by Mike Nicol
Complete Security could not be reached for comment on last night’s kidnapping.
17
Pylon, the newspaper spread across his lap, read the story twice.
SHOOT-OUT AT GARDENS LUXURY LODGE
Couldn’t believe it. Talk about hyping it. Reporters! You wouldn’t know the difference between a tabloid and a broadsheet, going by the stories. He clucked disapproval. Said aloud, ‘Save me Jesus, like what happened was a gun fight.’ Couldn’t have been more than two shots fired, not counting the own goal. And you couldn’t count that, technically had to call that an accident, the one guy shooting himself.
Piece of muckraking journalism that wasn’t doing Mace any favours. Not doing the business any favours either. Almighty mess a simple job had turned out to be.
He was about to flip the paper to the sports page when a man stepped into the ward. Said, ‘Pylon. Pylon Buso, got shot up did you, buta?’
The voice struck a chord, Pylon sort of recognised it. Looked at the man. Late thirties, from-the-gym trim, short dreads and solid pecs mould, trainers, tracksuit, T-shirt. Rolled up newspaper like a club in his right hand.
‘We met one time.’ The brother giving him a glimpse of white teeth. Going through the brother’s handshake. ‘At a funeral.’
The memory coming back dimly. The funeral of the government arms merchant, Mo Siq. A murdered government arms merchant. Coming out of the mosque the voice had said in his ear, ‘The old guys all getting iced. Past times are past times. We’re the new kids now.’ The voice introducing itself. ‘My name’s Mart Velaze.’ Smiling those white teeth in his black face.
The voice saying now. ‘Mart Velaze, remember me?’
Pylon moved his head from side to side one movement only, still let lose a jab of pain in his arm. ‘I don’t recall.’
He did. He’d run a query on the smiley guy. Turned out the smiley guy was an agent trained in the old GDR, a returnee. Bad stuff swirled in his wake. Nothing specific, some hits but no names. A collector. A fixer. A good operator. Careful, discreet, tough. A patriot. Terminating with extreme prejudice unlikely to cause Mart any sleep loss. If that’s what the boss said, that’s what the boss got. Even if the boss didn’t put it in so many words. Mart Velaze absorbed the hidden agenda.
‘I read you’d been shot,’ he said, brandishing the newspaper. ‘Can’t be too serious, by how you look.’
‘It’s not,’ said Pylon. ‘Flesh stuff.’
‘I took a bullet,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘In the gut. Shredded some intestine which wasn’t fun. I didn’t like that at all. Weeks ’n weeks before I could move properly.’ He clasped one hand on the bed’s metal footboard, raised a foot onto the rung, stood there looking down at Pylon. ‘Thought I’d say hi.’
‘An agent, saying hi.’ Pylon forced a laugh.
‘My mom’s here for kidney stones. So, you know, why not do the rounds? Play the good Samaritan.’
‘Save me Jesus!’
‘I remember that,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘The first time we met you used that phrase. Save me Jesus. Unusual, I thought. One of those little sayings we get attached to.’
‘What d’you want?’ said Pylon.
Mart Velaze pretended hurt, stood back, holding up his hands, still clutching the newspaper. ‘Nothing, buta. Just to say hello. Make contact again.’
‘This to do with the Dinsmors?’
‘The Dinsmors? Oh ja, the Americans. The woman who got kidnapped. No, no. Uh-uh. Purely personal.’
‘Your type doesn’t do personal. Spooks don’t do anything that’s not connected to something else. I watch the TV series. I know.’
Mart Velaze laughed. ‘It’s good, that programme. Better than The Wire. Everybody likes The Wire, but what’s it? Ghetto crime and grime. Give me the high stakes. The politics of power. The real deal. I’ve got a box set of Spooks, one to three.’
Pylon said nothing. Staring at Mart Velaze staring at him. Waited for the agent to say what was on his mind. The no-speaks dragging to a minute. Mart Velaze broke it.
‘Good to see you, buta.’ But he didn’t move. ‘We must have a beer sometime, talk about things.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Pylon. ‘What sort of things?’
‘Things you need to know.’ He handed Pylon a business card.
Pylon took it. Mart Velaze’s name and a telephone number. Nothing else. Then a spy wasn’t going to have National Intelligence Agency in an eighteen point branded font splashed across the card.
‘Like things have moved on since your day.’
