Black Heart

by Mike Nicol

  ‘Tami’s got it.’

  ‘Ah no, Mace. What’d I tell you? One night she could borrow it. Save me Jesus. I want it back. Today. She needs a gun, you give her one of the others. Hear me. To. Day. This. Evening. Latest. I need it.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  ‘Not sure sure. I want it back.’

  They did the rest of the drive to their office in silence. Mace parked on the square. A scattering of people at the coffee shops, some even outside in the weak sun. Wished he could be at Roxy’s for a double espresso and a gruyere croissant. Dab of strawberry jam on the side. His stomach growled. He’d had nothing to eat but plane food. Was about to suggest to Pylon they do this, when he noticed a man sitting on their stoep on the bench they had chained to a heavy-duty eyebolt. Relaxing with a take-away cappuccino.

  Pylon groaned. ‘You see that man? That’s Mart Velaze.’

  ‘What’s he want?’

  ‘Guess?’

  ‘Max Roland?’

  ‘Max Roland.’

  Mart Velaze stood up, waved. As they approached said, ‘This is a cool place. Very classy.’

  Pylon introduced him to Mace, the two men shaking hands.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said Mart Velaze.

  Mace said nothing.

  ‘Don’t look round,’ said Mart Velaze, ‘but you have two guys staking you out. Heavies in rain macs. Sort of macs Europeans wear. They’ve been sitting in their Merc smoking cigarillos like they’re on a film set. What’s that old movie?’

  Mace unlocked the door.

  Mart Velaze clicking his fingers. ‘Come on, come on. Casablanca. Bogarde, Dirk Bogarde.’

  ‘How long’ve they been there?’ said Mace, standing back to let Pylon and Mart Velaze inside.

  ‘Before I pitched, and I’ve been here ten minutes.’

  ‘Bogart,’ said Pylon, ‘Humphrey.’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘Exactly, ha, ha.’

  Mace went through to the front room, checked out the two in their Merc. Not exactly being secretive. Sitting quietly in their blue fug staring at the row of semis. He wondered, should he sort them out now, or later?

  Heard Pylon saying, ‘And why’re you here, Mart?’ Pylon taking the spook through to the boardroom.

  Mace decided leave them for later. They looked settled, not intent on any action. He joined the men in the boardroom.

  ‘Hey, very nice,’ Mart Velaze said, taking a look at the pottery exhibit, oohing and aahing. ‘I like this. Your wife’s, Mace. She was good. Hey, I’m sorry. My condolences. Seriously. That was a bad bad scene. I read about it.’

  They sat. Mace and Pylon opposite Mart Velaze, Mart grinning at them.

  ‘Relax, butas. Uncle Mart’s here to offer you a deal.’

  ‘About?’ said Pylon.

  ‘You seen the footage, Mace?’

  Mace shook his head.

  ‘Pity.’ Mart looked at Pylon. ‘You thought any more on what I let you know this morning?’ Mace watched him – the close eyes, the ready smile, the hand loosely holding the polystyrene mug – thinking, an operator. The sort that played all the angles.

  ‘Mace,’ he was saying, ‘you’re up to speed on this?’

  Mace inclined his head.

  ‘Excellent.’ Mart’s eyes breaking contact with them, going up to look out the window at the blue sky over Lion’s Head. ‘In sum, as outlined in part this morning to Pylon: you guys’re looking after two war crims. Oosthuizen, our own death dispenser, and Vasa Babic wanted by the International Criminal Tribunal. Bit kind of low-rent for two strugglistas to be guarding the evil-doers. Not the kind of rep you want in the newspapers. Coming on the back of the kidnapping. Hey, butas?’

  ‘Sounds threatening,’ said Pylon.

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘What’s it then?’ said Mace, watched the grin spread across Mart Velaze’s face.

