by Mike Nicol
Waited, lamenting the summer sea. Flat, flat, flat. Not a surfable ripple around the peninsula. Two minutes. Five minutes. After ten minutes decided Mart Velaze had chickened out.
Couple of minutes later saw in the rear-view a white Audi swing towards him, stop alongside. The dude gesturing for him to hop in.
Oh, yeah, thought Fish. Here we go. All the same did as requested.
Got into the air-conned Audi.
‘You’re Mart Velaze?’
The man not answering the question, starting with, ‘You got the balls for this, Fish Pescado? This’s big league. Like surfing Dungeons bonecrushers.’
‘You sent her to me.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t a clever idea.’
‘Look,’ said Fish, ‘what’s your problem?’
Mart Velaze didn’t answer that either. Sat looking at the sea. Fish half-turned in the seat, getting him in profile. Smart-looking boykie, good profile, snappy threads.
Fish went for another tack. ‘Why’d you send her to me? Cynthia Kolingba. This such a big wave, why didn’t you take it?’
Mart Velaze tapping a finger on the steering wheel. ‘Don’t you want work?’
‘Not the issue, china. Why’d you send her to me? If you got the inside story, why’n’t you handling it? You’re right there.’
Mart Velaze turning his head, smiling at him. Big white smile. ‘Personal reasons.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What it says.’ Mart Velaze’s smile shutting off.
‘Personal reasons means you’re having a fling with her?’
A snort from Mart Velaze.
‘So what’s it?’ Fish waiting him out.
A silence. Fish seeing the rigid lips, the set of the face. Turned to look at the sea. Waited.
Eventually Mart Velaze saying, ‘Why I’m here’s to say I’m serious. I’m running a risk meeting you. Could be watchers. In the other cars, somewhere behind. I don’t think so, but could be. We’re not a happy agency. That’s what this’s about. There’s shit going on. Shit that’ll be buried. I can’t do this one. Got to be someone outside.’
‘Kolingba was an Agency job?’
‘Let’s say this, could’ve been us. Could’ve been us on contract for his own. Might be someone else who didn’t like his face.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
The tap tap of Mart Velaze’s finger. Then: ‘I’m giving you a name: Joey Curtains.’ Gave him a cell number too.
‘Who’s he?’
‘A field agent.’
‘AKA a wet worker.’
‘Your words.’
‘Agency?’
‘Maybe. These days it’s a big place. Domestic Branch. External Branch. All the services lumped together. I don’t know everybody. Most likely neither. Most likely freelance.’
‘You got staff records. You could search them.’
‘I have. No Joey Curtains.’
‘So where’d you get the name? The phone number.’
‘I got them, okay. Be happy.’
‘And this Joey Curtains is involved how?’
‘Could be the driver. Could be one of the shooters.’
‘Whokaai, man, wait, wait, wait. You’re secret service. You supposed to keep us safe ’n sound. You’re supposed to know what’s going on. You’re telling me you know bugger all? A major oke gets done coming out of church, you didn’t know zilch about it?’
‘No.’
‘Chrissakes.’
Mart Velaze coming round on him. Fish pulling back. The man’s finger in his face. ‘You’re the PI. I’ve given you the client. I’ve told you there’s shit happening. I’ve given you a name and number. As of now I’m out of this. No more phone calls. No more contact. Think of your Vicki Kahn.’ Mart Velaze lowering his hand.
‘That’s a threat?’
‘Advice. Consider it advice.’
‘You leave her out of it.’
‘I want to. I will. Your Vicki Kahn’s on a fast-track. But things happen. You got to remember that.’ Mart Velaze reached forward, started the Audi.
‘One more thing,’ said Fish. ‘Daro Attaline.’ Fish bringing up the past. A case where a surfing buddy had gone missing, Mart Velaze somehow in the mix of that one.
Mart Velaze shook his head. ‘No idea.’
Fish stared at him. Mart Velaze staring back. Fish seeing nothing in his eyes. Shark eyes, not a glint in them.
‘That’s it,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘We’re done.’
‘You know,’ said Fish. ‘You know what happened to him.’
