Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  Zama too exposed to deny it. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She is safe.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘You do this thing, then we will bring her back to you. You cannot let a woman like that run around. She is pretty, this Linda Nchaba.’

  Zama came down at his father, fast. Angry. Got in the old man’s face, could smell his honeyed breath.

  ‘You leave her for me, you hear. You leave that girl for me.’ The spray from his outburst flecking the president’s face. ‘Where is she?’ Zama thinking, how? How had his father’s spies found her first?

  ‘You must have no worries, my son.’ The president rising from his chair. ‘When you are finished this job, she will be waiting.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Slow, separate words.

  ‘That doesn’t matter for the moment.’

  ‘Where is she?’ Zama bunched his fists into his father’s jacket. ‘Tell me!’

  The president put his hand against his son’s chest, pushed him away. ‘Let me go.’

  Zama kept his hold. The two men taut, rigid.

  ‘Let me go.’

  Zama released his grip, stepped back. Watched his taut-faced father straighten his jacket.

  ‘This Linda Nchaba has caused trouble. Trouble for us all, my son. Not only here, in other countries, too. I am told she has a lot on her conscience to clear away. You must be more careful with your fashion girls. You must keep a stronger grip. We cannot have them talking to whoever they want.’

  Zama ignored the taunting, said, ‘Tell me where she is.’

  ‘First you make the mine safe.’ The president nodding at the television screen.

  ‘That will take weeks. Months maybe.’

  ‘There is no problem. Linda Nchaba can wait. Why not? She has everything, all that a young woman can want.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘How what?’

  ‘Nothing. Forget it.’ Zama sat, looking up at his father: bastard. The bastard. It was him all along.

  His father saying, ‘The sooner you begin, the less time she must wait. When everything is working, then you can have Linda Nchaba.’ Chuckling. ‘We have a deal? I think so. I think this is a good deal, my son. We will show the rebels they cannot make trouble for us.’

  Zama didn’t hear him, shifted his eyes away from his. How had he even known about her? The questions circling like vultures. Zama only half-aware of other people entering the room, his father making introductions. He glanced up.

  A tall man held out his hand. A woman to his side wearing ripped jeans, a T-shirt in leopard print. Pretty woman. Angular as a model. The way she held herself, she’d be no stranger to the camera.

  The man said, ‘Major Vula.’

  Zama stood, shook hands. A strong quick grip. The major releasing, making no eye contact.

  The woman likewise, eyes down. Her hand warm in his. A smile on her lips. ‘I am Nandi,’ she said.

  Zama flicking from the woman to the major, thinking, not his wife. Unless the major was another of the dinosaur polygamists. Unlikely though, the way she was dressed. The major was uptight. Rigid. Severe. A man with worries. He would not have a household of wives.

  ‘He is my son,’ said the president, putting a hand on Zama’s shoulder. ‘Once he was a captain, Major. Like you, a military man.’ He took the woman Nandi’s hand, held it in both of his. ‘My dear, you are welcome to my palace. This is a place where we are all friends. You know what I mean? A place we can relax with everyone.’

  Behind them, scenes of killing spooled across the flat-screen. The soundtrack now muted. Major Vula’s eye drawn there.

  ‘That is a rebel attack,’ said the president. ‘A massacre of miners. You can see, a very bad scene. Lots of casualties. Heavy casualties. Even all our soldiers. These rebels are a problem, Major. A big problem. Even for us here, they are a problem.’ The president shook his head. ‘But you know this. I cannot tell you this news.’ He ushered them towards the door. ‘We cannot stay down here all day. We have sunshine. We have lunch to eat. Come, my dear.’ The president ushering Nandi before him. ‘You are like one of these model women.’ His glance sliding to Zama, Zama not rising to it. ‘All the young ones have the bodies of models. It is good to see such health. Remind me to give you a jar of my delicious African honey. It is good for the skin and the digestion.’

  Nandi giggled.

  Zama liked the sound. Perhaps Nandi was a party girl. Another of the flock that swirled through Bambatha. She would find her weekend here demanding. Then so would the major. Zama stood aside at the door.

  ‘After you.’ His eyes on her round backside in the tight jeans.

  The smile she flashed him, demure. Zama liked demure. Demure often hid the wild ones.

