by Mike Nicol
He’d teased her about it. Told her it was deep rural. That she was superstitious. All this nonsense about bones, herbs, powders, contact with the ancestors. Traditional bullshit.
She’d look at him smiling, run a hand across his chest, stop over his heart. Enough to get him randy as a rabbit.
In the street one day he’d been handed a flyer: Prof Habi Mama Zuhra, the king of herbalists, consultation fee R50. Do you need more rounds for Sex. Do you want to control your Lover? Payment is done after problem is solved. Treatment 100% guaranteed.
‘Your sangoma’s got competition,’ he’d said.
‘Bah. Prof crook.’ She’d dismissed his teasing.
‘It’s the same thing.’
She’d glanced at him. Suddenly serious. ‘No. It is not the same. Not the same thing, Kaiser. Not at all. You must come with me. You’ll see.’
His turn to dismiss the topic.
She’d given him that faint smile, that smile that hinted at something he didn’t know.
He walked up the stairs to the foyer, greeted the security guards. Both of them snapping mock salutes. He waved, took the lift to Nandi’s floor, let himself into the apartment.
Kaiser Vula found Nandi on a lounger on her balcony. Paused in the doorway to look at her. Her lean body stretched out in the warmth of the night. Elsewhere on the peninsula the wind howled, but the city was hot, breathless. A heat close as cotton wool.
She wore a long nightdress, white spaghetti straps over her shoulders. Buds in her ears, white wires linked to her iPad. Beside her a bottle of water in an ice bucket, some magazines, her phone. Away in her own world.
Her strange world with its mesh of new and old.
She raised a hand in greeting.
Kaiser Vula shook his head. How did she do that? How did she know he was behind her? With that noise in her head how’d she know he was there?
This uncanny thing about her. Her sixth sense. Her female sense. This weird foretelling women had.
He leant over her, ran a hand from her knee down her thigh, her dress folding back as his hand slipped between her legs. She clenched her thighs, trapped his hand. Opened her eyes. Her smile giving a glint of teeth.
‘Kaisy,’ she said.
He felt the prickle of her pubic hair.
‘Now?’ she said.
He wanted to say yes but his voice was husky. He nodded.
She moved his hand away, pulled the buds from her ears. ‘Here or inside?’
‘Here.’
‘Okay.’ Kept her gaze on him. ‘Undress.’ Propped herself up on her elbows.
Kaiser Vula found himself doing what she’d ordered. He pulled his shirt free, undid the buttons, his fingers fumbling. Dropped the shirt over a chair. All the time she watched him. A serious expression. Her gown rucked up as he’d left it.
He’d not undressed while a woman watched him before. It was troubling, unsettling. It was wrong. But he couldn’t stop.
Unbuckled his belt, unzipped, his pants sliding down his legs, pooling at his ankles. He had strong thighs, thin calves, his limbs scattered with sprigs of hair. He stepped away from his clothing, closer to her.
Kaiser Vula wore boxer shorts patterned with red spots.
‘Off,’ she said. Pointed at the glass panelling that walled the balcony. ‘Throw them over.’
Again he obeyed. Watched his underwear zigzag down to get stuck in a tree.
Kaiser Vula turned to see his Nandi beckoning him.
17
Major Kaiser Vula woke with his phone ringing. He was in her bed. She was asleep beside him. He frowned trying to remember how they’d got there. Could remember throwing his boxers away, but nothing after that.
He answered the phone.
‘Major,’ said the voice. A man’s voice. ‘You have a call from the president.’
‘The president? Who’s this?’ Believing it was a joke. Some random troll.
‘You heard me,’ said the man.
The president.
Kaiser Vula hesitated. Slipped off the bed, walked into the lounge. The doors to the balcony still open. Stood naked looking out at the lights of the Waterfront. Cast about for something to wear. His trousers flung across a chair. Keeping the phone hard against his ear, pulled on his pants using one hand, balancing first on his left, then his right leg. Once, in that other life, that dangerous time fighting the Boere, once, before the president was the president, when he was the spymaster, then, for a short while, he’d been his boot boy. Run his messages. Driven his car. Been his protection.