‘Out,’ said Mart Velaze.
‘One day. One day you’ll tell me.’ Fish saying it with meaning.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘Goodbye, Fish Pescado.’
Fish slid out of the car into the heat, pushed closed the door. Watched Mart Velaze drive off. Bloody spies in their bloody secret world. Like there wasn’t enough smoke and haze hiding what was going on.
32
Vicki had no urge for sightseeing. Five o’clock was four and a half hours away. Four free hours in Berlin, all she wanted was to lie in the quiet of her hotel bedroom, not feel so nauseous.
She could hear Henry Davidson. ‘You what? You went back to your room! Are you mad? All that time on your hands. You went back to your room?’
All the things a tourist could do in Berlin. See the Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe or the Jewish Museum, or hitch onto a tour of the Old Jewish Quarter?
‘If you’ve got to do the Jews,’ Henry Davidson had said, ‘take a wander through the old quarter. It’s not so in-your-face. There’s a memorial there by a chap called Will Lammert: these standing figures. Emaciated. Waiting. A little group of them. Quite disturbing, really. If you must see anything of the city’s horror, take a walk there. Forget about the concrete blocks, look at some real art.’ He’d patted his hair. ‘Of course there is always the Topography of Terror if you prefer that to Jewish.’
Right then, as she came away from Detlef Schroeder, Vicki wasn’t in the mood for doing Jewish or anything else. Right then Vicki wanted nothing other than to get back to her hotel. To stop feeling shitty. To think about Amina, about what Amina had seen in the creepy Detlef Schroeder.
She reversed the journey of earlier in the day. Took a bus down Kant to the Zoo terminus, the 100 across the Tiergarten up the Unter den Linden. Couldn’t give a monkey’s if she was being followed or not. If she was, give them something to do. Sat in the bus, wiped condensation from the window to stare at the busy city. In this cold, the city going on uncaring.
She thought about Amina in such weather. Wrapped in a coat, hurrying through the icy streets, her breath visible, the snow squeaking beneath her boots. Amina heading for a liaison with Detlef Schroeder. Her lover. Was she followed too? By the spies spying on the spy? Or by her own, keeping tabs on her? What did Vicki know about her? Nothing. Just family lore about an aunt who’d been in the Struggle. Been called a terrorist. Would have been locked up if caught in Cape Town, gone through the terrors of a Security Branch interrogation. Instead she’d been assassinated by an icing unit. This much was known.
Detlef Schroeder was saying there was more. That maybe her own had wanted her gone. Maybe she was a nuisance because of her knowledge of this Dr Gold. Maybe there was something else other than Dr Gold?
And what else was he on about? ‘It is not a short story. But it is important for you. For your family.’ What could be important to her family? What was left of her family. Both parents deceased. No siblings. Some relations still in Athlone, others in Johannesburg. Not exactly what you’d call close-knit. The family had fallen apart even before the deaths of her parents; everyone too into their own lives.
So what could Detlef Schroeder tell her that would get family tongues wagging? There weren’t any busybody aunts left anymore.
She got off the bus at the Marienkirche, the landmark she’d remembered, crossed Karl-Liebknecht, working her way back through the small st
reets to the hotel. Stopped at a café, thinking maybe ginger tea or chamomile might be an option. Smelt the coffee and walked out. Had to. Her once-upon-a-time must-have drug was going cold turkey on her. Next thing she’d have a withdrawal headache.
In a small supermarket Vicki bought two packets of Maria biscuits. Wondered if two packets would be enough. Then again, the shop was just around the corner.
She tore open the packet outside the shop, crunched down on a biscuit, swallowed, the mush taking off the nausea’s edge. She could rest for two hours then trek back to Schroeder’s place. What a drag.
Vicki stepped into her hotel room, thought, strange, the cupboard door wasn’t closed, a fraction ajar. Hotel like this, house staff would get it perfect. Her bed was made, everything freshened up smelling faintly of roses. One of the first things they’d taught her, look for disturbance. Caught her eye instantly, the cupboard door. Glanced in the bathroom: nothing out of place. Her box of goodies – toothpaste, floss, deodorant, moisturiser, headache pills, contraceptive pills, pads, tampons, clippers, scissors, tweezers – as she’d left it. New bottles of gel and shampoo in the shower. Went back to the cupboard.
