by Mike Nicol
3
Kaiser Vula slid behind the steering wheel, hitched his slacks where they were tight across his knees. Breathed in the smell of new car: polish, leather, cleanliness warm in his nostrils. From his belt brought out the Ruger, placed it in the cubbyhole. Clipped his cellphone into the hands-free holder. From under the seat pulled a small pair of Bushnell birding binoculars. Adjusted the focus, paid attention to the two guards. They leant against the cathedral wall, smoking, gazing at the drift of pedestrians making for the station. Bored. As Vula’d been as a bodyguard. The sheer tedium. Then the need to be alert. To see everything. To react to what was out of place. To recognise what was wrong.
Nothing was wrong. Everything was as it should be. In the parking lot beside the cathedral, the colonel’s black Fortuner, tinted windows, bulletproof panels in the doors. The driver in place. The support vehicles for the security in Queen Victoria Street: Audi A4s, no stinting on the price tag. By now they would have flat tyres, both front left against the kerb.
Nothing to do but wait.
He waited. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. In the cathedral they’d be full voice with the second hymn. Kaiser Vula put the binoculars on the site: the bodyguards now away from the building, the one talking into his cellphone, the other focused on the crypt notice board. Ah, the job’s tedium.
His cellphone vibrated, the name Marc on the screen. Marc, Kaiser Vula’s codename for Nandi, the lovely Nandi.
Made him click his tongue.
Kaiser Vula dropped the binoculars in his lap, connected her.
‘Darl,’ she said. ‘When’re you getting here? People are chilling already.’
He pictured it. Her chic apartment, the balcony with the view over the Waterfront. Over the whole of Table Bay. Evening like this, the beautiful people’d be looking at a glassy sea, the white scythe of beach, the lights taking hold in the twilight haze. Very Cape Town lifestyle. Glossy, chic, theirs.
He could hear voices. Laughter. The laughter of good times. Music. Adele. Adele was Nandi’s soundtrack.
‘What’re you wearing?’ he said.
She laughed. ‘The Chanel. The one we bought in Paris.’
That voice of hers, the good-school accent, no sound of the townships.
‘Underneath.’
‘Kaisy, darl …’ Surprise in there. Playfulness. A pause.
He imagined her lips, pink lipstick, silky. Imagined her turning away from the guests, seeking privacy. Where? On the deck? Facing into the towers of downtown? Smiling to herself.
‘What d’you mean … underneath?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Kaisy!’
‘Tell me.’
‘Alright.’ Drawing out the syllables, teasing him.
‘Tell me.’ He kept his voice hard. ‘Are you wearing a bra?’
‘No, my bra,’ she said, making a joke of it. ‘Not with this dress. Doesn’t need one. You know.’
‘Touch your nipples.’
‘Ah, darl. That’s for you.’
‘Do it. Make them rise up.’ He could see her in the dress, the thin material, the rise of her nipples pressed against the fabric. She had long nipples. Nipples you could get your tongue around. ‘Yes, you’ve got them hard?’
‘They’re good girls.’
Kaiser Vula shifted on the seat, tugged more room into the crotch of his slacks.
‘Run your hand down,’ he said.
‘I’m doing that, darl,’ she came back.
‘Now tell me, what’s underneath?’
‘A thong.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one you bought. The black one.’
‘Take it off.’
A pause.
‘Take it off.’
A whispered, ‘I can’t, babe, not here, I’m on the deck.’
‘Take it off.’
Again a pause. He could hear her breathe.
‘Wait, I’m doing it.’
Imagining the silk sliding down her thighs, dropped, a pool of material around her high heels. She’d have to step away.
‘Pick it up.’ She’d have to crouch, the dress was too short for her to bend. ‘Have you got it?’
‘I’m holding it.’
‘Is it warm?’
‘Yes.’
‘Smell it.’
He heard her draw air through her nostrils.
‘What’s the smell?’
‘Me.’
‘Yes, yes. What?’
‘Soap. Lotion. Herbs.’
‘And?’
‘Me.’
‘And?’
‘Musty me.’
‘Throw it over the balcony.’
‘I …’
‘Do it.’ He waited to the count of three. ‘Have you done it?’
‘I’ve dropped it.’
‘Who’s seen you?’