  As he closed the door to the bunker, the president said, ‘Zama is going into the rebel territory, Major. You must talk to him about this Kolingba. This colonel who has taken refuge among us.’

  34

  The men didn’t introduce themselves. Let themselves into the apartment, greeted her with smiley faces. They weren’t the men from the airport. They’d been white. Or whitish. Coloured. These were young men, the jeans and leather jacket brigade. Now bundled into anoraks like Michelin men. One with spectacles, the other holding a box of pastries.

  Linda Nchaba sat on a couch. Showered, wearing black tights, a thigh-length dress. Self-possessed. Looking stronger than she felt.

  ‘Who are you?’ Stared at them, arms folded across her chest. Heart racing.

  ‘Nobody, sisi,’ said the one with the box. ‘Doesn’t matter. We are your friends. We are the ones who phoned.’ He moved to put it down on the kitchen counter.

  The one with glasses said, ‘We have fresh croissants, sisi. You can make coffee.’

  The men shrugged out of their anoraks. Linda Nchaba watched them, these two guys waltzing around unconcerned. Like they knew her.

  ‘Make your own coffee. I’m not your Zulu girl.’

  ‘Hey, my brother, what’d we hear about her?’ The men laughing. The one who’d said they were nobody, saying in Zulu, ‘They tell us you have a wild tongue.’

  ‘Crazy as a mamba.’ The man with glasses filling the kettle. ‘We can make the coffee, sisi, we are your friends. Zulu boys make good coffee.’ The men doing a high five. Young men playing the fool.

  ‘Who undressed me?’

  That brought a stop to the banter. The one sighed. The other busied himself finding mugs in a cupboard.

  Linda Nchaba relaxed her arms, raised a hand, waved it. ‘Hey, hey, look at me.’ Neither man meeting her gaze. ‘You! You with the glasses? What’s your name?’ Not waiting for a response. ‘Look at me. Your friends kidnapped me. Your friends abused me.’

  The men shuffling, fidgeting with kitchenware.

  ‘It is bad. We are sorry.’ This from the coffee-maker.

  ‘We have made a complaint.’

  ‘You have made a complaint.’ Linda Nchaba snorted, raised both arms, her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, that is fine. That’s okay. Nothing to worry about. All sorted.’ Dropped her hands. Groaned. ‘My God! My God! Who are you from?’

  The men still not looking at her, nodding.

  ‘You were there.’ Linda Nchaba sat forward, put her head in her hands. Zama. This was Zama’s punishment for her. ‘You were there. You bastards were there. You did nothing. You let them do it. You watched. You also …’

  ‘No, no,’ said the one with glasses. ‘We were not there. We came afterwards.’

  ‘We did not know. They told us you are fine, you are sleeping. Everything is okay. But still we came to check.’

  ‘You touched me?’

  The men standing silent, heads bowed.

  ‘We put you in the bed, covered you.’

  ‘I was naked. You took pictures?’

  ‘No. Never. We covered you. That is all, sisi. We are sorry. This is a very bad thing.’

  A very bad thing, Linda Nchaba hearing the words, their echo loud in her head.


  ‘A very bad thing. A very bad thing.’ Standing now, shouting. ‘I’ve been kidnapped. I’m sore and bruised. I have men undressing me while I’m drugged. This is a very, very bad thing. Why am I here? Today I should be in France. I have a job in Paris. Who are you? You bring croissants and you want coffee like I am your sister. You think kidnapping me is nothing.’ In two paces she was at the counter, picked up the box of croissants, hurled it into the sitting room. Swept the mugs onto the floor. ‘You chase me. You capture my gogo. You abuse me. Why? Why? Tell me why? What have we done to you?’ Linda Nchaba wiping tears from her face, staring at the men. Quiet now. ‘You say you are my friends. Why? Tell me why?’

  ‘We are not those chasing you,’ said the one who had brought the croissants. He went over to pick up the box, the croissants scattered on the floor. ‘We had to save you.’

  ‘In France,’ said the man with glasses, ‘they were waiting for you.’

  ‘Of course they were.’ Linda Nchaba seeing herself reflected in the man’s glasses. Her chin jutting out, challenging. ‘You can say that.’ She sniffed, blew her nose. ‘You can say that. It is easy. You can say anything you like. What do I know? You could be talking rubbish. All of it, rubbish. How can I believe you?’ Coughed to clear her throat, cover the crack in her voice.