Stood staring at the door, preparing herself. Expecting the safe unlocked, her netbook gone. Her visitors intent on leaving a message as much as theft. Thought, hell, not twenty-four hours in the city, you’ve caught the paranoia. Or Schroeder’s version: eyes watching everything, ears always listening, scare-tactic phone calls. Aside from the flash drive, no reason she’d be on anyone’s surveillance list. No reason for anyone to toss her room. The cliché popping up. Vicki shook her head, smiled. Henry Davidson would be amused. She wasn’t. Something on the flash drive causing ripples even here.
Vicki Kahn took a breath, opened the door. Her clothing as she’d unpacked: underwear on the right of the shelf, T-shirts on the left. At the back, the safe shut. She exhaled. Reached forward, pressed her code into the keypad, the door buzzed open. Her netbook there, her passport, her wallet of credit cards.
Except they were on top of the netbook. The way she remembered it, she’d put them in first, to the side. The nausea came up again, sent her scurrying for more Maria biscuits.
Went back to the safe, took out the netbook. Sat on the couch, flipped up the screen. Thinking, here goes: switched on, watched everything opening as per. Okay, what’d they done?
They?
Could’ve been a man alone. A woman alone.
A man alone she decided. Neatly dressed, jacket and tie, black slacks, a coat over his arm. Came into her room, shut the door, dropped his coat on the bed, pulled on latex gloves. Went straight to the safe. Had an override key. Got out the netbook, maybe sat where she was sitting. Copied her files, maybe left some spyware inside. Some little sting that’d come alive when she connected.
Job done. Pocketed his memory stick, returned everything as he’d found it. Well, almost. Had flipped through her passport, checked her credit cards, put them back on top of the computer. Not very professional. Again, maybe that was deliberate. We’ve been here. We can do this. The man locking the safe. Not quite closing the cupboard door. Giving a short psst of air-freshener to hide his scent. Pulling off the gloves, picking up his coat. Took the lift as if he was checked in. Quietly walking out of the hotel foyer behind a group of Americans on a sightseeing tour.
What’d he got for his expedition? A bunch of useless files: legal case histories, spreadsheets of statistics, internal memos about holiday protocols, iTunes with her music, a file of photographs, mostly of surfer-boy Fish, downloads from news websites. Big deal. No state secrets because she didn’t know any state secrets. Nothing there worth anything.
‘Always keep a lot of useless stuff on your computer,’ was the wisdom of Henry Davidson. ‘Just in case someone thinks they should copy your hard drive. Give them a sizeable haul.’ Henry snickering at the ruse. ‘Give them Alice’s evidence.’
‘Alice’s evidence?’
‘Nothing whatever.’
What Henry couldn’t snicker away was how it spooked her. Harassment calls were one thing. A faceless man with latex gloves another. A man unfazed, knowing she was out. Having easy access. Going through her stuff.
Had to have inserted spyware. Some key-logging system. Left the little clues to make her life uncomfortable for a few hours? Seemed so completely pointless, the whole exercise.
She pulled her boots off, lay back on the bed. Crashed out on the bed more like it. Closed her eyes. One minute lying there imagining the man with the gloves in her room, the next it was two hours later. The room gone grey in the winter light.
She woke spluttering, a well of saliva pooled in her mouth. Propped herself up on her elbows, groaned at the rise of bile in her throat. The digital clock on the television read 15:32.
Time to go back to Detlef Schroeder. She sighed. The bus rides were the last thing she needed. The hard cold stinging her face. But she wanted Amina’s story.
Vicki eased off the bed, wondering if she should change. Decided against it. Put through a call to Detlef Schroeder. Always best to check ahead.
‘My dear, my dear,’ he said, ‘where are you at this time?’
At this time she was staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. Finding it hard to motivate herself. ‘I’m sorry. What?’
‘Where are you? Nearby perhaps?’
‘At my hotel.’
