Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  ‘You will learn everything from the men.’

  ‘I know.’ Zama walked out of the shade, put on his sunglasses. Contempt curled his lips. ‘I know where these mines are. In a war zone? Yes?’ Stepping towards his father. ‘Yes? drc? Central African Republic? Eritrea? Maybe even Rwanda? The Lord’s Resistance Army? The naughty children taking our money. Yes? This is right, yes?’ He sucked at his power drink, spat a mouthful on the red earth. ‘Ha! I’m right. When my father is in trouble, he calls for his sons.’

  ‘One son, Zama. You.’ The president looking up at the tall man.

  ‘The son he can throw away.’

  ‘The eldest son.’

  ‘The motherless son.’

  ‘No.’ The president angry, his fists knotted. His face hardened. ‘No. You cannot say that. You cannot raise this matter.’

  ‘It’s the truth,’ said Zama, low, calm-voiced. Standing defiant, his arms crossed, the drinking bottle tight against his hip.

  The president brought up his hands, flexed them to release the tension. ‘I could have given this to any one of your brothers. I chose you.’

  ‘And I must be grateful?’

  ‘You. Zama. I came to you. You have the army training. You are the best one. Your brothers are playboys, and this is a problem for a man. I am not begging, Zama, I ask you do this thing for me, as a man to a man.’

  ‘My father asking politely? What’s the angle?’

  ‘There is no angle, my son.’ The president indicating for the secretary to close the umbrella. ‘I have enough to manage, affairs of state. One day you will understand that fathers come to rely on their sons.’

  22

  Vicki Kahn woke to the grey morning, let the room coalesce. Wanted to go back to sleep. Felt as tired as she’d been six hours before. Wanted to curl up, forget about the world.

  But she couldn’t.

  There were issues.

  Vicki thought of calling Fish. Groaned again at the sight of her cellphone in three pieces. Sat up, placed the battery back in the phone, clipped on the cover. Connected. One missed call. Number restricted. Either they’d realised what she’d done or they’d got bored.

  About to make the call to Fish when the nausea swept through her. Vicki closed her eyes, bunched duvet in her fist. Remembered. A thought deeply troubling. She felt hellish. Another groan. Pushed back her hair, staggered through to the bathroom to pee. Her pee rank, smelling of mushrooms. While she sat on the loo, her phone rang in the bedroom. No way she was rushing for it.

  Vicki Kahn did not like how her morning had begun.

  She flushed away the stench. It was now all she could smell. Stared at her face in the mirror. Small lines at the corners of her eyes. A puffiness under them. Nothing that cold water wouldn’t sort out. She should have got more sleep.

  Still there was the poker win, a small triumph amidst the drek.

  She put the call through to Fish.

  ‘I’ve found her,’ he said. ‘About to celebrate with a Knead breakfast.’

  ‘Who?’ said Vicki, opening the blinds, rain pattering the window. Rain was really the last thing she needed this morning. Except for her jaunt to Detlef Schroeder, she didn’t need that either.

  ‘Well, not found her, you know, got an address. And a cell number. Only thing the address is fifteen hundred kays away in KwaZulu. You going to stump for that? You want me to check it out?’

  ‘No.’ Vicki coming in quickly. ‘Leave it.’

  ‘Whokaai. Don’t have to bite.’

  Vicki eased onto a chair at the desk, pulled over the hotel stationery. ‘Sorry, babes, I didn’t sleep well. Listen, this Linda Nchaba causes vibes. I don’t know why. You might get calls.’

  ‘Calls? What sort of calls?’

  ‘No-number calls. Back-off calls.’

  ‘Not a big deal.’

  ‘Just back off, okay? No heavy stuff.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Fish.

  ‘You can give me the cell number. Type it.’ He did.

  ‘So you got calls?’

  ‘I did. Last night, late. They woke me.’

  ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘Everything’s weird in this world.’

  ‘You’re worried?’

  Vicki typed: ‘A bit. Only people supposed to know where I am are you and Henry Davidson.’

  ‘I don’t know where you are. Not exactly. I mean I know it’s Berlin. You just never told me which hotel.’

  ‘Good then, they can’t torture it out of you.’

  ‘Seriously, Vics.’