‘I am not fooling,’ the man said in Zulu.
‘How do I know?’
‘We do not joke.’
‘You can say that. You can be anybody.’ Kaiser Vula tucked in his genitals, zipped up. Next shook out his shirt, fought his way into it.
‘Major, we do not joke.’
‘How did you know my cellphone?’
‘We asked your director.’
That made sense. Kaiser Vula noticed smudges on his shirt, inspected his fingers to see they were covered in a grey dusting. He rubbed thumb against forefinger, couldn’t feel the powder’s granules.
Nandi’s muti. When? When had she done that?
Said, ‘At midnight? You phone at midnight?’
‘The president is awake. He is working. This is serious, Major. Serious.’
In the background Kaiser Vula heard another voice demanding the phone.
‘You are going through to him,’ said the man.
‘Major Vula,’ said this voice. A voice Kaiser Vula recognised, from the past, more recently from press interviews. The clear incisive voice of the head of state. ‘Major Vula, it has been a long time, my friend. My friend Kaiser.’
‘Mr President,’ said Kaiser Vula.
The president going into a run of greetings in Zulu. Kaiser Vula responded.
Then in English: ‘Major, my friend, can you come to this place tomorrow? Bambatha Palace.’ A pause. ‘I should say today. It is today already, I see. There are some things … Some things to discuss. We can meet. In the evening I am having a party, you will stay for that. Is this fine?’
‘Of course,’ said Kaiser Vula.
‘Good. I am pleased. I am pleased.’ The president sounding distracted. ‘You must bring your wife, if you want to. Or whoever. At your discretion. Come for the whole weekend. I remember you, my friend. Like an elephant remembers, I remember you. I am pleased. I am pleased. Sobonana futhi.’
Kaiser Vula disconnected. Yes, he thought, we will see one another again soon. But why?
He went back to the bedroom, finished dressing in the dark. Leant over Nandi, slid a hand over her breast to tweak her nipple. Heard her mumble at his leaving.
Later he would phone her. Tell her the arrangements.
18
Not long after eleven thirty Vicki told herself last game. She was up five hundred US. Time to quit. She was finished. Had drunk two pots of chamomile tea ordered up from room service, eaten four slices of toast. The toast had killed the nausea. There was an ache in her boobs still but not as bad.
Last game, then nighty-night.
Clicked through to a new game, chose pot limit. Why not give it a thrash for the final? Five hundred dollars to play with, like playing for nothing.
Vicki poured more tea, no milk, no sugar. Took another piece of toast from the covered basket. The toast cold. Didn’t matter. Dry toast was what she wanted. Crunched into the slice.
Selected a table of three, bought in with the maximum ten dollars. Came out of that game seventy dollars up; a two pair, Jacks and twos. Bloody lucky.
The whole play less than ten minutes.
One more.
One more quick one.
This time on a table of five. She went down eighty. Thought of ducking out but didn’t.
Last game.
Came up a hundred and fifty in the two games following. The cards good there, kings and queens favouring her.
Vicki did more cold tea and toast.
Gone one a.m. she logged out. The tiredness coming over her. Stretched, rose stiffly out of the chair, walked to the window: no one moving in the windows opposite. Standing on tiptoes, could just see the street. Empty, wet. A figure with an umbrella walking quickly away, a glint of high heels beneath a coat.
Made her think of Linda Nchaba. Same size, same grace, even briefly glimpsed. A sudden guilt that she’d done nothing. That she’d let the medics take her off. But what could she do? Could she have done? Except made a mess of the whole operation.
She closed the blinds. Walked through to the bathroom.
Thank all the gods of fortune her training had kicked in. Let alone Henry Davidson’s voice in her head, shouting to stay the hell out of it. All the same, what had happened? What was going on inside Linda Nchaba’s head?
Five minutes later Vicki curled up beneath the duvet. Too tired to read, switched off the light.