‘No one.’
‘What’re they doing?
‘Drinking. Talking.’
‘Touch yourself.’
He heard her gasp.
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there soon.’ Kaiser Vula disconnected, sat back, sweating, sweaty in the humid air. Closed his eyes: saw Nandi, the lovely Nandi, in her short dress, thongless on the balcony. Breathed out, not a sigh, just a long exhalation.
That girl.
Kaiser Vula brought his attention back to the street, to the knot of people on the steps of the cathedral. The service must have finished. Lifted his binoculars. Saw the family emerging, shaking hands with the bishop. Cynthia Kolingba and the two boys ahead, the colonel and his daughter behind. Behind them three security guards. The goons on the pavement moving through the people, shepherding the family towards the car park. The Fortuner’s driver had the doors open, probably the engine running.
Kaiser Vula fired the ignition of his car, kept the binoculars on the dispersing worshippers.
At the Queen Victoria Street traffic lights a white Honda Civic stopped. Two men got out on the left-hand side. Young men in T-shirts, board shorts, trainers. One going round the front, the other round the back of the car. Striding across the street. A lithe hop onto the pavement, four, five paces down the pavement, the men reaching behind, under their T-shirts to pull out revolvers. Raising them. Shooting.
Kaiser Vula counted three shots, a pause, two more shots. Saw the colonel go down, the daughter falling with him. Saw the mother and two boys being forced down by the bodyguards. Saw one of the shooters take a bullet in the face, collapse. The remaining one sprinting for the Civic.
Kaiser Vula eased his car into Burg Street, drove slowly away round Greenmarket Square. Had gone three blocks when he heard the sirens, the cops quick on this one. Almost too quick.
Yes, well. There would be news in due course about the outcome.
4
From a bench on Government Avenue, Mart Velaze phoned in his report. Heard the Voice say, ‘Wait, Chief, wait one minute, okay.’ Then: ‘Now I’m with you. All ears.’ In that minute gazed up at the mountain behind the white towers of the Cape Town Synagogue, across at two lovers getting among one another on the lawn. Off to his left, children throwing breadcrumbs into the fish ponds. The mommy doing a record on her cellphone despite the dying light, the daddy looking bored, like he’d rather be watching soccer. No one worrying about the wail of sirens in the city.
The Voice came on: ‘Talk to me, Chief. What’s happening? Tell me things.’
‘It happened,’ said Mart Velaze.
A silence. This’s what the Voice did. Thoughtful silences. Mart Velaze well used to them, long enough part of the Voice’s unit. Over the last year survived witch-hunts, enquiries, debriefs, probes, official warnings. ‘Stick with me, Chief, you’ll be alright.’ He had. Kept his head down, become a Teflon man. For all this, knew nothing about her, though. Nothing about who she reported to. ‘Off the books, Chief. Black ops, black, black, black,’ she’d said at his recruitment. ‘As if we aren’t black enough anyhow.’ Laughed at her own joke. Her
voice slightly husky, always calm.
From her tone Mart Velaze pictured her slim in tailored suits, white blouses. A silver chain necklace. Unmarried. Self-sufficient, self-contained, alone in her office that could be anywhere, handling agents she never met. A lonely job. Just with her secure phones, her internet connections.
‘You’ve got photographs?’
‘Of them meeting. Of the operation.’
‘Good. They complete the task?’
‘Looked like it. The little daughter too.’
‘That’s bad. That’s not nice.’
A silence.
Mart Velaze saw the young family holding hands, moving away. Going home.
‘Listen, Chief, a couple of things, okay. One, there’s talk, rumours, you know, things I’ve heard that there’s a restless group, mostly communists, could be up to naughty things. Things like what the Yankees call a wet job. You know this term?’
Mart Velaze lied, said he didn’t.
‘You can Google it. There you can find it means assassination. Like what’s just happened to the poor colonel. Only for the restless ones, their target is the president.’
‘Serious?’
‘Serious. But, Chief, Chief, this’s hands off. Ears only. Strictly. Okay, you with me here? If it’s happening, if you hear any whispers, ours is not to stop it. A name I’ve heard mention who could be involved is Henry Davidson. One of our own, one of the old boys. So, like with the colonel’s wet job, we’re surveillance only. Information only. No action. You got me, Chief? We stay out of it.’