  ‘It’s about a little favour.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Mart Velaze leant back tipping the chair onto two legs. Kept his hands on the table for balance. ‘I could’ – he glanced up at the blue sky again – ‘dress it up for you. Talk about patriotism. Doing something for your country. All that kind of crap. But I won’t insult you. Thing is this’ – he paused, sucked on his lower lip – ‘thing is our government doesn’t want to make two war criminals rich. This sticks in the minister’s craw.’ He lifted one hand off the table to pinch the skin on his own throat. ‘Now, okay, for you guys guarding them’s a job. Maybe you see yourselves like lawyers who defend murderers. Everyone has a right to a defence.’ He laughed. ‘Nice pun, hey?’ Brought the chair forward, both elbows on the tabletop, his hands out towards Mace and Pylon. ‘As you know, as you’ve been told no doubt by the mighty Magnus, he’s got the best weapons system for our ships. Undoubtedly. The Europeans are back in the Stone Age. We’re talking serious difference in the technology. Like the difference between spears and semi-auto pistols. No question, the minister wants it, their system. For us, and to sell on. To earn foreign exchange to build houses, hospitals, schools. But he also, the minister, wants to buy the European system, because with that comes what is called offset deals. Things they will do for us. Build factories, smelters, power stations. Help us create jobs, put food into hungry stomachs. This is very concerning to the minister.’ Mart Velaze made full-on eye contact from Pylon to Mace. ‘So now in plain language, in confidence, nothing to do with the minister, nothing to do with government, something you didn’t even hear: how about you get it for us? The software.’

  Mace kept his eyes on Mart Velaze. The NIA man leaving the proposition hanging there. A smile, raised eyebrows doing the quizzical, come on, guys.

  ‘No,’ said Pylon.

  ‘No?’ Mart Velaze rode back on his chair. ‘Really, no? These are two bad dudes we’re talking about. Check out the video again. Two bad dudes who are about to get so rich they’re gonna stink of money.’ He looked at Mace. ‘What do you say, Mr Bishop?’

  Mace said, ‘The software wouldn’t help you.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘It only runs on Oosthuizen’s computers. He’s locked them together: hardware and software.’

  Mart Velaze brushed it aside. ‘That’s sorted. Ages ago we sorted that. What we couldn’t sort was the programme because the programme was in Vasa Babic’s head. Except right now it’s pouring out of Vasa Babic’s head into a computer so that Mr Magnus Oosthuizen can do his presentation to the defence committee tomorrow. All you’ve gotta do is copy it. Simple. Then we use the budget to buy the European system for the offsets. Sorry Mr Oosthuizen, but your pitch was unsuccessful. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, we’ve got a home-grown system in our ships and millions pouring in from on-sales. South Africa wins. No fuss.’

  ‘No,’ said Pylon.

  ‘Remember,’ said Mart Velaze, ‘we’re talking seriously evil men. Men who have done the worst that men can do. Men who deserve to be punished. Men who will not be punished.’ He brought his chair forward, stood up. ‘Think about it. Think about what you are condoning, their crimes.’

  Mace watched him walk to the boardroom door. Watched him turn to grin at them.

  ‘Poetic justice, butas. Think about it.’ He drummed his fingers on the door. ‘How about I give you till five?’

  ‘And if we don’t?’

  ‘Hey, then you don’t. Your conscience. On your head be it. No threats. No smashing hands. You do or you don’t. Up to you. Moral integrity’s what the philosophers call it.’

  ‘Velaze,’ said Mace, getting up from the table, moving towards him. ‘Don’t try it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Breaking into our safe house.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Cheers, my brothers, think on these things.’ He went down the passage ahead of Mace, and out onto the stoep. ‘Your surveillance’s still there,’ he said. ‘Probably bounty hunters after Mr Babic. News travels fast.’ With that he walked away. Shouted back, ‘Till five.’

  Mace stay
ed on the stoep looking at the men in macs. They stared back at him. Eventually got out of their car. Mart Velaze was right, they both looked like 1940s PIs.

  ‘You looking for me, gents?’ said Mace as they came in at the gate.

  ‘Ja, good afternoon,’ said the shorter of the two, flicking his cigarillo butt into the road. ‘We are hoping you can help us. I am Jakob and this is Kalle. Perhaps we can go inside for a minute of your time.’

  ‘Depends.’ Mace folded his arms across his chest. The men weren’t threatening, if anything looked as if they could do with a few hours’ sleep.

  Jakob gave a quick laugh. ‘Of course.’

  The other one, Kalle, holding an A4 envelope, seemed distracted, almost sad.

  ‘We are here about Vasa Babic. The man you know as Max Roland.’

  ‘There’s a thing,’ said Mace, wondering what Mart Velaze knew about the men made him say they were bounty hunters. ‘So much interest in Max Roland.’

