it was you asking us, we'd have wired the picture to every cop in Canada, so when you arrived on a loooong flight there would be results. But I arrive to find the picture buried on your desk. Meanwhile, someone else could be killed. Quite frankly, I'm pissed."

  The temperature rose a degree.

  The fan droned on.

  While Zinc craved the wind chill of a Saskatchewan winter.

  Except for the Criminal Investigation Department, ZRP cops, brass included, wear khaki bush shirts, caps, and shorts. Top to bottom, the CID is plainclothed, so Vumba filled a charcoal suit the color of his skin, as Zinc melted in an ice-cream suit as wrinkled as an elephant's ear. Face to face, they were chess pieces vying for the same square.

  "Are you spooks in your country?" Vumba asked.

  The Canadian blinked.

  "What street conveyed you here?"

  "Fourth," Zinc said.

  "At Fourth and Central, by the Catholic Cathedral, you passed a red-brick square bearing the sign treasury computer bureau. The top four floors are the Central Intelligence Organization. Until the War, that was the Security Branch of the BSAP. The white spooks fed spies into our camps. We 'gooks'—the Rhodies stole the term from Yanks in Vietnam—were sometimes so well-known to them that they could put a name to one of our captured guns. Interrogating us, they'd ask, 'How's

  Joe in camp?' The Bureau had files on everyone: ZANU, poachers, mercenaries. Many files survived. The CIO is controlled directly by the Prime Minister's Office. Cops no longer run it, but I have contacts there."

  Across the desk, Vumba pushed The Herald clipping of Nigel Hammond and Clive Moon at the Great Zimbabwe ruins. "After our heated meeting yesterday, I called a contact at the CIO." Vumba placed an airline ticket on the clipping. "Nigel Hammond or Clive Moon will see you there."

  Zinc opened the ticket to check the destination. "How'd you find him?"

  "Sifting and shifting, Zzzinc."

  The African bush breeds disease: malaria, typhoid, tetanus, yellow fever, sleeping sickness, typhus, AIDS, meningitis, diptheria, bilharzia, myiasis, dysentery, rabies, giardia, cholera . . . and ebola, for those seeking the exotic. Africans show scars from bouts in the past, so the whites of Vumba's eyes were yellow and flecked with blood.

  One evil eye winked.

  "Tight lines, mate."

  Given his ZANU rank during the Bush War, had Vumba desired, he would be a subcommissioner or chief superintendent by now. Administration, however, was not his style. He stayed where the action was. And the serious money.

  The Gray had sold Vumba weapons during the War. It was Vumba who'd hired the Gray to assassinate whites. As he knew how to cure what ailed the country, his code name then was the Witch Doctor. The Gray had paid him well to watch their backs ever since, so no sooner had Zinc left his office yesterday morning than Vumba was on the phone to the Black.

  Witch Doctor: "The Horseman just left. He wants the picture of you two wired around Zimbabwe. South Africa, too."

  The Black: "That's the last thing we want. How did you leave it?"

  Witch Doctor: "He's angry the photo isn't out. If it's not wired by the time he returns tomorrow, he'll approach the brass."

  Assassinating someone is easy to do, assuming the police aren't looking for you. Escaping after, that's the difficult part. Dangerous anytime, but suicidal if the police are already hunting you. Armed with a picture of your face.

  Two million dollars US.

  To kill the Zulu king.

  The clock ticking.

  AIDS in their veins.

  The Horseman in the way.

  He must be taken out.

  In a way that won't mobilize other cops.

  Somewhere he won't be found.

  Where death's a way of life.

  The Black: "Here's what you do. . . ."

  ETHICS

  New Westminster

  So high was Nick's level of protective custody the Law Courts sheriffs locked him in the female cells for his trial. Cells one, two, three, and four in this block, and Cell three was his. Released from it by a deputy for escort down a spick-and-span hall painted beige and brown, close to the colors of the Brownie's uniform, Nick went past the cellblock for male accused, from which someone shouted, "Yer gonna git juked, Horseman," then angled right from the booking desk near the loading bay to arrive at 371 interview.

  Knight was waiting.

  Like a caged cat, the lawyer paced the eight-foot-square room, soles squeaking across the linoleum floor, shadow from fluorescent lights moving around the cream-colored walls and chocolate-colored door. Nick sat down on one of two chairs flanking a tab
le while the deputy locked them in. The only window was a foot-square pane in the door.

  "You look pumped," said Nick.

  "What a piece of work that woman is. One thing for sure, Hatchett didn't sleep her way to the top."

  "No adjournment?"

  "She threw me out of chambers. Come ten o'clock, I put you on the stand."

  "What happened?"