  The shorter one, the one who had picked up the box, said, ‘We know that, sisi. We ask you, believe us.’

  ‘Pah! Who was waiting for me in France?’

  ‘Some from the dgse.’

  ‘I’m supposed to know what that is?’

  ‘The old French intelligence service.’

  ‘From before.’ The man with the glasses taking a packet of coffee from a cupboard of groceries. ‘From the Struggle days, they have contacts with some of us. Some bad comrades.’ Spooned three helpings into a cafetière. ‘You don’t want to know about them.’ He poured water over the coffee.

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘They would have killed you.’

  Linda Nchaba rubbed at her eyes. ‘You save me from the French so that your friends can leave me naked? Photograph my body to put on the internet? Hey? Yes? Is that what they have done?’ Another of Zama’s little tricks. She turned away. Went to the window. A woman in a long coat and boots, under a red umbrella, walking down the street. A woman cycling with a dog in the front basket. Ordinary life going on. ‘Tscha! You are men. You are the problem.’ Aware suddenly of her trembling. Clasped one hand over the other. Don’t let them know your fear. Stay angry. She spun towards them. Knew they could see only her outline against the grey light. ‘What do you want with me? Hey, butis? My saviours. My heroes. What happens now, can you tell me? Maybe you are the messenger boys? So, my messenger boys, tell me. Tell me the message from your boss.’

  ‘Ai, sisi, we come to protect you, you mustn’t blame us.’ The shorter one, biting into a croissant. Chewing. Crumbs fluttering from his mouth.

  ‘Now. Now you come to protect me. After the Dutchmen have attacked me. Sho, what protection is this?’

  ‘Here is coffee,’ said the one with glasses, pouring from the plunge pot. ‘We’ll tell you.’

  Linda Nchaba took the offered mug and a croissant too. Hunger roiled in her stomach. Bit, chewed, taking a sip of coffee to swallow the mouthful. She sat perched on the couch, the muscles in her shoulders tight, her long neck stiff with tension. Eyes flicking from one man to the other.

  They sat on the couch facing her: also on edge, sitting forward. The shorter one now dunked his croissant before each mouthful. The one with glasses didn’t eat, held his coffee mug with both hands. He spoke.

  ‘Our mission …’

  ‘Your mission? Your mission for who?’

  ‘We are Foreign Branch.’

  ‘Before, we were called the SA Secret Service.’ The shorter urgent between mouthfuls. ‘Now we are all together, the new State Security Agency.’

  Linda Nchaba closed her eyes, in the darkness conjured an image of her grandmother on a mat on a concrete floor. Head bowed, shoulders slumped. ‘You belong to the president.’

  ‘We belong to the country.’ The one with glasses coming in quickly.

  Linda blinked to get focus, looked at him. ‘It is the same thing.’

  Both men shook their heads. ‘No.’

  ‘Our mission is to be with you. Keep you safe.’

  ‘Safe from kidnappers? You are kidnappers.’

  ‘We are here now.’

  ‘You were there then.’

  ‘No, we told you. We weren’t there when they caught you.’

  Again Linda Nchaba closed her eyes, massaged her forehead with the fingers of her left hand. ‘Ai. You guys. What, what?’ She gazed at them again, defeated. Both of them staring at her. Two men on a mission, foreign agents in a strange land. First the woman, Vicki Kahn, now these two. Everyone supposed to be friendly. Everyone wanting something from her. Wait till they saw the video on the flash drive. That would make them grateful.

  She let the tension out of her shoulders. Rolled her head. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘tell me what happens now.’

  ‘Now we wait,’ said the one with glasses. ‘Today, tomorrow, soon there will be someone to see you. They will explain.’ He smiled at her. ‘Until they come, we are your protection. We will keep you safe.’

  Linda Nchaba drank her coffee. A bitter, thin liquid.

  35

  Joey Curtains’ attitude was to hell with Prosper Mtethu. What was his case? Don’t drive! Take a taxi to the hospital. No ways, my bru. Not on a Friday night. This sort of job, you needed wheels. You needed to leave the scene asap. How’re you supposed to do that on foot? Run? Wait for a taxi? A running man’s got to be a thief, mugger, rapist. A passing cop sees a running man, he chases after him. Shoots him most likely.