  ‘Seriously, what?’

  ‘Should I be worrying about you?’

  Vicki sighed. ‘I don’t know. We’ll talk when I’m back.’

  ‘Sure, sure.’

  A pause from Fish, Vicki about to say she’d be in touch later when Fish messaged: ‘I talked to Velaze.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘What I wrote.’

  ‘Just like that you found him?’

  ‘Yeah, in the phonebook. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. National Intelligence Agency.’

  ‘They don’t exist anymore.’

  ‘Says who? A lady answered.’ Entered: ‘I asked for Mart Velaze, she put me through.’

  ‘We’re State Security now,’ Vicki staying with text. ‘nia’s called Domestic Branch. Like a cleaning service.’

  ‘Ha, ha. That’s what you keep saying about State Security.’ Fish pulled a face. Said, ‘Have to admit my phonebook’s a couple of years old.’

  Vicki laughed. ‘Incredible.’

  ‘I thought so too. Just goes to show what archive research can do.’

  ‘An old phonebook!’

  ‘Don’t they teach you that in spook 101? Check out the phonebook first?’

  Vicki thinking, strange Mart Velaze doing this. Pushing Cynthia Kolingba to Fish. Being prepared to talk to him. Exposing himself. He’d know she was in the Aviary. All this time he’d kept out of the way. Like once wanting to have them killed wasn’t anything personal. Like at the time they’d been an inconvenience. Suddenly, now, why was he surfacing?

  ‘When’re you meeting him?’ she said.

  Fish typed: ‘This afternoon at the coffee shop in that mausoleum.’

  No telling what drove Mart Velaze. Fish was right, Mr Shadow Man, lurking somewhere in the dark reaches. One thing for sure, he wasn’t doing Fish a favour. Had to have his own agenda to bring him out into the daylight. If he planned to go that far.

  ‘He won’t pitch,’ she said.

  ‘Wanna bet?’ A pause. Fish coming in fast, ‘No scratch that. Scratch it. Sorry I said it. No bets. Bets are off.’

  ‘A bet’s okay,’ said Vicki.

  ‘No, no. Sorry I said it.’

  ‘Loser pays for dinner at the Foodbarn.’ She waited. Could hear Fish sucking on his lip. ‘It’s hardly a bet, babes, he’s not going to pitch.’

  ‘He will. I’ve got a feeling about this.’

  23

  Vicki Kahn checked the time on her watch. Seven forty-five. Three and a bit hours before meeting Detlef Schroeder. She needed to shower, eat some sort of breakfast, get to his apartment. Told Fish she had to go. Like fast. ‘Talk to you later,’ she said, disconnecting. Poor Fish thinking that Mart Velaze would be there.

  She showered, letting the hot water sluice onto her shoulders, run down, the warmth giving some relief. Dressed casually: black jeans, burgundy cowl-neck jumper, the feel of the cashmere soft against her skin, boots. Went down to a meagre breakfast: an apple, half a bowl of muesli and yoghurt, dry toast, coffee. The coffee tasted foul. She had to go with chamomile tea. Sat there gazing at the breakfast buffet: croissants, cheeses, cold meats, bacon, eggs, enough to make you weep.

  Back in her room she phoned Detlef Schroeder on the hotel line.

  ‘Ah, Miss Kahn,’ he said. ‘So you are a real living person. Sometimes with Henry I cannot tell his seriousness from his joking. This is very good that we are talking. Very good. Now, we are still meeting th
is morning?’

  Vicki assured him yes.

  ‘Good, very good. Wilkommen im spy city. Now tell me where are you?’

  Vicki told him Hackescher Markt.

  ‘That is my old side of the city,’ he said. ‘But these days I do not go there anymore. I do not go anywhere anymore.’

  Vicki thought, not self-pity in his voice but a sadness which he quickly brightened.

  ‘So, this is your first time in Berlin?’

  Vicki said it was.

  ‘Then we will give you some tourist sightseeing when you come to me. You do not mind a little walking? There is not so much snow anymore although there is ice. You have shoes for ice?’

  Vicki assured him walking was fine.

