by Mike Nicol
‘One is enough.’
‘I will make a distraction. It will be easy for you. Afterwards you go down the corridor, there is a door to stairs at the end. No problem. You can walk away.’
‘Stairs to where?’
‘They take you into another building. You can go home.’
Oh, ja, thought Joey Curtains, simple like a pimple. He tapped a finger on Prosper Mtethu’s chest. ‘You better not be shitting me, my brother.’
Prosper Mtethu reached up, put a grip on his hand. Joey Curtains pushed back, feeling the strength of the older man. Realised they were being watched. An ambulance man, leaning against the building, smoking, grinning at their antics. Joey Curtains laughed, broke the moment. Clapped Prosper on the back. Whispered, ‘We are being watched, my brother.’
‘Then you must stop the nonsense.’ Prosper Mtethu saying loudly, ‘Come, time to see family.’ The two of them going past the smirking ambulance man into the foyer.
Inside, Prosper said to Joey Curtains, ‘I go in the first lift. You take the next one.’
Joey Curtains thinking, all this on CCTV. Blerry wonderful. Kept his face averted. No ways they’d get a clear visual.
The lift pinged, the doors opened, he was in it. Two nurses with him, who got off at the third floor.
Fourth floor Joey Curtains came out of the lift seeing what Prosper meant. Commotion. People on gurneys, people on crutches, nurses, doctors. Like this was some casualty ward. There’s Prosper at the nurse’s station, into his distraction, waving his newspaper. His voice high-pitched.
Joey Curtains went left down the corridor. Units either side, people in them dead to the world. Wired up, bags of gunk dripping into their arms, heads, hearts, any place the medicos could hook a feed.
Sitting on a chair opposite the colonel’s door, the cop, standing up now, intent on the scene of Prosper rampant. Joey Curtains hearing Prosper’s voice, loud, demanding, the slap of the newspaper on the counter top, the cop brushed past him to sort out the fracas.
Joey Curtains entered the colonel’s unit, there was a white guy lying on the bed. Guy had most of his head in bandages, most of his torso too, a blood leak crimson on his shoulder. Only his one arm showing. A hairy arm. Freckles. Sun spots on the hand. The guy’s eyes open, staring at him. Blue eyes.
‘Long live,’ said Joey Curtains, waving.
Shit, thought Joey Curtains, turning on the spot. So much for Prosper and his plan. Went across the corridor to the opposite unit, the one the cop’d been sitting outside. Maybe Prosper couldn’t tell left from right.
Inside what looked like a woman. Not much visible but the bumps on her chest, the giveaway in Joey’s assessment. Also too short to be Colonel Kolingba.
Fok!
In the corridor Joey Curtains made a decision. Bugger this. Abort. Get out. At the nurses’ station Prosper still in full anguish, the cop restraining him, moving him towards the lifts.
Joey Curtains reckoned probably ten units along the corridor. No ways he could pop in and out of every one until he found the colonel. If he found the colonel. No telling if the colonel was still here. Might have been transferred to a private hospital. Anyone with any sense’d do that.
What a balls-up. The thought occurring that the whole safari was a con. Could be tacked down to Prosper’s not being committed to the operation from the get-go. Or worse, a set-up. Not something Joey Curtains wanted to contemplate. Except the more he looked at it, the more he got the rittles. A cold skin creep. He looked down the corridor, those rittles brought up the hairs on his arm.
There was Prosper Mtethu pointing his way, the cop taking out his gun. Shouting, ‘Hey! Hey!’ Prosper shouting, ‘Stop him. Stop him.’ Prosper no longer doing a distraction, now Prosper on some other mission: mission take down Joey Curtains.
The cop yelling, waving his pistol. Joey Curtains couldn’t see him shooting. Too many pop-up targets might take the lead.
All the same, Joey Curtains ran. Headed down the corridor remembering what Prosper had said, stairs at the end, no problem, you can walk away. Oh, ja, nice one, my brother. Had to be Prosper had back-up at the bottom of the stairs.
Hello, Joey boykie, we got a car round the corner. This way, bru. Quick. Quick.
Ja, like that was gonna happen.
36
Joey Curtains ducked into the stairwell, went up not down. Two storeys higher he stopped. Could hear the cop and Prosper going down. The clatter of the cop’s boots. The cop still shouting. ‘Hey, hey, stop, man, stop. Police.’