‘So, good. Good. Then I will not inconvenience you. My apologies for this, but you see I must make new arrangements with you. Now it is not possible to meet again today. My apologies.’
‘No?’ Vicki frowned. Thought, what was he playing at? What could possibly have come up in the old man’s life? What could possibly happen in his world these days? Very little.
‘You must understand, please. I am sorry, there are sometimes complications in my life when other matters interfere. This is something out of my control. You have something in your life like this, where you are not in control? I’m sure. It is the human condition. We are at the whims of fate, you will agree? Please, my apologies for these whims. So we make a new arrangement. We meet tomorrow instead. In the morning at eleven o’clock, would be perfect for you perhaps?’
She wanted to say, no, you ancient bastard, what is so bloody important you can’t give me half an hour? Instead, she said, ‘Alright.’
‘Thank you. This is very important to me that we meet. I have important things to tell you, Vicki Kahn, about your aunt. One other important thing I must tell you is that you are like an apparition for me.’
She heard him chuckle. ‘Like a visitor from the past. Auf wiedersehen, Vicki Kahn, until tomorrow.’
Then disconnected, leaving Vicki wondering what was more important – their second meeting or whatever had caused him to cancel. Probably he just wanted to seem important: a long-forgotten spy still pretending he was in the game.
Which left her now with empty hours.
Vicki wiped the lipstick from her lips, stared into the mirror. Something tired in her eyes. A dullness to their brown. No glint. Her cheeks waxy. Her mouth slack. She bowed her head. Decided a long bath first, then a couple of hours at 888poker.
If she started early, she could get an early night. Play through to nine, that’d give her watchers a thrill. Phone Fish, be lights out by ten. All bright-eyed for Detlef Schroeder’s tales of love and intrigue in the morning.
Yes. She ran a bath. Lay for a good while wondering about Amina. What had happened in Botswana? Who had killed her in Paris? Her own or an icing unit? And what was the more Detlef Schroeder had to tell? Assuming he even intended telling her more. Assuming he wasn’t behind whoever had gone through her stuff.
33
They sat in the bunker at the long table, Zama and the president. The generals were gone. The president distracted, drumming his fingers against the teapot. Zama flicking through emails on his phone. The sound of gunfire from the television, the volume down.
Zama shut his phone, said, ‘This is impossible for me. Ask my br
others to do it. They do nothing.’
‘No.’ The president again fascinated by the video footage of the massacre: the soldiers dropping beneath the gunfire. The man in the window firing out. ‘He was brave shooting like that. A brave warrior.’ The president breaking into a run of Zulu praise for the soldier. Until incoming blew out the building. ‘Such cowards, cowards to fight like that. You must go there, Zama, sort them out.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You are afraid?’
‘No.’
‘My son is afraid.’
Zama watched his father open the jar of honey on the tea tray. Dip a teaspoon into the honey, bring the spoon to his mouth. The tinkle of the teaspoon placed back on a saucer. Then the president wiped his fingers with a napkin. His movements fastidious, almost delicate. His fingers not those of an old man, the skin hardly folding at the knuckles.
‘No. That is not my reason.’
‘You are afraid. That is why you left the army. Yes? Because you are afraid of this fighting.’ The president folded the napkin, laid it on the tray. Lifted the remote, brought up the sound. ‘All those bullets.’
‘Ask my brothers to do this,’ said Zama. ‘Mining is no business for me.’
‘What is your business? Models. Fashion. What sort of business is this for a president’s son? That is women’s work. For gay boys. Maybe that is your problem.’
Zama stood, looked down at his father. ‘My life is my life.’
The president smiled. ‘Sometimes it is not always like that, my son. Sometimes others become interested. They want to know what is happening in our lives. Mr President, they say to me, why is your son with all these fashion boys? Once he was a captain. Now he is …’ The president flapped his wrist.
Zama laughed. Forced, hard. No mirth in the sound. ‘No,’ he said. Turned towards the door. ‘No, you must find one of my brothers.’
‘I have found you. I have found Linda Nchaba.’
Zama paused. Coming round slowly to face his father.
‘You see, you know this name?’