  ‘Good, very good. Now, Miss Kahn, you can walk to the Karl-Liebknecht-Strasse, a short walk from where you are. This is Berlin’s famous street. There you can take a bus 100 down the Unter den Linden to the famous Brandenburger Tor. The Brandenburg Gate. This bus route goes into the Tiergarten. If you like you must get out there at a stop. In this weather nobody will get out in the Tiergarten. So if maybe someone is following you, they now have a problem. They cannot get off, they must stay on the bus.’

  Vicki wondered why he thought someone would be following her. Worried her that first there should be the calls in the night, then surveillance. Who even knew where she was apart from Fish and Henry Davidson? And Detlef Schroeder? Perhaps his warning was just the precaution of an old hand in spy city. A relic who couldn’t believe he’d left the world of upturned collars, figures smoking in doorways. Vicki smiled at herself in the room mirror.

  Caught Detlef Schroeder saying, ‘In ten minutes, sometimes not so long as that, there will be another bus 100. You can take it and sit upstairs for a nice view although maybe the windows are, how do you say it, condensed? From the cold.’

  ‘Condensation,’ said Vicki.

  ‘That would be a pity,’ said Detlef Schroeder, ‘if there is too much condensation.’ He paused, his breathing laboured. ‘Sorry, I am talking too fast.’ Another pause, then: ‘So now you go round the Golden Angel to the terminal at Zoo. There you can find the 149 bus up Kantstrasse to Savignyplatz. Then I am not far, half a block in the hinterhaus. You know this sort of building?’

  Vicki said she didn’t.

  Detlef Schroeder explained that she went through the first building, across a courtyard to the rear building. There she would find his name next to a buzzer. ‘It is no problem to find me,’ he said. ‘You will be here in one hour’s time?’

  Vicki said she would.

  She hung up, wondered what the little talk was that Henry Davidson thought she and Detlef Schroeder would have? Sometimes the mysterious, everything-will-be-revealed-in-due-course world of the old spies was irritating. As if no one was to be trusted. As if only a select few should see the full picture.

  She could hear Henry: ‘It is best you only know what you need to know. Keeps you focused. Your mind uncluttered. Something I envy. Like Alice at the tea party.’

  Bullshit.

  What irritated the hell out of Henry Davidson was the thought that someone knew more than he did. For Henry Davidson there was always something else. Something that needed to be discovered. Some secret that others possessed.

  She shrugged into her coat, buttoned it, slipped a grey snood over her head, twisted and triple-looped it. Fluffed the material round her neck, shook her hair. Looked the image of a smart European girl. What she needed was one of those furry Russian hats. She’d Googled them: ushankas, very stylish.

  Glanced round the room: a model of tidiness, except for the unmade bed, though that seemed hardly slept in. Her netbook locked in the safe, Linda Nchaba’s flash drive in her jeans pocket. Swallowed to suppress a rise of nausea, then left the room.

  24

  The bunker’s war room: cool, air-conditioned. Neon-lit. A long table with twenty chairs down the length of the room. Maps on the walls. Under a spotlight the president’s portrait: the president in doctoral gown.

  Zama stared at the portrait. Could be only one reason his father wanted a handover. The enterprise was in the shit. Mr Teflon making an exit. He’d hear him out, do the due diligence. Play it casual. Casual worked in most situations.

  The president pacing the room. On his phone to a comrade minister, his voice low, sibilant.

  Working the room, three agency techies, gadgets out, doing a clean. The soft buzz of their magic wands like bees to Zama. Bees at a hive, bringing in the honey. The bunker like a hive: the president its queen bee. The thought made him smile.

  Zama perched on a chair arm to watch the techies. Hiked up his jacket sleeves. Zama in a white shirt, open collar. Slacks, loafers, no socks. The jacket waxed cotton, black.

  The president in uptight mode, in jacket and tie, laced black shoes. The president saying into his cellphone: ‘Minister, Comrade Minister, your report must come to me. I appointed the commission. I must get the report. We must follow protocol. There must be transparency.’

  Zama raised his eyebrows. Yes, transparency. Of course. Presidential commissions. Presidential investigations. The old man’s way of keeping everything in-house. Everything under control.

  Always amused Zama how his father ruled. Got the dirt on someone, then had a quiet word. Worked all the time. Everyone in his cabinet stitched up.