As if that was a signal, as if someone was watching her window, waiting for it to go dark, her cellphone rang. She groped for it, came up on an elbow, saw restricted number on the screen. Considered not answering. Except this time of the night it could be an emergency. Answered. Saying hello, hello, hello. Nothing. Dead air. She flipped the phone onto the bedside table, collapsed back on the pillow.
The phone rang again.
Again the same screen display. Again she said hello three times. The same dead air.
No sooner disconnected than it rang once more.
Vicki switched the phone off, clicked on the bedside light. Took out the battery, laid the pieces on the table. Fully awake now. Sitting up in bed, hugging her knees. The thoughts occurring: Someone was getting at her, or hoping to. Someone who knew she’d met Linda Nchaba. The most likely scenario. Maybe knew she had the flash drive. In that case had to be someone from the Aviary trying to knock her off her perch. Why? Why put the frights on? Wasn’t going to put her off the job. Hardly. Was going to make her more careful. More suspicious. More paranoid. Thing was, with the amalgamation of the agencies there were old rivalries, old hostilities. The Aviary not home to a happy flock.
She thought about putting her phone together again, ringing Henry Davidson. Imagined he’d give his famous snort at her theories. ‘I wouldn’t think so.’ Still he’d tell her to do what she’d done: take the phone apart. Tell her to keep the flash drive safe, go back to sleep. Enjoy her meeting with Detlef in the morning. He might be sick but watch his hands.
The last thing she felt like right now. A meeting with some German has-been.
Vicki wondered if maybe she should call Fish. Let him know that digging around in Linda Nchaba territory might have consequences. Except he’d be well out of it, apart from fast asleep. Probably smoked a portion of herb, drunk a Butcher Block four-pack listening to his music up too loud. Raising Fish in the hours before dawn was not a good idea.
Vicki sighed, switched off the sidelight. She wouldn’t disturb him. Fish was a practiced operator. He could handle whatever fell out of the tree. She settled herself under the duvet, turned away from the city lights, an orange glow at the window.
She would wake to a grey morning.
19
Fish woke to the wind, the thrum of it in the overhead wires, the flap and knock of a fascia board. For weeks he’d been meaning to fix it. Every time the wind blew he’d been meaning to fix it. Then the wind would go down, he’d forget about it. Until the next blow.
Like now the clatter brought him up from a far place, a distant apprehension nagging. Nothing specific. Just a shadow outside a window, a hand raised, tapping. The stuff of dreams.
Fish lay in the sheet tangle, unmoving, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, trying to place the shadow. The shadow of a man. A man he’d never seen.
A name came to him: Mart Velaze.
‘You know a man called Mart Velaze. He said you would help me.’
That got Fish out of bed.
The name going over and over. Mart Velaze. Mart Velaze.
In the bathroom pissed out a long stream of last night’s doob and ale straight into the water in the bowl, creating froth. A noise Vicki hated. Would shout at him to shut the door. Stop being a barbarian. He was a lid-closer though. Thanks to his mother. She’d taken no nonsense there. No crystalised drops on the seat. No coming into the loo to face a gaping bowl.
He flushed, catching a whiff of ammonia.
The name still there: Mart Velaze.
How to get hold of Mart Velaze?
Showered. Dressed.
The question still with him while he made coffee, checked his email (nothing of consequence), surfed the surf sites (nothing of consequence). Stood looking at the Maryjane in the back yard while he drank his coffee. Thought, the scene he’d been through before with Mart Velaze put Velaze in some sort of agency, some sort of government agency. Like the secret services. Could be Marty was a spy? Why not? Fish tapped his teeth with the coffee mug. Worth a try. Thought: Google State Security.
There it was: Welcome to our new website. Buttons to Facebook, Twitter. One hundred and fifty-seven likes on Facebook. No comments. The Twitter feed something else. Something lively. A cheeky comeback tweet telling a journalist: ‘Ah please, don’t flatter yourself.’ Another having a go at one Maggs: ‘Really Maggs? We still look forward to your serious and engaging comment, surely this can’t be it.’ The ominous thrown in among the banter: ‘We have headed President’s call to restore the authority of the state.’ Okay headed should’ve been heeded but kinda amusing. Fish clicked follow.