  "The court clerk ushered Wilde, me, and the court reporter in. Hatchett asked why I was troubled over the Mountie found dead in the lot last night. I said Tipple was bludgeoned and gutted like your mom and MacDou-gall. So? she said. So if this killer murdered your mom, you were innocent. Wilde said Tipple's killing made no difference. We know MacDougall wasn't killed by you, so it was obvious someone else was cop-killing Mounties, with the Crown's theory being—like it was all along— that you used that killer as a smokescreen. Hatchett accused me of stalling, and that was it."

  "What now?" asked Craven.

  "The fight goes on. You know what John Paul Jones told the British. Which means the time has come for The Talk."

  "The Talk?" said the Mountie.

  "The Talk," repeated the lawyer. "I talk while you sit and listen carefully."

  On the table lay a carrying bag for a suit, which Nick assumed held the barrister's gown. Knight took the seat opposite and leaned over the bag, eyes so firm and voice so compelling he might be plotting to assassinate the queen.

  Which in a way he was.

  "Here's where we stand. The Crown's circumstantial case against you is: motive, the Mother letter; opportunity, being at her home; means, the club evidenced by your mom's blood on your sleeve. By proving that, Wilde has forced you to take the stand.

  "Our defense has two prongs: Schreck and the twin. The twin—proved by what you remember and Alex saw in the files—answers motive, the Mother letter. The cat breaching the back door to let Schreck in, or your mom opening the door to her other child, spread opportunity to our suspects. Schreck clubbed, then gutted your mom because he's psycho. The twin clubbed, then gutted your

  mom, MacDougall, and Tipple because he's zombie of the shades.

  "Which leaves means, the blood."

  Knight leaned closer and lowered his voice.

  "Your mom's blood on your tunic can be defended in three ways:

  "One, between the time Kidd seized the tunic from your home and the time Wood did his tests, other bloody exhibits tainted the cuff. You heard the evidence. Kidd to Toop to Wood, I couldn't break the chain of continuity. So that defense is gone.

  "Two, Wood's DNA lab tests were faulty. One in one hundred billion, and I couldn't shake him in cross-examination. The jury has the autorads. So that defense is gone.

  "Three, between the time you picked your tunic up from the cleaners and the time you left your mom's home for the dinner, somehow you innocently got her blood on your cuff.

  "That's the only defense left.

  "So what I'm saying—listen hard—is you have no defense if you can't explain those bloodstains on your cuff.

  "Here's how Hatchett will screw you.

  "The standard charge to a jury on reasonable doubt is: You will note that the Crown must establish the accused's guilt beyond a 'reasonable doubt,' not beyond 'any doubt.' A reasonable doubt is exactly what it says — a doubt based on reason — on the logical processes of the mind. It is not a fanciful or speculative doubt, nor is it a doubt based upon sympathy or prejudice. It is the sort of doubt which, if you ask yourself 'why do I doubt?' — you can assign a logical reason by way of an answer. A logical reason in this context means a reason connected to the evidence. . . .

  "So where's the evidence that raises doubt about the blood?

  "There is none. Unless you give it.

  "When we met that first time to discuss your case, you said, 'You haven't asked if I did it.' My reply was T don't care. My only ethical restraint is I knowingly can't offer false evidence or lying witnesses. I don't "know" what you don't tell me, so keep what happened

  to yourself unless I specifically ask. What will this jury believe is what concerns me.' "

  Leaning closer, the barrister lowered his voice to a whisper.

  "Every lawyer's nightmare is standing in front of a jury without a case to make. Obviously, I can't tell you what to say on the stand. That would be suborning perjury. But as the trial sits now, logically I see two explanations for the blood:

  "One, the tunic was clean when you arrived at your mom's, and her blood stained your cuff when you hit her with the club; or

  'Two, the tunic was clean when you arrived at your mom's, and her blood stained your cuff when she grabbed your wrist after cutting her finger dicing vegetables for her meal.

  "All I can ethically do is put you on the stand to tell the truth. If what you say doesn't explain how the blood got on your cuff, you'll spend a minimum of ten years in jail. But if what you say does explain how the blood got on your cuff, so there is a reasonable doubt based on the evidence, then leave it to me and you'll walk out of court a free man. You grasp what I'm saying in this little Talk?"

  "Yes," said Nick.

  "Let's be sure you understand precisely what's at stake. If you're found guilty because the blood on your cuff's not explained, the appeal will be heard by three judges picked by Cutter. He'll be one and the other two will be of his ilk. Hatchett admitting your tunic will be upheld. If the Supreme Court of Canada grants leave to appeal—the chance of which is slim—not only must the Court decide the Charter was infringed, but we must establish admitting the tunic brings the administration of justice into disrepute. This isn't America. There's no doctrine like Fruit of the Poisoned Tree to help us out. Your agent—the Filipina maid—did give Kidd the tunic.