  ‘Please,’ said Kalle, ‘we will not take much of your time.’

  ‘Nothing much we can tell you,’ said Mace. ‘He’s our client. He has our confidentiality.’

  Kalle frowned. Jakob nodded. ‘Ja, ja, that is no problem. We will do the talking.’

  Mace gave it a moment, wondering if Mart Velaze was right about these men. Said, ‘You got five minutes’ – standing back for them to enter.

  In the boardroom said to Pylon, ‘Some friends of Max Roland.’

  Jakob gave his quick laugh. ‘That is a good joke, Mr Bishop.’

  Kalle said, ‘We will not waste your time.’ He took two sheets of paper out of the envelope. ‘If you do not know, your client Mr Max Roland is wanted for war crimes in Kosovo. His name is Vasa Babic.’ He gave the papers to Mace and Pylon. ICT letterhead, photo of Max Roland, a request for his detention to face various listed charges. Signed Carla Del Ponte, Office of the Prosecutor, International Criminal Tribunal. ‘We are private investigators with the power to arrest Mr Roland.’ He took two more letters from the envelope. ‘This is a job we do for which we are contracted. You will see there our authorisation.’

  ‘Bounty hunters,’ said Mace, not looking at the letter.

  Jakob snorted. Kalle said, ‘Some people call us that, yes. Please remember the people we are seeking are criminals.’

  ‘Somebody else’s just mentioned that.’

  ‘I am sorry?’ said Kalle.

  Mace shook his head. ‘Nothing. Thinking aloud.’

  Pylon tapped a finger on the two letters. ‘They’re computer printouts. You could’ve made them this morning.’

  ‘Please phone the Tribunal,’ said Jakob. ‘They will confirm our position.’ He placed his cellphone in the centre of the table. ‘The number is in the contacts. Also on the letters. Otherwise you must have such a facility for international inquiries, yes?’

  Mace and Pylon exchanged a glance, enough to say, let’s take it for the moment.

  ‘What’re you asking?’ said Pylon.

  ‘That you take us to him,’ said Kalle. ‘He must come back to the Hague for his trial.’

  Silence. City growl filled the room. Mace looked at Oumou’s vase, shifting to face the bounty hunters sitting opposite looking back at him.

  He said, ‘No can do. We got to get this verified.’

  Pylon coming in before Mace’d finished. ‘This’s South Africa, my friends. We don’t do renditions.’

  ‘It is not a kidnapping,’ said Jakob, riding back on his chair the way Mart Velaze had done.

  ‘We can get papers from your court but this takes time.’ Kalle smoothed down the envelope flap. ‘You can keep the letters.’ He stood.

  Jakob rocked forward, leant halfway across the table. ‘Before we can get papers Vasa Babic will disappear again. A lot of people want justice for what Babic did. I ask you to remember them.’ He straightened up.

  Mace and Pylon got to their feet.

  ‘We know this is a difficult question for you,’ said Kalle. ‘At five o’clock we will come for your answer.’

  ‘And now?’ said Pylon when the German and the Swede had gone.

  He and Mace upstairs in Mace’s office. Pylon nursing his arm on the couch, Mace at the window staring up at the mountain. A high mackerel sky sliding in from the southern Atlantic: the harbinger of bad weather.

  ‘Dunno,’ Mace said, turning into the room. ‘Don’t bloody know.’

  ‘Perhaps I should phone the security regulators ask them for the ethical line? What the code of conduct says.’

  Mace dropped into his desk chair. ‘In one afternoon, hey! For shit’s sake. Twice in one afternoon we’re asked to piss on a client. Steal his software, give him up to the railroad men.’

  ‘He’s a crappy individual.’

  ‘I know. I’ve spent time holding his hand. We’re still betraying a client.’

  ‘This’s true.’

  ‘And what? You don’t see an issue?’

  Pylon eased off his shoes, swung his legs onto the couch. The two men staring into the moral wilderness. One minute. Five minutes. Ten minutes before Pylon said, ‘Take a look at the footage.’

  Mace slotted the DVD into his laptop, got a taste of Vasa Babic doing his thing. As the first images came up said, ‘Yup, that’s our boykie.’ At the end Mace ejected the disc, clipped it back into its case. Sat for a couple of minutes staring at the blank screen. Said, ‘Not a nice man.’