Made Joey Curtains smile. He pushed through double doors into an empty ward. Checked for CCTV cameras. Nothing. Some beds up against the walls. Drip stands. Stainless-steel food trolleys. Gurneys. Stack of blankets on a couch. A table down the far end, cups, an urn, kettles, tea packets, coffee tins stacked on it. Filtering from somewhere a television golf commentary the only sound in the quiet. No voices. Joey Curtains went through this ward into a corridor. The commentary coming from an open door to his left. He went right along a passage with milky windows giving him a vague outline of Devil’s Peak. Meant he was headed away from the hospital entrance. There’d be police out there soon enough. Wouldn’t take Prosper long to work out which way he’d gone. He slowed. Facing him, a bank of lifts. Corridors to the left and right. No CCTV.
Keep right, boykie, he thought. His trainers squeaky on the lino, Joey Curtains walking fast, not running. Locked rooms both sides. No telling where he was.
He tried doors as he went, one opening into an empty room. Through a barred window saw tree tops, what looked like gravestones in the distance. Joey Curtains relaxed. Had his bearings now. If he could make it to the graveyard, he’d be away.
Came out of the room, there was a cleaner staring at him. Big woman with a mop, bucket of soapy water. Hadn’t heard her coming.
Joey Curtains went into his broken Xhosa, asked how he got out of the place.
The woman clicked her tongue. Told him there were stairs.
‘Where? Where’s the stairs?’ Using English now.
The woman waved her mop, pointed farther down the passage. There was another cleaner beckoning to him. The two mocking him in their language. The stupid couldn’t find his way out.
Down a flight, at an open door, more cleaners unloading from a van. Joey Curtains hurried past them, going down the road. Out of sight, vaulted the wall into the graveyard.
Could hear sirens as he took a well-worn path across the grounds. Old gravestones scattered about. Names you couldn’t read. Dates worn away. Most of the graves untended. Joey Curtains walked fast, not glancing back. Plenty of tree cover to keep him hidden. No sound of pursuit. At the far end, came out on a concrete parking area, passed between municipal buildings, walked downhill to Main Road. Ten minutes later was in his car thinking about Prosper Mtethu. Sat there in the side street, thinking about Prosper Mtethu. The Struggle hero. The grandfather who looked after a granddaughter.
Prosper Mtethu who’d done the planning. Who’d arranged the set-up. Who must’ve known Kolingba had been transferred, who’d pushed him into it anyhow.
Joey Curtains wondered what to do about Prosper Mtethu. Wondered what Prosper Mtethu would do about him. Thought maybe it wisest not to sleep at home. Wondered, too, should he phone the major? Major Vula going to throw a major shitstorm. The major going to tell him find the colonel, sort it. Joey Curtains thinking, enough with the fun and games. He needed a drink.
Decided Vusi’s on NY43 would be the place. Big noisy tavern. Lots of honeys on a Friday night. Blow a couple of Blackie bugles, scheme out a way to put this right.
His cellphone rang: unknown number. Joey Curtains connected, heard Prosper Mtethu saying. ‘Where’re you, my brother? Where’re you? There’s still cops here. Stay hiding.’
Joey Curtains said nothing, disconnected. Opened the back of the phone, took out the battery.
Ja, Prosper, ja, ja, ja.
Joey Curtains swung the ignition, headed for Vusi’s shebeen.
> 37
Vicki Kahn sat upright on the bed, pillows in the small of her back, netbook on her lap. Relaxed now after a long soak. Thinking, okay guys, you want to log my keystrokes, enjoy. Powered on the netbook.
Vicki wearing the hotel’s towelling bathrobe. On the side table, a cup of ginger tea, a peanut-butter sandwich from room service.
The woman who’d taken her order astounded. ‘You don’t want anything on the menu? Some club sandwich perhaps? You want a bread with peanut butter? This is all?’
The waiter who’d delivered it deadpan. Backing out the room with a ‘Guten appetit’.
Vicki smiled at her reflection on the screen. Big-time Friday night in Berlin.
She’d hardly got her system running, Skype popped its tune: Fish calling. Vicki thinking better now than later. Keyed him on. The two of them going through the hello babe routine. Fish’s blond hair wild.