  The other option, take a taxi. Joey Curtains could see himself waiting for a taxi. Rush hour. Cleaners, nurses, shelf-packers standing on the kerb, wanting a taxi. Everybody in the taxis squeezed tight already. Like going home among the workers is the way to leave the Kolingba job.

  Not a blerry chance.

  Joey Curtains parked his BM in a side street. This white 2009-model 3 Series with 110,000 on the clock he’d picked up for forty grand at an auction. A giveaway. He couldn’t believe his luck. The leather interior still smelt new, a sunroof for those brilliant days. Manual transmission, air-con, sound system to rock the chicks. Sixteen-inch mag wheels that spoke to his heart. His heart that’d gone apeshit during the bidding. Taken a couple of minutes to get his voice back afterwards.

  Zapped the lock as he walked away. Five paces, looked back to give it a check. Very nice. Three weeks he’d had it. Three weeks of driving with the angels. He’d get into the car afterwards, drift into the highway traffic, he’d be home safe. Let Prosper take a taxi. Sit in the crush for an hour. All that sweat and cabbage breath.

  Joey Curtains, dapper in light jacket, brown slacks, walked into the hospital foyer, there was Prosper Mtethu reading a newspaper on a bench. Right underneath a camera. CCTV cameras everywhere. Bored security guard chatting up a nurse near the doorway. Guy’d probably been on duty all day, his shift about to end.

  Joey Curtains took a look at the board giving floor designations. No clue on which floor Kolingba’d be. Decided to go outside and have a smoke, wait for Prosper to make the moves.

  Been there most of his cigarette admiring the view. Some view: the roofs of Observatory, distant cranes in the harbour. Wondering, what’s with Prosper? When’s he going to start the show? Then out drifts the man himself, newspaper folded under his arm. Comes over, asks for a cigarette. Joey Curtains goes through the act, takes out a packet, taps up a stick. Prosper lifting out the offering. Asks for a light. Joey Curtains flicks his Bic, the two men standing there like they’d come to visit ailing loved ones.

  Prosper said, ‘ICU is fourth floor. Out of the lift turn left. Kolingba is the third unit, left-hand side.’

  Joey Curtains not sure what to do with this.

&n
bsp; ‘So, my brother, we gonna just walk in there? Like, howzit, can we have a moment with the colonel?’

  ‘You. Not we. You.’

  Joey Curtains laughed. ‘Uh, uh, uh. No play today.’

  Prosper flicked ash. ‘Fifteen years ago I stopped cigarettes. Twenty-three years I smoked. From age thirteen. Always, I liked the first time you pull in the smoke from a new cigarette. It is still good.’ He stubbed the cigarette, bending it on itself. ‘You go to the colonel. I will make a distraction.’

  ‘Simple, hey.’

  ‘Yes. Up there in ICU it is chaos. Like wartime. I’ve seen it before, that sort of situation. People rushing about.’

  ‘So it’s hectic. So I can slide in. How’m I supposed to do it?’

  Joey Curtains wishing Prosper would look at him. The man gazing off like he wasn’t part of this.

  ‘Since he was shot, the colonel is in a coma. It will be no problem for you. Nothing that is difficult. He has the oxygen mask. You lift it, pinch his nose closed with your fingers.’ Prosper pinching his own nose, now turning to meet Joey Curtains’ eyes. ‘A minute maybe, that is all it takes.’ A pause. ‘You can do it this way? Kill a man this way? With your fingers.’

  Joey Curtains couldn’t hold those eyes. Their blackness too solid. No compromise there. Only judgement. He looked away at the traffic clogging Main Road.

  Heard Prosper saying, ‘It is not the same as with a gun. With a gun you don’t feel the man’s life dying. If you want, you can watch it. But you are separate. You are not connected. With this job you can feel the life go. Even the unconscious colonel will jerk when he cannot breathe. I ask you again, you are okay with that, my friend?’

  Those black eyes searching his face. Joey Curtains thinking he couldn’t trust Prosper Mtethu. ‘Why don’t you do it?’

  ‘I can do it. No problem.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The order was for you. I am the officer. I have made the plan.’

  ‘That’s the plan, my brother? I walk in there, pinch his nose closed. You reckon that’s gonna happen? The security’ll be on me long before.’

  ‘There is one police.’