Pylon thinking, spit it out Mart. Enough with the cloak and dagger. Except he didn’t get a chance because Treasure duck-walked in, hands under her belly, saying, ‘Excuse me, do you mind?’ to Mart Velaze. ‘This is urgent.’ Pointing at Pylon, ‘I’ve got to speak to him.’
‘He was just leaving,’ said Pylon.
Mart Velaze grinned at Treasure. ‘Looks like you’re about to explode,’ he said.
‘I am.’
Mart Velaze backed out the room. ‘Congratulations mama when the baby comes.’ He pointed the rolled newspaper at Pylon. ‘Don’t forget the drink, buta. Anytime you can call me.’
Neither Pylon nor Treasure responded. The squeak of Mart Velaze’s trainers on the linoleum receding.
‘And he’s?’ Treasure coming round the bed to kiss her husband.
‘Search me. Said his mother was in for kidney stones.’
They went through the I’m-okay-how-are-you routine, Treasure adding, ‘I’m going downstairs to check into maternity.’
Pylon said, ‘What?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now?’
‘The way I feel, yes.’
‘You’ve had contractions?’
‘For hours.’
‘Jesus, babe.’
‘Just get yourself out of here, okay. I’ll be downstairs.’
18
Mace, at his office window, still looped on the Stones song, watched the blue Hummer pull into Dunkley Square. Had to be Magnus Oosthuizen would drive a Hummer. What else was a man in the business of weapons going to have for wheels? Not promising. Little about Magnus Oosthuizen was promising, except he’d be good money.
‘Hmmmm, hmmm, hmmm, until my darkness goes.’
A big man got out of the Hummer. Hefty in an all-weather bush jacket, grey slacks, grey shoes. Flat hair like a rug but Mace knew it wasn’t a rug, it was a style. The Prime Evil style. Once every cop in the country’d had hair like that. Unless it was a mullet. In his left hand, Magnus Oosthuizen held the sort of backpack a day hiker would carry. Caused Mace to smile.
For Mace it’d been a morning of smiles.
First smile. He’d groaned awake to the cellphone’s bright chirp after three hours’ sleep, dog breath, sour sweat in his clothes that made him gag. Showered, dressed to impress, smacked on Hugo Boss Dark Blue. Over coffee he’d got the charge: that he had Sheemina February in his sights.
Second smile. On time to pick up Christa and Pumla. Treasure spooling on about going to fetch Pylon at the hospital, the fact that he’d need to rest to recover. Perhaps Mace could respect that. Mace saying, ‘Can’t promise you.’ Treasure had leaned back against the door frame, stuck out her huge stomach, patted the bulge. ‘This’s due to give any hour. I need him more than you. You want help, use your reception girl.’ ‘Tami?’ Treasure’d nodded. From day one, Treasure’d never liked the idea of the pretty young thing in their office. Would do anything to throw her into deep waters.
Third smile. The two girls got into the station wagon, Pumla at the back, Christa in the front. Pumla leaning over to kiss Mace’s cheek, wrinkling her nose at the aftershave. ‘Cool perfume.’ ‘Aftershave,’ Mace said. ‘Thanks.’ Christa belatedly getting in on the act. A peck on his cheek. ‘Hello Papa.’ Buckling herself in. ‘I gave you that cologne. Blue something. This’s the first time you’ve used it.’ Mace thought, you are paying attention. That was something.
Fourth smile. He’d walked into the offic
e, Tami was already there. ‘Not again, okay?’ she’d said. ‘Silas Dinsmor’s creepy. Tonight one of the boys can do it. But there’s something …’ She’d smelt the aftershave. Smiled at Mace, said, ‘What’s the grand occasion?’ He’d returned the flash of teeth. ‘No big deal.’
Fifth smile. Mace phoned Captain Gonsalves, told him about the red Golf. Gonsalves didn’t know anything about a red Golf. ‘Who’s the detective?’ said Mace. ‘Doesn’t take a detective,’ said Gonsalves. ‘Takes common sense from those on the job.’ ‘Maybe,’ said Mace, ‘but you’ve got to have it to start with.’ He heard Gonsalves clucking and huffing. Gave him the list of car registrations to check out. ‘This’ll cost you,’ said the captain. ‘Another hundred.’ Mace put astonishment into a chuckle. ‘For the tip-off? That’s a bit much.’ ‘For these others,’ said Gonsalves. ‘I’m not a skivvy.’
