by Mike Nicol
‘Na, ja, phone your Mr Bishop if this is worrying you.’
Tami did. ‘When’s someone taking over?’ she wanted to know.
‘Later,’ said Mace. ‘Can’t talk,’ said Mace. ‘We’ve got matters to sort out here,’ said Mace.
‘So’ve I,’ said Tami. ‘Later when? The guy wants to eat out.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Mace. ‘That’s good. I don’t have any problems there.’
‘I do. Major issues.’ Tami her back turned to Max Roland, facing the quick twilight. ‘I can’t believe what you’re saying.’
‘Customer service,’ said Mace. ‘When you’re heading out let me know. And where you go. For the record. Get the bill too, hey, it’s company business.’
‘You’re so generous.’
‘By nature.’
Tami cut the call.
‘You see it is alright.’ Max Roland kept his eyes fastened on the screen. ‘Your Mr Bishop is a good man I think.’
‘Isn’t he?’ said Tami. ‘Has his clients’ interests at heart.’ If Max Roland so much as brushed against her bum she’d wallop him.
44
Mace said, ‘They’re going out to eat.’
Mace and Pylon back at Dunkley Square, upstairs in Mace’s office. The time a hair to five p.m.
‘I gathered. When?’
‘In a short while.’
Mace at the window, checking out the square. The sunlight sliding off the paving, waiters taking the cafe tables inside. Quiet Cape Town evening, no sign of the storm supposed to be on its way. He watched a couple of young suits get out of a car, head towards the pub for a toot. Not a bad idea. ‘You want a beer?’
‘Why not?’ Pylon looking unhappy on the couch. ‘Officially I’m in the dwang as of about now any rate. A minute or so my phone’s gonna chirp.’ It did. ‘Treasure,’ Pylon said, holding the screen towards Mace.
‘Good luck,’ said Mace, heading downstairs to the fridge. He uncapped two Becks, his phone started jiggling in his pocket. Withheld number. He answered it.
‘This’s Rachel Pringle, the Cape Times reporter.’
Mace closed his eyes. Opened them on the same world, Rachel Pringle still in his ear. ‘We’ve got no comment. The Dinsmors are safe. You want their story, talk to them.’
‘I’ve got their story. I’m not phoning about the Dinsmors.’
‘Then bye bye.’ Mace took a swig at his beer.
‘Wait. This is about a man called Vasa Babic.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Maybe you know him as Max Roland?’
Mace did an Oosthuizen, letting a silence develop. Then: ‘Never heard of him.’
‘I think you have, Mr Bishop. This morning, at the airport, I got a photograph of you and Max Roland. You remember? After you took my video camera. I still want it back, okay.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or nothing. You stole it. Theft is theft.’
‘Big deal.’
‘This is a big deal. Having a killer as your client is a big deal. Protecting someone wanted by the International Criminal Tribunal is a big deal.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Mace. ‘Can we get to the point?’
‘The point is,’ said Rachel Pringle, ‘the passenger list for your flight included a Max Roland. The Max Roland in my photograph looks to me pretty much like Vasa Babic. Google him, there’s no shortage of pictures on Flickr. You’ll see they’re the same man. You’ll see Vasa Babic’s a killer. Wanted for war crimes in Kosovo.’
‘Right, so a man I was with looks like another man. Again, big deal. A case of mistaken identity.’
‘We’re running a story.’
‘I’m sure you are.’ Mace thinking, like I really need this. ‘With quotes from the security regulator, no doubt.’
‘We think it’s a serious issue, that this Babic is being protected in Cape Town.’
Mace took a flyer. ‘Who tipped you off?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘I can probably guess,’ said Mace, although he couldn’t. He came out of the kitchen, caught the blur of a figure looming in the frosted glass of the front door. The door chimes donged. Punctual Mart Velaze. Mace said, ‘So long, Ms Pringle.’
‘One minute,’ said Rachel Pringle. ‘Is Max Roland your client? Are you guarding him?’
‘No comment,’ said Mace. ‘So long, Ms Pringle’ – got rid of her. He opened the front door on Mart Velaze.
‘What hospitality,’ said the spook, nodding at the two beer bottles in Mace’s hand. ‘Cheers’ – making to relieve Mace of a bottle. ‘Which one’s mine?’
‘Neither,’ said Mace.