Mart Velaze said he understood.
‘Good. Then number two,’ she sniggered. ‘Be a good idea to help the colonel’s wife. Show her we’re a democracy. Don’t like refugees being shot down after church. Give her some pointers at this sad time. You can do that?’
Mart Velaze said he could.
‘Excellent, Chief. That’s it for the moment. Go with the ancestors.’
Mart Velaze disconnected. The lovers had disconnected too. Were packing up their picnic. Now in the twilight hour, the face of Table Mountain dark.
5
Three days later, Wednesday: 23:30. Vicki Kahn took KLM 598 out of Cape Town for Schiphol, Amsterdam. Cape Town in the low thirties C all day, Vicki well pleased to be getting out of it. Had laid down two thousand on a pick six for the Saturday races at Kenilworth, expected a tidy homecoming. Right there and then Vicki Kahn revving her life.
During the flight Vicki plugged into Melissa Etheridge on her iPad, ‘4th Street Feeling’, her thoughts drifting below Melissa’s voice. Especially the song about being rocked and rolled all night long. Made her think of her own love life. Of Fish Pescado the surfer dude who did her rocking and rolling. Just the thought of him made her smile.
Then sometime in the night, somewhere over the equator, came the realisation: she was on a mission. Her first overseas mission. Full-on cloak and dagger.
‘This’s what we do, Vicki.’ His words.
His words to her about this specific assignment.
Thursday 10:10, Vicki flew in to Schiphol, the plane docking at gate E17. Vicki got off feeling weird, nauseous. Maybe the flight or the food or both. Found her way down the E terminal concourse to the passport control access to B terminal.
The passport officer asked what she did, she told him company lawyer. Meeting other company lawyers in Berlin. He stamped her Schengen, said nothing, looked her square in the face without expression. Vicki stared back, picked up her passport, flicked her hair. The nausea unabated.
Got through the security check no hassle. Walked down the shopping concourse to Bubbles, this seafood and wine bar at the confluence of the spokes for C and B gates. The nausea at the back of her throat.
‘You’re not there to eat oysters, no no, no sipping a French white, Vicki, you hear me.’ Her boss again. The last thing on her mind right now.
Her boss Henry Davidson. How he’d hung in through all the changes was beyond logic. This Tyrannosaurus white from the hated regime. Had to be he had dirt on people. You tracked him, he’d gone from Security Branch to the reformed National Intelligence Agency now State Security Agency. Okay maybe nowhere near the top but still had his finger in. Bewigged Henry with his blazers. A brown wig. She’d seen pictures of Henry in those blazers wearing a cravat. Nowadays favoured a tie in the dark range, green to blue. Sometimes with stripes, mostly without. On Fridays his old boy’s tie, stripes of yellow and blue: Rondebosch Boys’ High School. The network. The alliance. The syndicate. The gang. One thing about Cape Town there were gangs in every class of society. The high-end gangs hadn’t changed much: same schools, same way of working, clubs and pubs, only their skin hue was darker nowadays. Dark rumour too that Henry the Communist had been a mole all those dangerous years. Was still faithful to the cause. He and his comrade relics singing the Internationale in their hi-tech kitchens: ‘This is the final struggle …’ The image making her smile.
Vicki bought a bottle of water from the quick food across from Bubbles, drank off a mouthful, the nausea subsiding. But now a tenderness to her breasts.
Some leather couches nearby with a view over a section of the airport. A place people spending hours and hours in transit could relax. Very considerate of the Dutch. Take a seat there, wait, were her instructions. Watch the aeroplanes through the big windows. Wait. Not a bad way to spend the morning. She did. Kept on hearing Melissa being a hundred miles from Kansas City.
This morning snow lay everywhere. Except it’d been cleared from the aprons and runways, ploughed into heaps. The flat expanses glistening in low sunlight. The temperature out there minus six, if you believed the pilot. His way of a landing welcome. The sky a faint blue, hazy. Not a single reason that Vicki could imagine why you’d want to live in a place like this.
6
Half an hour before the meeting time, Vicki stopped watching the aeroplanes. Saw off an Air France 737 Boeing then swapped her seat for a couch facing the concourse. Wanted to see her contact arrive. Didn’t want a sudden tap on the shoulder, Are you Vicki Kahn?