Sixth smile. When he found out that Sheemina February’s apartment wasn’t connected to an armed response.
Seventh smile. Seeing Magnus Oosthuizen’s backpack fall off his shoulder into a rain puddle as the man tried to answer his cellphone.
Mace kept watching as Oosthuizen, phone clamped to his ear, returned to his car. He slung the backpack onto the Hummer’s bonnet, took a pad and pen from a pocket to make notes. Mace remembered the man liked long silences on the phone. To enforce his authority. Wondered if he was giving the caller the same treatment. Probably, judging by the way Oosthuizen’d taken to staring at the mountain. That clear sky above it, the colour of Sheemina February’s eyes. Nothing like the freshness of the city at the back end of a cold front. Oosthuizen stood still, face tilted upwards. Mace could tell he wasn’t talking. Reckoned he wasn’t listening either. He was doing silence. Then Oosthuizen banged his fist on the bonnet, closed off his phone. The man did temper too.
Mace turned from the window, headed out of the room at a clip. Calling from the landing, ‘Tami, I want you in on this.’
Tami at the bottom of the stairs. ‘In on what?’
Mace took the stairs two at a time. ‘A meeting right now. Guy’s about to knock. Name of Magnus Oosthuizen. Into arms manufacture.’
‘And the Dinsmors?’
‘Will have to wait.’
‘There’s something serious …’ – the door intercom buzzed – ‘… seriously weird.’
Mace waved his hands to stop her. ‘Not now, okay. Not now. This first.’
She frowned at him. Thrust a newspaper at him, stabbing the front page.
‘You got your name in the paper. Hot-shot publicity.’
Mace groaned. ‘Bad?’
‘Worse.’
‘Hell.’
Mace looked at the headline. A shoot-out, for Chrissakes. At least there was no picture.
The buzzer went again. Impatient Mr Magnus Oosthuizen.
‘Get it,’ said Mace, folding the newspaper. ‘Bring him into the boardroom.’
Tami clutched her hands. ‘Yes, baas.’
She pirouetted, made off down the passage to the front door. Mace watched her, gloom in his mood. Could still admire her arse. Stunning. A backside to model jeans with.
He stepped into the boardroom, stood at the window, the light behind him. Heard Tami say, ‘This way, please. He’s in the boardroom.’
The door opened, Magnus Oosthuizen entered, squinted at Mace, the long table between them.
‘That’s an old trick,’ he said. ‘Standing in front of the window. Doesn’t wash with me.’ He sat down. Said to Tami. ‘Coffee. Instant. Hot milk. Two sugars.’
Tami staring at him: like, dude, what’s this?
Mace said, ‘Thanks, Tami.’
For a moment she hesitated. Mace wondering if she’d lose it. Then went, not closing the door.
‘Where’s your pellie?’ said Oosthuizen, stretching out a leg to push the door shut.
Mace took a seat at the head of the table. ‘Pylon was wounded last night.’
‘Magtig. There’s a thing.’
‘A bullet in the upper arm.’
‘Didn’t say that in the newspaper.’
‘No.’
Oosthuizen grinned at him. ‘Crap publicity for you, hey? Not the sort of record to give people confidence.’
Mace didn’t respond.
‘I read it, I thought, hey, why’re you going to see these people? This’s bad news.’ The grin not leaving his blue lips. ‘Reassure me, Mr Bishop.’
Mace stood up. ‘I don’t do that. You want us, that’s fine. You don’t want us, that’s fine too.’
Oosthuizen laughed. ‘Ag, sit down, man. Don’t get so jumpy. I’m just pulling your leg.’
He drew a file from his backpack. Undid the zip of his bush jacket. Exposed a pink shirt with white stripes, tie the same colour as his Hummer, patterned with yachts.
‘Nice ’n warm in here,’ he said. ‘Under-floor heating, hey. Load shedding’s going to make it chilly. Your pellies should’ve looked after the electricity grid. Done some maintenance. Instead they pay themselves a fortune with the money they save. Bloody darkies.’
Mace let it go. Sat down.
Oosthuizen pushed the point. ‘You heard that joke about the new government? Their titles. The Minister of Energy’s going to be called the Disempower-munt.’ He spluttered a laugh. ‘Bloody darkies.’
Mace cocked his eyebrows.
‘You can laugh. It’s funny, man. A joke.’
