Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  ‘There was good security,’ said the general. ‘Patrols. Sentries. Two squads. Twenty-four soldiers.’

  ‘But for a whole night you tell me these attackers were there, waiting. Nobody saw them. Nobody heard them. They are like a ghost army. No, my generals, this is impossible.’ The president striding about the bunker. ‘How can this happen? How can they be there all night but no one knows? You tell me we have patrols. You tell me we have sentries watching the bush. But still this happens.’

  In the silence, the president breathing loudly. The generals with bowed heads.

  ‘What happened?’ Zama’s question breaking the tension.

  ‘Show him. Show him what you told me.’ The president moving back to his chair.

  ‘This is what happened, sir.’ The general aiming the remote at the screen.

  The images vague in the dawn light. Men moving about.

  Zama said, ‘There’s no soundtrack?’

  ‘No, sir. Not yet.’

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘The rebels crossing the open space towards the compound fencing, sir.’

  ‘Electric fencing?’

  ‘No, sir. Only razor wire.’

  The president coming in, ‘You see, Generals, with Zama you can’t hide behind technicalities.’

  The image on the screen suddenly brighter, the direction now back to the forest. There in the gloom men kneeling, steadying grenade launchers.

  ‘RPGS.’

  ‘Correct, sir. We believe at least three, maybe five.’

  The camera coming back to the compound, focusing, zooming closer. Buildings in the compound exploding.

  The soundtrack came on. Men yelling. The clustered smash of automatic fire, rapid pops, then the boom and tear of explosions, silences in between.

  ‘Fuck,’ said Zama.

  The image now blurred, wavering as the cameraman ran over the open ground. In front of him boys with AKS, screaming as they ran, firing as they ran.

  Then clarity: the image steady. The rebels pulling down the fences, pushing through the razor wire, running into the compound.

  ‘How’d they do that?’ said Zama. ‘How’d they get through the fences so quickly?’

  ‘We think they cut them in the night.’

  ‘You see, Zama. This is the sort of army we have.’ The president on his feet again. Up and down the bunker. ‘This is the rubbish we have for soldiers. They cannot hear people cutting fences at night.’

  ‘No spotlights on the fences?’ asked Zama.

  ‘There are spotlights. But that night there was a power failure.’

  ‘No back-up generators?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But they weren’t deployed.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘This is subject to our enquiry, sir.’

  ‘Listen to my son, Generals. This is a man you cannot feed nonsense stories.’

  The camera on the move again, the video blurred, jumpy. Clear enough to see people gunned down. The soundtrack constant gunfire, people screaming.

  Into this the secretary entered with tea and cupcakes. Shouted above the noise, ‘Here you are, Mr President, sir.’ Put the tray down on the long table. ‘Enjoy.’

  The general paused the clip: the image on screen a woman in shorts, vest, automatic rifle in her hands, her head bursting.

  ‘Generals,’ said the president, ‘you are privileged. Bambatha specials. The best cupcakes in the country.’ The president peeling back a paper cup, delicately lifting off a tiny forkful of the mousse coating. ‘You taste them.’

  Zama watched the generals oblige. The three men standing round the tea tray with chocolate moustaches. Who were these men? The one probably an MK veteran. The other too young. His own age. A fast-tracker.

  ‘Generals,’ he said, ‘when was this attack?’

  The younger one swallowed quickly, wiped his mouth with a paper serviette. ‘Last Friday, sir. Exactly.’

  Zama poured tea, drank it black, unsweetened, watched the president quarter a cupcake, eat only a segment. Push the remainder to the side of his plate.

  ‘Zama,’ said the president, ‘you must have one. Truly delicious. But I must have no more. Weakness is to be resisted.’

  ‘We only get to see this now?’ Zama sipped the tea, relishing the deep flavour. ‘A week later.’ Another thing his father cherished: good tea. The Indian connection flying in the best Darjeeling second flush. A strong amber tea with the muscatel flavour. Superb. Zama let the taste linger in his mouth. Refrained from taking a cupcake.

  ‘There has been confusion,’ said the older general. ‘The mine is difficult to reach. The operation to secure it has taken time to get the troops there.’ He gestured at the screen. ‘This video was only flown to us yesterday. We reported to the president when we had information.’