Mart grimaced. ‘Don’t spoil a perfect moment, buta.’
‘I’m not,’ said Mace.
Mart Velaze shrugged. ‘You gonna invite me in?’
They sat in the boardroom, Mace and Pylon and Mart, Mace relenting, cracking a beer for the man.
‘You’ve thought on my proposition?’ said Mart.
Mace nodded.
Pylon said, ‘It comes down to money.’
‘Always does.’ Mart grinned.
‘You want something, there’s a price tag.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mart. He looked from Pylon to Mace. Took a sip of his beer. ‘I can’t see that scenario at all.’
Mace frowned. ‘Meaning?’
Pylon leant back in his chair. ‘What’re you on about?’
‘A simple matter of Treasure Island.’
‘Ah for Chrissakes, talk sense.’ Mace felt he could cheerfully smash the smirk off Mart Velaze’s face. ‘Treasure Island? What’s this Treasure Island?’
Mart wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Don’t be stupid. You know what I mean?’
‘I do?’
‘Of course you do.’
‘Well, pretend I don’t.’
Mart glanced at Pylon. ‘He means it, doesn’t he?’
Pylon didn’t respond.
‘You know, of course.’ Mart keeping his eyes on Pylon.
‘Let’s hear it from you,’ said Mace.
Mart went back to his beer. ‘Alright. You want it that way, here it is: sure we’re asking you to stitch up a client. But for a reason, like I said before. A good reason. And what’ve you got to lose? Nothing. Oosthuizen’s never gonna know.’
‘Never?’ said Mace.
‘Never. Scout’s honour.’
‘The word of a spook,’ said Pylon.
Mart laughed. ‘You must have trust. Listen, guys, the way I understand it, tomorrow afternoon Oosthuizen writes you a cheque says, thank you very much, and off you toddle. What more do you want?’
‘Money,’ said Pylon.
Mart Velaze looked from Pylon to Mace, back to Pylon. Incredulous. He blew a raspberry. ‘You want us to pay you?’
Pylon nodded.
‘Hey, butas, no, no, no, you’re missing the thing here. This’s about the honourable gesture. President and country über alles.’ He grinned at them. ‘Not so?’
‘Not so,’ said Pylon.
Mart leaned back, riding the chair ‘Again I ask you: think of Treasure Island. Think carefully.’
Mace thumped the table. ‘Talk sense, Velaze. Ordinary English.’
Mart came forward, leaning both elbows on the table. ‘Alright. One word, Cayman.’
Mace felt his guts crimp, kept poker-faced.
Pylon said, ‘What about Cayman?’
Mart glanced from one to the other, sucked on his lower lip. Let it go with a pop. A smile on his mouth, not a hint of it in his eyes. ‘Pylon, my friend. You hear that, Mace? What about Cayman? Good old Pylon always in for one last jerk around. Except not today. Today we have to talk straight one time. Okay?’ Mart pausing to let them respond; Mace and Pylon staying still as statues. Mart saying, ‘Okay. Upfront, no bullshit, we know you’ve got money there. Mace and Pylon’s little nest egg. Undeclared. Untaxed. Illegal. That’s okay, not the end of the world, most of the ruling hierarchy
right in there with you. Ordinarily as things go, we don’t care. Then something happens, a situation develops, new conditions force us to take a position. Know what I mean? Yeah! Yeah! Sure you do.’
‘Piss off,’ said Mace.
Mart drank a mouthful, his eyes on the ceiling. ‘You don’t want me to do that. You want to hear me.’ Bringing his gaze back onto Mace and Pylon.
‘No.’ Pylon giving him an uh-uh headshake.
‘You do,’ said Mart. ‘Believe me, you do. Cos if you don’t then you’re gonna have the Revenue boys and gals round here in a few days. Search and seizure warrants. You name it, they have it. All over your lovely office like ants. Busy ants taking stuff to the nest on Plein Street. Backwards and forwards. Backwards and forwards. Causing the sort of shit you really don’t want. Really, really don’t want. Get me?’
Mace and Pylon getting him, Mace wanting to smack his beer bottle into Mart Velaze’s sneering face.