  ‘No,’ said Pylon. ‘Got it in one. You check the deformed pinkie?’

  ‘I did. Makes our decision easier then, do you think?’

  ‘Dunno. Dunno what to make on this one.’

  Mace closed down his laptop. ‘Perhaps we’d better come at this slowly.’

  ‘We got two hours.’

  ‘Should be time enough.’

  ‘Meaning you’ve made up your mind?’

  Mace fluttered his hand. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. You?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  They sat in silence until Pylon said, ‘One thing to another: you still aiming to take out Sheemina February?’

  Mace nodded. ‘Probably tonight. If she’s home.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘What? I should take back-up? Tami, for instance?’

  Pylon smiled. ‘No. Me, for instance.’

  ‘Uh-uh, no. Thanks but no thanks. This’s my one. I’ve been in there.’

  ‘You’ve what?’

  ‘Been in there.’

  ‘Into her place? When?’

  ‘Last night. Early this morning actually.’

  ‘Save me Jesus.’ He stared at Mace, shook his head. ‘And you don’t say anything?’

  ‘I just have.’

  ‘Ai yai yai.’ Pylon let out a long sigh. ‘My brother, that was not clever.’

  ‘No big deal.’

  ‘No big deal the man says.’

  ‘Look she wasn’t there. It was a recce. Now I know the place. The layout.’

  ‘What about the cameras? Have to be cameras.’

  ‘What about them? Guy dressed in black wearing a balaclava. No skin showing. Could be anyone. Woman like Sheemina February’s got to be on someone’s hit list. Other than mine.’

  ‘It’s a bullshit idea.’

  ‘You’ve got a better plan?’

  ‘Standard traffic-light hit. Why not? What’s wrong with that? Works every time, you do it right. We pull up next to her, you give her a cheesy grin to think on when she’s dead. Wop, wop. Everyone in the cars about us plugged into iPods, talking on their cells, having sexual fantasies. What’re they going to notice? Naathing. Lights change, we drive slowly away. Going to be another couple of minutes before anyone checks why she’s not moving. Perfect situation.’

  ‘For a movie.’

  ‘Happens all the time on the Flats, in the townships.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  ‘What’s good about it is no residue. Doing it in her flat’s just crazy. A fraught condition, full of traps. You’re on the CCTV, the cops can tell
your body size. Forensic’s going to pick up hair, footprints, dirt, fabric threads. All kinds of shit. Maybe someone sees you. Some insomniac staring out his window, someone driving past. There’s more worries than walking across a snake pit.’

  ‘I checked it out twice, it’s okay, end of story.’

  Pylon held up his good hand. ‘Just a suggestion.’

  Mace said, ‘Brings us back to Max Roland. The other thing I meant to mention earlier is Oosthuizen’s spun a shit story saying it was going to be a long deal. Now he tells me after he’s done the presentation tomorrow we’re history.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Bloody nice.’

  ‘So what’s stopping us giving up Roland?’

  ‘Professional ethics.’

  ‘Bugger that.’

  They stared again into the wilderness.

  Mace said, ‘One thing nobody’s talked is money.’

  ‘My thoughts,’ said Pylon. ‘They’re scoring out of Max Roland but we’re supposed to be suckers. Patriotic schmucks.’

  ‘Like you said, bugger that.’

  ‘So for money we’d do it?’

  ‘Makes it worth thinking about.’

  Mace’s cellphone rang: an undisclosed number.

  The voice said, ‘Pike, this is Silas Dinsmor.’

  41

  ‘This is about Veronica,’ the voice’d said to Silas Dinsmor, ‘it’s a business call between ourselves. Tell them that, your breakfast friends.’

  Silas Dinsmor’d said to the cop and the security people, ‘Excuse me, it’s my office’ – getting up from the table.

  ‘That’s good,’ said the voice. ‘Walk away towards the sliding doors, slowly, that’s right, now pause. Stop, consider this: anything you do wrong will put a bullet in Veronica’s head. Got it? Let me hear that in your words, say: Yeah, that’s right, that’s the deal.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right, that’s the deal.’

  ‘Nice one, Silas.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘No questions. Hear me, I ask the question. Let’s go onto the stoep now, what you’d call the porch. Drift over there, like it’s no big deal because it ain’t – to use your lingo again.’

  Silas Dinsmor did as asked, left the door open. Outside, the air chill and damp.