  ‘Last Friday night, Zama,’ said the president. ‘That was when I heard for the first time.’

  ‘There has been nothing on the news.’

  ‘No. There will be time for that when we are ready.’

  Zama drank more of his tea, again held the liquid in his mouth, before swallowing. ‘Tell me how many were killed?’ Wondering how this one had been kept secret. The old goat up to his tricks.

  ‘Look at the movie, Zama. See for yourself.’

  The general activated the video. A slaughter. Soldiers stumbling into the killing zone, going down. The rattle of automatic fire, constant, unrelenting. A lone gunman in a window of the barracks shooting back.

  ‘Complete wipe-out,’ said Zama.

  The generals didn’t respond.

  ‘Twenty-four troops dead,’ said the president. ‘Eighteen workers. Even the manager.’

  On screen the firing had stopped. Occasionally the pop of a single shot, the spurt of an ak. The camera moving over the dead soldiers, panning onto the other buildings in the compound, bodies splayed at the doorways.

  ‘Most of the workers escaped into the forest,’ said the older general. ‘That is our intelligence.’

  ‘And the rebels?’ Zama put down his teacup on the tray.

  ‘You must have a cupcake.’ The president held out the plate of cakes.

  Zama shook his head, saw his father smile. ‘Willpower, my son, willpower.’

  ‘What about the rebels?’ Zama met the eyes of both generals. Both glanced away.

  The older one replied, ‘The rebels are gone, sir. They are back in the forests. No one knows where.’

  ‘You know this?’

  ‘We have intelligence on the ground.’

  ‘The mine is secure?’

  ‘No, sir, not at this time.’

  ‘Your intelligence?’ said Zama. ‘What is this intelligence?’

  ‘From the government army. They have been there.’

  ‘There’s an offensive against the rebels?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘They could be waiting to attack again?’

  ‘It is possible, sir. No one knows, sir.’

  ‘The army patrol found the video?’

  The generals nodding, their mouths full of cake.

  ‘Tell him where, General. Tell him where.’ The president up close to the screen, his hand over his mouth as if he could smell the horror, the putrefaction.

  Zama waited. Watched the generals swallow quickly. The younger one saying, ‘It was left for us between the teeth of our commanding officer.’

  ‘No respect, Zama. No respect.’ The president swinging round. Zama glanced at him, thinking, this was the moment. The moment the old goat had been aiming for. His father standing there at the long table, hands on the back of a chair, skin tight over his knuckles. ‘You must go there, Zama. Clean up this … this mess. Secure the mine. Get it working again. You will do that, yes?’

  Zama feeling the generals looking at him. Seeing his own reflection in the president’s eyes. Knowing it wasn’t a request.

  25

  Joey Curtains couldn’t believe his luck. Ha
dn’t been parked at Surfer’s Corner more than fifteen minutes, here comes a rust-bucket Isuzu bakkie, pulls into a space in front of Knead. Jaunty dude pops out: tanned, wild surfer-blond hair, baggies. Slops on his feet. The way he walked you’d think he’d won the Lotto. Hop, skip kinda guy.

  Yeah, well, maybe he’d not be hoppety skippety in a couple of days. All depended what the great Kaiser Vula had in mind.

  Joey Curtains had his camera up, clicked off a few frames of the surfer boy. Got one of his car reg this time. Phoned it through to the help.

  Not a lot of customers at the café this windy morn. With the southeaster blasting, the place was a wipe-out.

  Joey Curtains saw Fish Pescado slip onto a high chair at a window counter. Just visible through the salty glass.

  Ten minutes Joey Curtains sat there wishing he could be inside chowing down on bacon and eggs. Thick slices of white bread. Then thought, probably a place like that didn’t do real food. Probably only did eggs Benedict, crispy bacon, fancy-pancy portions for the body beautifuls. Joey Curtains favoured his bacon rashers thick. Chewy.

  The notion of bacon churned a growl from his stomach. He considered he might as well walk in there himself. Could sit down next to the surfer boy, catch the vibe. Except his cellphone rang, the help with an address.