‘All you have to do’ – Mart whisked an external hard drive from his jacket pocket – ‘is put the dope on here. Simple plug and patience, jack it right into a USB port. About an hour and you’re done. No one’s gonna be any the wiser. Because no one gets through Mace and Pylon, right? Complete security.’ He stood up, gave them a white dazzle. ‘Never forgetting that tomorrow Oosthuizen pays you. Money for nothing, hey!’ He wagged his finger. ‘Just don’t be greedy.’
‘Bastards,’ said Mace.
‘Look, Mace,’ said Mart, sliding the hard drive across the table until it touched Mace’s fingers, ‘no need to make a big deal out of this. Do the job and everything goes away.’
‘That’s a joke,’ Mace said. ‘More like everything hangs over our heads. Sometime going forward you’re back putting the screws on again.’
‘Truth,’ said Mart, ‘it can happen.’
‘Will happen,’ said Pylon.
‘Butas,’ said Mart, ‘don’t worry about it. The future’s an unknown place. Focus on this’ – he jabbed the hard drive against Mace’s hand.
Mace picked it up.
‘There’s a good man.’ Mart finished his beer, put the bottle on the table. ‘When you’re finished give me a call. Cheers, guys.’
Mace and Pylon sat in the boardroom listening to the city going home. Sat with their own thoughts. Grey thoughts in the greying light.
Mace thinking, Cayman. How to move the money?
Pylon thinking, Cayman. How to move the money?
Pylon said, ‘No option, hey?’ Looking at Mace through the gloom.
‘Seems not,’ said Mace. ‘One thing though, we’ll have to have the offices swept more often, like every week. Christ knows how else they’re so up on us.’ He put the hard drive into his pocket. ‘They’re all shits. The bloody lot of them. So does it matter? I reckon not.’
‘Me too,’ said Pylon.
Mace drained off his beer. ‘Should we go?’
They were outside on the darkening square approaching Mace’s car when the men appeared. Jakob and Kalle in their macs, smoking cigarillos.
Mr Buso, Mr Bishop, you have not forgotten us?’ said Jakob. ‘We have this matter to talk about.’
Pylon said, ‘Guys, can we do this tomorrow? We’re up against something right now.’
‘No,’ said Kalle. ‘That would not be possible. Not at all. We need Vasa Babic tonight.’
Impasse. The four men doing the stand-off.
Ridiculous, thought Mace. Thinking, maybe there was a way through this. Said, ‘Okay. You can have him.’
‘Mace!’ Pylon shaking his head.
‘That is what we like to hear.’ Jakob dropped his cigarillo butt, squashed it underfoot. ‘That is sensible.’
‘Mace. No.’ Pylon locked a hard grip on Mace’s arm. ‘This is stupid.’
Mace shook free, said to Pylon, ‘Hang on, there’s an option here.’ To Jakob and Kalle said, ‘Tomorrow. We can do it tomorrow afternoon.’
‘What is wrong with tonight?’ said Kalle.
‘A small matter of payment,’ said Mace. ‘From tomorrow afternoon we are off the job. Get it? No longer our problem. We get paid, you get your man.’
‘Where is this?’
‘We’ll let you know. Be in touch in the morning.’ Mace opening his car door. ‘Till then.’
The men shook their heads, Jakob taking a hold on the car door. ‘How can we trust you? Maybe you will help him to run away.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Mace, ‘Max Roland is not my favourite human being. He deserves his day in court.’ Mace held out his hand. ‘Shake on it.’
Jakob did. ‘We will talk tomorrow,’ he said.
‘Auf wiedersehen,’ said Mace – he and Pylon driving off, the German and the Swede watching.
Pylon said nothing until they were on De Waal Drive above the city. ‘You think they’ll leave it at that? A handshake deal?’
‘Sure,’ said Mace, looking in the rearview mirror, ‘they’re Europeans. Honourable types. Not even following us.’
Pylon snorted. ‘They’re bounty hunters.’
‘Like I said, honourable types.’
Mace humming what Pylon thought could’ve been a Stones song. Paint It Black maybe, Mace’s humming not being easily identifiable. ‘You want to know what Treasure told me?’ Pylon said, as they drifted across the lanes at Hospital Bend.
‘Not really,’ said Mace.
‘I’ll tell you anyhow,’ said Pylon, shifting in the seat to get comfortable. ‘She said she’d pack a suitcase for me.’
Mace said, ‘Shit!’
‘Major shit,’ said Pylon.