  "Lose here and you're fucked."

  Knight glanced at his watch.

  "Wilde's downstairs with a bone in his pants, and that hard-on's for you. Your Achilles' heel is blood from your mom. I want Hatchett, and I want Wilde. Don't leave me facing this jury without that blood explained.

  What's really at stake here isn't your life." The Vulture winked, it's my reputation."

  Now Nick understood why every scumbag charged with murder always had a defense.

  As he watched, the lawyer unzipped the suit bag on the table. Inside—boots, breeches, hat, and all—was a corporal's Red Serge. "DeClercq brought this to my office yesterday. He said it's your size."

  Pinned to the tunic was a note:

  "Even were a VC to be sentenced to be hanged for murder, he should be allowed to wear the VC on the scaffold." (King George V).

  Good luck on the stand.

  DeClercq.

  NEXT ON THE GARBAGE LINE

  Africa

  Zimbabwe is the lightning rod of the world. People are zapped and trees are zotted in the rainy season of November to mid-March. Outside the window of the plane, Air Zimbabwe Flight UM 224 to Victoria Falls, lightning flashed blue in vicious forks.

  The plane jumped.

  Zinc white-knuckled his seat.

  The man across the aisle cursed in Afrikaans.

  Unlike any other airline Zinc had flown, Air Zimbabwe pilots keep the cockpit door open. Too hot? Showing off? Hinges broken? Whatever the reason, it worried him to watch a hand adjust a dial, only to have another correct the setting seconds later.

  "TAB," the South African said, noting his discomfort.

  "TAB?"

  "That's Africa, baby."

  Zinc had left Vancouver at 8:00 p.m. Tuesday night to fly for nine hours to London, arriving at 1:15 p.m. Wednesday without a wink of sleep. Stretched across a makeshift cot of four chairs at Heathrow, he'd tried to doze until the Harare flight at 10:00 p.m., but airport hubbub sabotaged sleep. His constitution such he never slept on planes, he'd endured another ten hours to Zimbabwe, landing at 8:50 a.m. Thursday morning to enjoy a brand-new day. Biorhythms confused, last night's sleep was fitful.

  Exhausted, sweaty, and brain throbbing, Zinc was in a cynical, cranky mood.

&nbs
p; Victoria Falls

  In May 1904, the Cape to Cairo railway reached the Falls. Within a month the first hotel was open for business, a simple structure of wood and corrugated iron raised from the ground for ventilation and protection from pests.

  The elegant hotel of today was built in 1914. The train from Cape Town would stop at Victoria Falls Station, lordly Edwardian in High British Empire style, shaded by fragrant frangipanis and flame-flowered flamboyants. A colonnade of trees led to this hotel, where blacks in starched white uniforms and gloves catered to London whims. The teatime terrace overlooked the green hills of Africa through the Falls' spray, across Second Gorge and the railway bridge. Top hat gents and primped ladies found the short walk to the Falls a strain, so a trolley carried them down to the Big Splash, then black trolley boys pushed them back up and smiled for photographs.

  Zinc arrived to find no room at the inn.

  Bag in hand, he stood in reception by the porter's lodge, head pounding as Commonwealth bigwigs scowled at him, some sort of CHOGM pooh-bah retreat, with too many women too young and too sexy to be delegates or wives, how many people were starving back home to gorge each entourage?

  Bwana fantasies.

  Black as lordly as white.

  Zinc checked his bag, left word at the desk, then

  poked around. He crossed the courtyard into the lounge and turned right. Crocodile tail with bearnaise sauce was on the menu for dinner in the Livingstone Room. The cocktail bar—The "I Presume"—buzzed with chortling honchos sipping G-and-Ts or zombies. Across the terrace and down steps, he rounded the south hammerhead wing to the pool (no mixed swimming for years after a maharajah refused to bathe in the view of ladies). Nearby was the African Spectacular kraal: nightly shows by Shangaan and Makishi dancers driven by fire-heated drums and an eerie kudu horn. An old man near the door weaved spirit masks while Zinc examined photos of the rituals inside. The Shangaans—a Zulu offshoot— danced with shields and knobkerries.

  Baboons romped by the path in front of the hotel, and climbed rainspouts to ransack rooms with open windows. Zinc went down the gentle slope toward the Falls, until he spied the horde of hawkers about to latch like leeches. Years back, touring Egypt with Elvis Presley's plumber, he was besieged by hands seeking "Baksheesh!" A Christmas card came from Memphis that December: Mary and baby Jesus on a donkey led by Joseph, serene faced with halos around their hair, lunging at whom the plumber had drawn a smiling Arab in Arafat headdress with hand outstretched, the cartoon bubble from his mouth the word "Baksheesh!"