  Joey Curtains sighed, switched on the car. Breakfast coming off his menu. Best to check out the dude’s possie while the man was stuffing his face. He drove away down Sidmouth, Clarendon, swung into the main road at the railway bridge. Cruised slowly past the millionaires’ beach houses, crossed the bridge over the vlei. At the robots went left, pulled over to thumb through his map book. Found the street. Two turns he was there. Real poor-white house: patchy lawn more sand than grass. Curtains drawn at the street windows, like there was no one living there.

  Joey Curtains killed the engine, took some snaps. Got out, let himself in the gate. A notice on the gate read: Dogs Beware. Joey Curtains couldn’t see any evidence of dogs in the property, walked up the driveway. There in the back yard a boat. Sleeping in a chair a person with a blanket pulled over their head. Joey Curtains deciding by the shoe size and type it was a woman. A bergie. Strong stench of smoke, piss, sweat coming off the blanket. Beside the chair a mug half-filled with coffee. A plate of buttered toast. Some nibbled crusts. Like Fish Pescado had made this bergie a quick breakfast.

  Joey Curtains shook his head, backed out fast. Thinking some strange stuff happened close to the sea. All that wind got into people’s brains. He drove off. Up to Kaiser Vula now.

  What Joey Curtains didn’t see in his rear-view was the woman in the blanket peeping at him from the corner of the house.

  26

  Linda Nchaba recognised the room. The Ikea chest of drawers. The Ikea chair. The blue mat with the animal image discreet in a corner. It was the bedroom she’d slept in for the past ten days. In the apartment she’d rented. The apartment she’d left in her need to keep moving. To keep one step ahead.

  She lay in the bed. The curtains closed but grey light infusing the room. There was her suitcase, unzipped, in the middle of the floor. The clothes she’d been wearing draped over a chair. She rubbed a hand down her body, naked. No bra, no underwear.

  They’d stripped her. Had a good look. Probably taken photographs.

  She curled on herself. Her head hurt. Her mouth was dry. For long moments she lay, burning with anger. Then sat up, pushed the duvet aside. Moaned as the movement stabbed a pain behind her eyes. Steadied the dizziness. Sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her feet, her painted toenails. Trying to remember.

  She’d left the apartment. Given the keys to the letting agent. Wheeled her suitcase to the bus stop. Taken a train to Schiphol. For an afternoon flight to France. To Paris. A modelling agency had signed her up. There were prospects, money. She could do something about her grandmother.

  But before the flight …

  Before that she’d met the agent. Vicki Kahn. They’d talked. Then there’d been a problem. SMSes. The flash drive. What had she done with the flash drive? She remembered. Had left it with the waiter. Asked him to give it to the woman, Vicki Kahn. A nice woman. A sympathetic woman. Someone she could trust. Someone she felt she could trust.

  Then what?

  She’d rushed off. Gone down the terminal corridor to catch her flight. Her flight to France. There were people, lots of people. People going to planes; people coming from planes. People on the moveable walkways. People rushing.

  Then nothing.

  She raised her head, looked about the room. There was a jug of water on the chest of drawers. She needed to drink. To rid her mouth of the harsh taste. Stood. Groaned again. Leant over the bed, supporting herself on her arms.

  There’d been two men asking about a flight. They’d stopped her. She’d tried to brush past. Had said, ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ The one had her arm. Then … A swirl of faces. Medics. A woman telling her she’d be alright.

  After that, nothing.

  Nothing until she’d woken back where she should not be.

  Linda Nchaba closed her eyes, tried to slow her breathing, tried to still the soft yelps that surged from her chest.

  She’d felt this panic before.

  On her fifth run with the traffickers, they’d been stopped by soldiers, held captive for most of a day. Locked up in the truck with the girls while the driver tried to work a deal. There’d been shouting. Shots fired. She’d got the soft yelps then from the heat in the truck, the crying girls, the fear. Fear the soldiers would rape her. She’d known rape, she didn’t want to know it again. At nightfall they were told to go. Why she’d never found out. But it scared her, the blank faces of the soldiers standing with their guns.

  She shuffled to the chest of drawers, poured a glass of water, her hand trembling. They’d brought her here. Undressed her. Put her to bed. She scratched at her arm, her fingers coming away red-tinged. A needle-stick wound oozing a tear of blood.

  But no memory of an injection. Of the stab of the needle.