‘Had a good surf?’ she said.
‘Blown out,’ said Fish, raised a Butcher’s to toast her. A gloss of condensation on the bottle. ‘Prost.’
Vicki lifted her cup of tea.
‘You’re not drinking! A whole minibar. Agency account, you’re not drinking?’
‘Not yet.’
Fish asked about the weather, the snow, said he’d taken a swim, a southeaster mushing up the bay.
Said, ‘How’d it go with the Kraut?’
She gave him the story. Ended: ‘What I can’t get my head around’s this old man having a thing with my aunt. Alright, he was younger, she must’ve seen something in him. But people don’t change their habits. The man’s still suspicious of everything. Reckons there’s a watcher in every shadow. Even had someone track me on the bus. Would you believe? And his place’s a mess. Smells like old food, you know, musty.’
Telling him then about the interrupted meeting in the morning, the cancelled arrangement in the afternoon. ‘Like what was the guy’s case? He’s got this busy life? At seventy whatever the hell age he is?’
Not telling him about the phone calls, the intruder, that probably there was a spy in her netbook, not telling him her boobs were sore, that she was nauseous all the time. Not telling him what she didn’t want to admit.
She told him that last bit, he’d be positive. Would be acceptable for Fish. Not that they’d talked about it. Never. Like getting together. Marriage. Children. It wasn’t an issue. But she knew. Vicki knew Fish would go for it. She’d seen him with kids. Grommets learning to surf. All the patience in the world had Fish. She told him her condition, it’d be another complication in her life. No ways Fish would see this as a difficulty.
Fish right there on her computer screen, riding his chair, clutching a bottle. Fish relaxed. Heading into his Friday night, would sink a few ales, blow a reefer, mellow with one of his muso chicks on the player: Laurie Levine, or that other one, Wendy Oldfield.
‘What’re you doing for supper?’ she asked.
Fish coming forward on the chair. ‘Fettuccini. Some fried courgettes and onions. A chocolate brownie from Knead to finish.’
‘More pasta.’ Vicki swallowed hard. The thought of fried onions enough to make her gag.
‘And you?’
‘Room service.’
‘All those restaurants you could choose from?’
‘Thanks very much. Go out in the frozen cold. Sit alone in some place with everyone else enjoying themselves. Battle with my non-existent German. Really enticing.’
‘Be adventurous. A spy in the spy capital.’
‘My name’s not Amina Kahn.’
Fish inclining his head. ‘I don’t know. Where’s it you work these days? Why’re you where you are?’
‘Point taken.’
Both of them smiling, Vicki wondering if anyone was listening this time? The thing about Skype was that it took some doing to break into. Quick conversations you could get away with. This one would be a sitting target. Not a problem. Fish understood the need for caution. Anyone listening would assume she knew her room’d been picked over. That she didn’t trust her netbook any longer. Anyone listening would get the message: she was a player, could handle the double game as well as any Berlin spy. Vicki shifted the conversation to Fish’s day. ‘You met …?’
‘I did.’ Fish tilting his chair. Keyed in: ‘The perfect spy.’
‘Yeah? Really?’
‘Mm-hmm. Very mysterious. Lots of smoke and mirrors.’
‘You believe any of it?’
‘Wouldn’t doubt it for a moment, as they say. Thing is’ – Fish breaking off for a quick guzzle – ‘thing is what’s his case?’
‘You asked him?’
‘I did.’
‘And?’
‘Personal, he says.’
‘Personal? That’s handy.’
‘Exactly what I said.’
‘Of course you did.’ Vicki desperately wanting another bite into her peanut-butter sandwich. But not wanting Fish to know. Fish saw her eating a sandwich he’d ask why, what, how much it cost? She keyed off the video. Pressed the microphone mute button.
Fish protesting. ‘Where’ve you gone? What’s up with the video? I can’t hear you?’
Vicki took a quick bite of the sandwich, chewed fast, swallowed. Wiped her mouth with the serviette, threw it aside, out of the camera angle. Got the video back, the sound with it.
‘Bloody wonderful connection,’ said Fish.
‘Modern technology.’ Vicki pulled a face. ‘You know? You were saying, he said it was personal?’