‘Ha ha,’ said Mace.
Oosthuizen opened his file. Arranged the top papers. ‘Mr Bishop.’ Raised his eyes to meet Mace’s. The two men staring at one another. Oosthuizen let it lengthen. ‘I can see,’ he said, his eyes flicking about the walls at the big photographs of the mud city of Malitia, the tall slender vase mounted in a Perspex box opposite where Mace sat, flared with colour as if it stood in a fire. ‘I can see that you have what they call a boutique business. Interesting pictures. Interesting vase. Your wife’s no doubt. I heard she was a potter. I heard about what happened.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Ja, well. You own the property? This house?’
Mace was about to ask him his point but Oosthuizen wasn’t waiting.
‘Security’s a growth business. Lots of small fish in the water. Usually I go for the big ones. More professionalism. Solid training. Discipline. But you come highly recommended. From people all sides of the spectrum. That’s impressive. No doubt you have facilities, safe houses. So let me put it on the table.’
Mace held up his hand. ‘One moment. For my colleague.’
‘Pylon Buso? I thought …’
‘Her name’s Tami Mogale.’
‘The receptionist? Making coffee?’
‘My colleague,’ said Mace.
Tami came in with a tray of coffees, a plate of chocolate biscuits – Bahlsen’s. Instant for Oosthuizen. French roast for herself and Mace. She sat to Mace’s right, across from the weapons manufacturer.
Oosthuizen shook his head. Mace could read his mind: despite the references, he was undoubtedly thinking, a Mickey Mouse operation. Too bad he thought that. The weapons man sipped his instant coffee.
‘You make a good one,’ he said to Tami. Gave her a view of his teeth, discoloured, the gums receding.
She didn’t crack a smile.
Another slurp at the coffee, his eye on the biscuits.
‘German imports,’ said Mace.
Oosthuizen weakened. ‘May I?’ He tweezered one from the plate between the index and forefinger of his right hand. Something dainty about the movement. Bit into it. Chomped. Through the mouthful said, ‘Damn nice. Expensive, hey. Have one, I get them free.’
Mace and Tami declined. Oosthuizen took another. After the first bite said, ‘The matter is this.’
Mace interrupted. ‘Hokaai. How about you tell us something about you first? There’s two sides here, okay, Mr Oosthuizen?’
Took Oosthuizen back a block or two. He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, dusted his hands. Podgy hands, tufts of black hairs on the back of his fingers. Big hands for a big man
. Gave Mace the scowl. Mace leaned back in his chair.
‘All right,’ said Oosthuizen, ‘I thought maybe you’d do some homework.’
‘What for?’
‘To know who you are dealing with.’
‘That’s what you’re going to tell us.’ Mace wondering how Oosthuizen’d spin his links to the germ warfare unit.
Oosthuizen considered Mace. ‘One person said you were arrogant. Someone else that you were a cold bastard. Cold bastard I like. Stuck-up doesn’t work for me.’
Gave Mace smile number seven. ‘Not a good opener,’ Mace said. Came forward in the chair. ‘You want us, you don’t want us, Mr Oosthuizen? That’s your choice. Then we get ours. On our score you’re not doing well.’
‘Mine neither,’ said Oosthuizen.
For a moment looked like he might close the file. A long pause, staring at his papers. He took another biscuit.
‘All right. First I am a businessman. Second an industrialist. By training an engineer. Mechanical. But I’ve moved on.’ First bite at the biscuit. Finished chewing before he continued. ‘My company’ – he flipped a business card at Mace, Magtech (Pty) Ltd – ‘makes weapons systems, the computer part. The software and the hardware. You have to do both or you lose out. My software only works on my hardware. Vice versa, you’ve got my hardware without my software you’d find a bow and arrow more effective. Understand?’ He slotted the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. ‘Damn nice. Biscuits and beer, you can’t beat the Germans for those.’ He finished his mug of instant. ‘There any more of that, miss?’
Mace felt Tami stiffen. She said nothing, took out Oosthuizen’s mug to refill it.
‘So what I’m saying, Mr Bishop, is I have developed a system for the new frigates. Almost home grown. Cheaper than anywhere else, plus it works. You take the Swedes’ and the Germans’ systems’ – he made a fluttering gesture with his hand – ‘you’ll need to fine tune. At an extra cost, what they call auxiliary expenses. Understand what I’m saying?’