45
Sheemina February, inside Cafe Paradiso at a window table, watched Mart Velaze open the gate, hurry through the outside tables to the door. Only two men with beers braving the cold for the sake of a smoke, Mart pausing to stub his fag in their ashtray. The three laughing.
Mart came in, they greeted with an air kiss. Sheemina letting Mart have privileges.
‘What was that?’ she said.
Mart signalling a waiter. ‘What was what?’
‘The joke.’
He looked outside at the two men. ‘Addicts anonymous.’ Looked back at her. ‘What’re you having?’
‘White wine,’ she said. ‘A sauvignon.’
‘And a beer,’ said Mart to the waiter. ‘That porra one, Peroni.’
‘It’s not Portuguese,’ said Sheemina. ‘It’s Italian.’
‘Same thing,’ said Mart.
She laughed. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘you can be …’
‘Yeah? What?’
‘Pig-headed.’
‘Hardcore’s what I prefer.’
‘You would.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘So?’
‘All systems go.’
‘Just like that?’
‘Just like that.’
‘I’m amazed.’
‘I’m not. They’re shit-scared of losing the money. Fact no one’s been done for currency violations hasn’t occurred to them. Interesting that, hey? All these people with secret bank accounts in Cayman, Switzerland, Mauritius, you name it, all these people breaking the regulations but nobody ever gets charged. Makes you wonder why? Makes you wonder what’s going on in the back rooms of Revenue Services?’
‘You’re the spy, what is going on?’
‘I dunno. Paybacks. Pay-offs. Arrangements. Accommodations.’
‘Which is what I’d imagine, despite the squeaky clean image they push.’
The waiter put down her glass of wine, asked Mart if he wanted a glass. Mart said the bottle was fine.
‘Revenue is government. Government gets up to dirty tricks.?’ Mart snorted. ‘E-nuff said.’
Sheemina raised her glass, they clinked.
‘Problem here,’ she said, ‘is Mace thinks he’s got away with it.’
‘He has,’ said Mart. ‘Maybe you gotta talk to your little friend Rachel. Put out the word.’ He grinned at her. Reached out to run his fingers over her gloved hand. ‘Nothing like a bit of pub
licity.’
‘Don’t,’ said Sheemina. Didn’t withdraw her hand.
Mart kept at it. Stroke, stroke, stroke. ‘Ms Sheemina February, one tough cookie.’
Sheemina brought the heel of her boot down on his foot. Mart grimaced. Stopped his caresses.
‘You ever paid for pussy, Mart?’ said Sheemina.
‘Never,’ he said. ‘I can get women.’
‘Then maybe you’d better go on the prowl.’
He leered at her. ‘Don’t you get jags? Ever?’
She smiled at him, took a sip of wine. ‘Not for you, buta,’ she said.
‘For Mace Bishop?’
‘Excuse me?’
Mart leaned an elbow on the table, cupped his face in his hand. ‘I know you’ – wagged a finger playfully. ‘Hey, yai yai.’
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘So why the blush?’
‘Coloured chicks don’t blush, as you’d put it.’
‘From where I’m sitting they do.’
Sheemina February inclined her head. ‘Mart Velaze, the great psychologist.’
‘Yeah, baby, you got it. What the great psychologist thinks is you’ve gotta work out whether you wanna screw him or kill him.’ Mart winked.
‘Kill him.’
‘The great psychologist’s not so sure.’
‘Believe me.’
‘Oh, I do. I also think you got the hots for him. Lucky ol Mace.’
‘Lucky ol Mace is going to find out what it is to die slowly.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Maybe. Except he’s a busy man tonight. Tomorrow night more likely. When he gets all the bad news.’
‘An intimate moment.’
Sheemina February’s phone rang before she could respond: Oosthuizen. She connected, listened to him telling her that Max Roland had completed the software. When he stopped speaking she let his silence unwind, heard the whining of Chihuahua Chin-chin beneath Oosthuizen’s breathing. Mart Velaze gestured at her, who’s that? She mouthed: Oosthuizen. Mart blew her a kiss in response.
Eventually Oosthuizen said, ‘Are you there?’
‘Riveted,’ she said.
‘Then say something.’
‘I’m relieved, Mr Oosthuizen,’ she said. ‘Now nothing can go wrong.’
‘Until I have the laptop in my hands, I’m not sure of that. I’m going to pick it up,’ he said.