‘Right. Then I asked how come? He said he wouldn’t say. It was too close to home. What he did say was the – what shall I call it?’ Saw Vicki was entering text. Read, ‘The event.’ Typed: ‘Exactly, the event could’ve been rogue, black ops, whatever you guys call it. Extracurricular.’
Vicki said, ‘He told you this?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘And you don’t think it’s weird he tells you this?’
‘I think it’s very weird.’
Vicki back on instant message: ‘He’s using you. He could do his own dirty work.’
Fish read it, said, ‘He could. Instead he’s sent a client to me. Even given me the name of a person of interest. Very generous.’
Another message in caps: ‘HE’S BEING MANIPULATIVE.’
Fish tapped out: ‘I got my eyes open. It’s okay. Seems we’re on the same side.’
‘Seems is the word you’ve got to remember.’ Vicki saying it aloud, shaking her head.
Fish typed: ‘He’s your colleague.’
Got in response: ‘Except I don’t know him. I’ve never met him. I don’t even know who he works for. What’s the name he gave you?’
‘Joey Curtains. Mean anything?’
Vicki read the name on her screen, lifted her shoulders, her hands.
Fish wrote: ‘A field agent?’
‘I don’t know, Fish,’ Vicki said. Entered: ‘I can’t help you. It’s too new for me. There’re lots of field agents. Most of them off the books. Seriously strange how he’s contacted you.’
‘It’s a job,’ said Fish. ‘A paying client. Bit of intrigue on top. What more could you ask for?’
‘Just watch it.’
‘I will. Chill, Vics. I surf with sharks.’
Typed: ‘Not these sort of sharks.’ Heard Fish say, ‘Oh shit, the onions.’ Disappeared from her screen. Left her looking at a sink with unwashed dishes, banana skins.
Bananas. Bananas were something she could fancy. Get room service to bring up a couple, maybe another peanut-butter sandwich for emergencies.
Fish returned. ‘No harm done. They’re okay, crispy.’
‘Burnt.’
They both laughed. Fish saying, ‘Depends how you look at it.’
Vicki said, ‘You’d better go. Finish cooking your supper.’ Hesitated. Doubting Fish would have missed the opportunity to bring up Daro Attaline’s disappearance. Typed: ‘You ask him about Daro Attaline?’
Fish grinned. ‘Of course.’
‘And he said no idea.’
‘His exact words.’
‘You left it there.’
‘For the time being.’ Fish took a pull from the bottle of ale. ‘When’re you seeing Schroeder, tomorrow?’
Vicki told him.
‘Can’t wait to hear the great secret. Same time tomorrow?’
After they’d disconnected, Vicki wondered if he’d done anything more about Linda Nchaba. Was like Fish not to listen to a word she said. She finished the sandwich. No, Fish would’ve hinted if he’d been digging. Also there’d have been his Friday-afternoon dagga run to supply the ad guys, the academics, the bankers, lawyers, chartered accountants wanting a stoned weekend. Linda Nchaba would have to wait.
Right now Vicki’s thoughts were about maybe asking reception if she could move to another room. Or was that too paranoid? What did Henry always lecture: pretend. Pretend everything was fine. She decided, okay, she’d go with that. If there were listeners on her phone, listeners trying to hack into her Skype calls, so be it. Only to be expected. Pretend you’re cool. Nerves of steel. Shifted her thoughts to bananas, to peanut butter smeared thickly on ciabatta. Followed by 888poker. She switched off her cellphone, took out the battery. On the bedside phone, dialled room service.
38
Fish filled the pasta pot with water, set it on the burner. Turned up the heat. The image of Vicki sitting on the bed still vivid. Yo, she was pretty. That black hair. Those Indian eyes, deep, enigmatic. That sharp nose. The perfect lips like they were out of a catalogue. Fish sighed. Okay, only one more day. Sunday she’d be back.
He finished a Butcher Block, uncapped another one. What the heck? Live large. Only topic on his agenda was Joey Curtains.
His phone rang, the landline, an international number. Had to be mother Estelle. Fish hesitated. Not now, ma. Not now. Saw the name Rings Saturen circled on the pad. Tomorrow, he’d do it tomorrow, track down the politician’s unofficial CV. Let the call ring until voicemail picked it up. The thing about Estelle was her insistence. Her nagging. Fish drank off a mouthful of beer, turned his attention to matters food.