Then clicked back to the website: background colours dark green above shading down to earthy reds. Caused Fish to ponder. Like what was the meaning here? Blood on the ground? Secrets in the shadows? Scrolled through the menu, came up with a Cape Town post box, no phone numbers.
Another option: the telephone directory. That great source of info. Under some magazines found a directory, flipped through the government pages. Behold, a listing for the National Intelligence Agency. According to the website the NIA was supposed to have been collapsed into the State Security Agency. Seemed to be one of the few things government hadn’t collapsed.
Fish dialled it.
Got through.
Asked for Mart Velaze.
Was told one moment.
Heard Mart Velaze say, ‘Velaze speaking.’
‘We haven’t met,’ said Fish. ‘We’ve talked before.’ He gave his name.
‘What d’you want, Fish Pescado?’ said Mart Velaze.
‘It’s time we had coffee,’ said Fish.
‘You reckon?’
‘I do.’
A pause. Then: ‘I’ll get back to you.’
‘I’m supposed to go with that?’
‘Yes.’
End of conversation. Dead air. Fish snorted. The cocky bastard disconnected. You had to give it to Mart Velaze, he played hardcore. Fish was about to ring back when he thought, no, there’d be surveillance on the line. One call was random, two calls weren’t. Sometimes you had to have faith.
He’d give Mart Velaze a couple of hours, then hassle him again. Meanwhile there was Vicki’s request about Linda Nchaba. Google again: Durban modelling agencies. About to start the slogwork when his landline rang. International call, a number he didn’t recognise.
A voice speaking at him, ‘Bartolomeu, this is Estelle. I’m in your city as it happens, flying out tonight to Beijing. Would’ve been nice to have seen you but the world is demanding, as you know. Next time, I hope. Meantime, Barto, a favour please. I wonder if you could do some research for me? I’m with my principals Mr Yan and Mr Lijan.’
‘Hey, Mom,’ said Fish.
‘Estelle, Barto, Estelle. Remember my suggestion. You’re too old to call me mom. Time to grow up Bartolomeu.’
Fish ignored the suggestion. ‘Nice to hear from you. Cape Town, hey. Wow. Getting out and a
bout. Thought you were still in London?’
Estelle into some ngo called Invest South Africa. To Fish’s way of thinking, a front for government.
‘I travel, Barto. Hence China because China’s the future. That’s why I’m on the move. I do things. If I had a law degree to finish, I’d finish it. Not let my girlfriend show me up. How’s your Indian girlie by the way? Victoria.’
‘Vicki.’
‘Vicki. How’s she?’
‘In Berlin.’
‘You see. Lawyers travel. They get around. They’re needed in all jurisdictions. They don’t waste their lives surfing.’
‘She’s a spy these days.’ Fish dropping the detail in for the hell of it. ‘On her first international operation. Code named Caterpillar.’
‘Oh don’t talk nonsense, Bartolomeu. Honestly. Lawyers may be many things but I very much doubt she’s a secret agent.’
Fish heard Mr Yan or Mr Lijan say something in the background. His mother responding, ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Coming back to him, ‘Now listen, Barto, we’re about to go into a quick meeting. Can you do some research?’
‘Free or paid?’
‘This is professional, you can invoice as per your normal rate. Not over the top.’
‘Five hundred’s not over the top.’
‘It’s higher than last time.’
‘Inflation. Five hundred plus expenses.’
‘Itemised expenses.’
Fish grinned. His mother. These days you couldn’t tell what would come next.
‘Here’s the thing, as hip people say: could you find out about a man called Rings Saturen? Coloured businessman. Politician. My principals met him a year ago, now they might be firming up a deal so they need a due diligence as it were. There was some issue last year, a friend of his was shot. And there were rumours the friend had once been a gangster. I don’t know, sounds a little messy to me. So some discreet background. Family. Connections. Standing in the community. You know the sort of thing.’
Fish knew the sort of thing. The alternative cv. Meant Rings Saturen probably had sidelines. Common enough these days. Wrote down the name, circled it twice. Said, ‘You going to tell me what sort of business deal?’