  Zama shifted from his father’s soft menace with the comrade minister to the flat-screen television. Sixty-five-inch screen, wall-mounted. Showing a black Mercedes-Benz, always it had to be a black Mercedes-Benz, coming through the security boom. The car tracked from camera to camera to the palace side door. Interesting entrance, not through the normal formalities. Two men getting out, both military, both settling their caps. Generals.

  At the door the secretary said, ‘Mr President, the generals are here.’

  ‘Ah.’ The president keyed off the comrade minister with his thumb. ‘And you?’ he said to the techies.

  ‘All clean,’ one replied. The men packing up their gadgets.

  As far as Zama knew, they’d never found a bug. But every morning the president wanted a clean sweep. Maybe the techs lied. They were secret service. Spies were spies. Maybe they told him what he wanted to hear. Maybe they were listening to the bunker’s secrets all the time.

  ‘Can I bring them down?’ The secretary hovering at the door, standing aside as the techies squeezed past.

  ‘Of course. And tea. With those chocolate cupcakes. A great temptation.’ The president picked up a remote, clicked off the relay from the outside cameras. Said to Zama, ‘You have had the cupcakes?’

  Zama shook his head.

  ‘This thing,’ said the president, ‘what you are going to see now …’ He put his finger to his lips, made eye contact. ‘You keep this quiet.’ Coming towards Zama, laying a hand on his arm. ‘Okay? Yes. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You stay shut up. You hear me.’

  Zama felt the weight of the hand, the heat coming off his father’s palm. Pulled back. ‘I said okay.’

  The two men locked in the measuring gaze. The president smiled, sat down at the long table. ‘Good. I am pleased for you, my son. This is your time.’ Again the smile. ‘You will like the cupcakes. Not even the fancy bakeries in the fancy malls can make them like ours. We have the best.’

  The president stayed seated when the generals arrived. The two men saluting. Said, ‘This is my son, Zama. From today he is the man you talk to. Now you will report to him.’ The generals shaking Zama’s hand. ‘Please, Generals, we don’t have much time for this meeting.’

  The generals set up a laptop, plugged into the flat-screen. Brought up the video footage.

  ‘You will see at first it is sharp,’ said the younger general. ‘Afterwards it becomes blurred. Very jumpy.’

  An image on the screen of men and boys wearing bands of bullets, carrying automatic rifles. Dressed ragtag, necklaces, vests, camouflage pants, headbands, sunglasses. The camera focusing on laughing
faces. A group of thirty, forty males in a forest clearing.

  ‘This is taken by our intelligence?’ The president pointing towards the screen with his cellphone.

  ‘No, Mr President,’ the generals said together. The older one saying, ‘The recording was left for us.’

  ‘Left for us? You did not tell me this. Explain. Who are these people?’

  ‘Rebel forces. Fighting against their government.’

  The video cut to the armed band walking single file along a forest track. The general paused the image. ‘It was found at the site, Mr President. We will address this issue.’

  Zama glanced at his father, the old man hesitating: his face closed, his eyes on the screen, letting the silence extend. A trick Zama’d seen his father use before. Usually the victims burbled forth. The generals didn’t. After long minutes they were told to continue.

  On the screen Zama saw the forest edge, the men dispersing left and right. One thing he’d been on the money about: this was central Africa somewhere. Had to be with vegetation like that, with an armed group wandering around like that. Beyond the rebels, a stretch of veld grass in the light, bordering the waste piles of an opencast mine. The camera panning right to a cluster of buildings behind a security fence: the compound.

  ‘You see that?’ The president up, his finger tapping at the image of the buildings, a zoom enlarging them. ‘You see that, Zama? This is our big mine in the CAR. Highly productive. The best gold. We have many, many people working here.’

  The camera picked out a military guard, sitting on a box outside one of the buildings, smoking. His weapon resting against his knee. People behind him hanging washing on a line: camouflage fatigues, brown vests, underwear, socks. A man on a chair cleaning his gun, iPod buds in his ears.

  ‘That is the barracks, the camp,’ said the general. ‘Fifteen soldiers present, the others on duty.’

  The camera moving onto three soldiers walking along the fence, rifles cradled in their arms.

  ‘This was the only security? To me this could be a holiday camp.’