  She shifted aside the curtain, looked down on the street. A woman and a small boy walking towards the canal. Parked cars. There were always parked cars. Further down the street men at a delivery truck shifted out a fridge. She could hear their voices. Their laughter.

  She drank the water. Drank a second glass. Moved away from the window to the bedroom door. Listened with her ear hard against the door. Nothing. No radio, television, no snuffles and snorts of someone, a man, waiting. She tried the door handle, felt the door open.

  Again she paused, listening. Across the passageway, the bathroom: the door ajar to the shower, the loo, the basin. Down the passage the open-plan living room and kitchen.

  On bare feet, backed against the wall, she slipped towards the lounge. Took a breath, stepped into the room. Empty. Tidy as she’d left it. Except: on the kitchen counter, a bowl of fruit. A plate with two croissants. On the bread board a ciabatta. In the fridge four instant pasta meals, milk, yoghurt, cheese, a selection of salami.

  She tried the front door. Locked.

  The landlord was two floors below: he wouldn’t hear her scream, he wouldn’t hear if she banged on the floor. The apartment below was vacant. From a window she could call into the street for help. She could do that. She would do that.

  Then she saw her cellphone.

  Plugged into a charger on the kitchen counter. Its display flashing a message notification. Opened the SMS. It read: ‘Hello, sisi.’

  Zama? It could only be. The thought of him cramped her stomach. Zama the reason she was here. The reason she was on the run. She dry-retched, swallowed acid. That’d become the taste of him in her mouth. Bitter, vile. At the back of her tongue.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Hello sisi,’ said the voice. A man’s voice. In Zulu, he said, ‘We will be there later in the morning. You must be ready.’

  She disconnected. Stood staring at the phone in her hand. This was a new voice. Not harsh, but not polite. Soft, friendly yet comman
ding. Who was this now? How many people were tracking her? Linda Nchaba knew fear as a tremble in her hands that she couldn’t control.

  The phone rang again. Shaking, she put it to her ear.

  The man said, ‘You must be ready, sisi.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice was faint. ‘No.’ She cleared her throat. ‘The police are coming.’ Her voice stronger, the resolution in her voice surprising. ‘I have phoned them.’

  ‘You must be ready, sisi,’ said the man. ‘Don’t worry about the police. On this phone you can only talk to me.’

  27

  ‘I told you last night,’ said Major Kaiser Vula on his cell to Joey Curtains. ‘It was supposed to be urgent.’ Hissing out the words. ‘When I give the order, I mean the order. You understand me, Agent? You don’t make your own arrangements.’

  Major Vula on his way to the airport. Sitting beside him the lovely Nandi in her ripped jeans, leopard-skin pattern to her T-shirt. Like they were on safari.

  Little things irritating Major Kaiser Vula on this bright blue summer morning.

  When he’d picked up Nandi there she was in leggings, also a leopard-skin print. A short tulle skirt with camouflage pattern. Plus the T-shirt. Seriously on safari. To meet the president. Major Vula didn’t think so.

  Thing about Nandi, she could read situations. She read his face. Changed into the jeans. Was not going to lose the T-shirt. It was Aeropostale. Told him so.

  Kaiser Vula grateful there wouldn’t be a scene, backed down said, okay, keep the T-shirt. But come, my honey, come. The major not relaxed about catching aeroplanes.

  On the hands-free now to Joey Curtains. Listening to the agent tell him he’d met with Prosper Mtethu, the operation was scheduled for this evening.

  Kaiser Vula thinking, if Prosper was on this, then, no problem. Prosper was old school. Proper GDR training. Years in the Angolan camps. Time doing hits in the townships. Prosper would sort it.

  ‘You listen to him,’ he said to Joey Curtains. ‘He’s the agent on this one. You do everything he says.’

  ‘Ja, Majoor.’ Joey Curtains saying it in Afrikaans. Kaiser Vula hearing the sarcastic inflection. Jumped-up Joey Curtains. The new breed, pissed off because they weren’t dark enough. Well, Agent – the major pronouncing it to himself the Afrikaans way with a long A, guttural G – Well, Agent Joey Curtains would have to come to the party. Prove himself. Prove he wasn’t some hip-hop gangster.