To pass the minutes placed bets on people coming through the area. Five to two on a woman with a shaved head wheeling an airport trolley. It wouldn’t be her. It wasn’t. Vicki collected from the imaginary bookie. Two to one on a tall classiness with a sling bag and an elegant coat, pixie-style haircut. The woman’s eyes brushed over her and she thought, oh-oh, you lost, Vics. But Ms Pixie moved on.
Only things Vicki knew, the person she was to meet was a woman. A troubled woman. This much she’d been told over lunch up at the café on top of Table Mountain. Just her and her boss yesterday, hot windless yesterday, having taken the cable car up with the tourists, stared down at the city for a while, then walked over the lumpy ground to the café. Admired the view way down on Camps Bay beach first. ‘Pleased I’m not there,’ Henry Davidson had said. ‘Frying my skin into cancer. Cannot afford to with all the cancer spots I get each year. White skin is a death certificate, Vicki, consider yourself lucky.’ He’d touched her arm. Vicki’d moved slightly away from him, half a step to the left, almost imperceptible but there all the same. And he’d noticed it.
From the buffet they’d helped themselves to pie and chips, a glass of white wine each. Taken a window table. Henry Davidson all manners and the lady sits first. Had tucked his paper serviette into his collar so it stuck there like a small flag. Said, ‘Bon, bon,’ hacked into his pie. Vicki suppressed a grin. Tried to raise the cathedral shooting, still nothing coming up on that yet, but he wasn’t biting. ‘Not our playing field,’ he waved it off. ‘They haven’t got much evidence yet, as the White Rabbit said to Alice.’ Henry Davidson always quick with his Alice quotes. Offered instead office chit-chat, known gossip.
Vicki listened, half-listened. Not a bad pie, she’d thought, for a tourist trap, washing the last mouthful down with a swig of wine. The chips done in fresh oil at least. Not haute cuisine, then again, up on this mountain, looking over this city on a clear day, all the container shi
ps in the bay, who really cared if it wasn’t? You were having a great holiday in an exotic destination. The pie filled a spot.
Halfway through the meal, her boss said, ‘I want you to meet someone at Schiphol airport tomorrow.’ Like he was asking her to meet someone at a Waterfront restaurant, not fly halfway round the world. ‘This person’s got something for us on a flash drive. Could be very useful.’
‘This person? At Schiphol airport?’
Which was when he’d said, ‘This is what we do, Vicki. Sometimes it’s inconvenient. We have to act fast. If you don’t like it, go back to straight law.’
Straight law being a put down.
Boring company merges. Contracts. Litigation. Tax fights. Intellectual property protections.
‘I’ve done that,’ Vicki’d said. ‘That’s why I’m here. That’s why I joined.’ Joined the State Security Agency. Not that law was a requirement. Some pretty hectic training went with the job: weapons expertise, shooting sessions, unarmed combat, surveillance techniques, anti-surveillance measures. Strange requirements needed for an analyst’s position. But interesting. One thing pleased her: her old wound didn’t play up during the training. Nobody would’ve known she’d taken a bullet through the gut.
To her boss she said, ‘This person, does he have a name?’
‘This person is a she,’ Davidson said. ‘Linda Nchaba to give her a name. A model. Background bio, cellphone, email details on file. Not much else. Made contact a couple of hours ago by phone about some trafficking organisation. Children mostly. She may or may not be involved. For what it’s worth, the hawks in the Aviary believe she is. Now having a crisis of conscience, which is all to the good, is it not?’ Hardly expecting an answer, forking pie delicately into his mouth.
‘She will ask if you are you, then introduce herself. You just get across there. Have a chat with her in transit. Let her know how friendly we are, let her know that we can be of help. Take possession of the flash drive, but she is the real reward. We need to bring her home. First prize, Vicki. First prize. Easier said than done, of course, especially as she sounds frightened. Scared witless, I would say. My experience, these types, no good rushing them. Got to get their confidence. You know, catchee monkey technique. Talk to her, set up another rendezvous, give her a few days to think things over. Meet her anywhere she wants: Paris, Frankfurt, Zurich, Berlin. Tell her you will be in touch the next day.’
