Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  Mart Velaze turned round to look at the woman picking steaks off the grill with her fingers. When she stood against the light he could see through her dress. Brought the Afrikaans word woes to mind. Hectic, wild. One woes chickie this one.

  Heard the Voice say, ‘There’s a little present I want you to give the major. Usual place, tomorrow afternoon. Go with the ancestors, Chief. Enjoy.’

  43

  Fish woke to the wind. The endless bloody southeaster. Its rattle of the loose fascia board. Once more. Irritating. Relentless. This blow now into its third day. Soon it’d start wearing on the nerves. Another day of thrum and howl. Another day of blown-out surf. Sometimes winter couldn’t come soon enough in Fish’s scheme of things. Those days of glassy seas. Big-walled sets pushing in from some storm in the southern oceans. Oh, for the cold fronts.

  He reached for his phone, checked the time: 07:43. Got up for a piss, his bladder aching. Relieved, wandered through to the kitchen for a glass of water. In the open doorway, stood naked to the wind looking at his boat, the Maryjane.

  The boat he’d inherited. The boat he seldom took out. Wasn’t for his neighbour bugging him to go fishing, he’d never take it out.

  One thing facing a two-metre outrider wave feathering along the top, another thing being on the back of the ocean. The cop neighbour Flip loved it. Didn’t find the swells unsettling, the instability alarming. Called the motion rocking. Would go on about the peace of being out in the middle of False Bay with a cold beer. Only place Fish couldn’t hold his drink. Every time they went out – the three times they’d been out – Fish hurled a cat. A pale, amber cat.

  Great bloody way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

  Thing was, Flip could be useful. Had access to criminal files and dockets. Information. Fish had to keep in there, build some credit. You never knew when you needed a withdrawal.

  Heard a voice saying to him, ‘Mornings, Mister Fish.’ A toothless woman in a long jersey-knit dress down to her knees, coming round the house towards him. ‘Mister Fish doesn’t want to put on some trousers perhaps.’ The woman pointing at his genitals. ‘I can’t talk to Mister Fish with that thing dingle dangle. Please, Mister Fish, man.’

  ‘What you want, Janet?’ said Fish. Janet probably his own age. Looked twice that. Too much blue train, cheap wine. Too long sleeping rough. Janet one of the bergies slept on his back stoep sometimes. Fish kept a chair for them. His own social responsibility programme.

  ‘Some toast please, Mister Fish.’ Janet not looking at him, keeping her eyes on the Maryjane.

  ‘Yussis, Janet,’ he said, ‘what time is this?’ Shaking his head. ‘You’re making a habit of it. You know my rules.’

  ‘I know, Mister Fish,’ she said. ‘I know it’s mos early. I know only once a week. But Mister Fish, please man, please. One or two pieces. You knows I don’t ask in the normal course.’

  Fish finished his water. ‘Wait.’ Turned to go inside.

  Janet whistled. ‘Remember your trousers, Mister Fish.’ Called after him, ‘Where’s Miss Vicki, Mister Fish? Maybe Miss Vicki wants me to vacuum. I can do some quick cleaning for her.’

  ‘It’s my house,’ Fish shouted from the kitchen. ‘I do the cleaning.’ Janet’s ideas about gender roles related only to money.

  In the bedroom his cellphone rang. The name Cynthia Kolingba on the screen. He thumbed her on, didn’t even get to say hello.

  She went straight in, ‘Last night they tried to kill my husband again.’

  ‘What?’ Fish, fishing among discarded clothes on a chair. ‘Who did what?’

  She repeated herself. ‘Now he is moved to a private hospital, the Constantiaberg. Perhaps it will be safer there.’

  ‘Did they hurt him?’

  Fish sticking with the plural they for the moment. Heard what sounded like a sob. ‘No. He was safe. According to the policewoman, the assassin went into the wrong room. My husband was lucky.’ A pause. ‘Please, Mr Pescado, you must find out who is doing this.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fish, trying to dress while he talked to her. ‘Did anyone see this person? Get a description.’

  ‘They say it was a man. A metis. A brown man. What you call a coloured man.’

  ‘Height? Size?’

  ‘No, they can’t tell me exactly. They say he is tall. Not so big in the shoulders.’

  Fish found jeans, boxers. Thought, take this back a step or two. Mart Velaze still bothering him. Said, ‘Tell me again how Mart Velaze contacted you?’

  ‘I told you that he telephoned me.’

  ‘You’ve never met him?’

  ‘No. He phoned me. He said he is my husband’s friend. That you will find who has killed our daughter. Who has tried to kill my husband.’

  ‘And since then nothing from him?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did you try to phone him back?’

  ‘There was no number.’

  Fish struggled into his boxers. Pulled on jeans. Thinking, what was the SSA connection? Mart Velaze was SSA. But Joey Curtains? Not on the SSA payroll, Velaze had said. Had also said maybe Joey Curtains was a field agent. A hired gun. Except if Joey Curtains was freelance, he could be acting for anyone. Didn’t have to be on a SSA job. Could’ve been contracted by Kolingba’s opponents. Why not? Made sense. More sense than a SSA tender. Which was why the SSA wanted it handled off the books. Let Cynthia Kolingba pay the investigation fee. Handy solution. Always assuming Joey Curtains was involved somehow. Fish zipped his jeans.

  ‘Okay, Mrs Kolingba,’ he said. ‘If you can afford it, put private security on your husband.’

  ‘Yes. This is done.’

  ‘Let me see what I can do. Maybe I’ll contact you later.’

  ‘Please, Mr Pescado. If you can find these people, then they can be stopped. I fear for my husband. If men can get into a hospital so easily, they can do anything.’

  ‘It’s more difficult in the private ones.’ Fish hoping there was truth in his reassurance. ‘He should be fine.’

  ‘He is still in a coma, Mr Pescado. That is not fine.’

  Fish disconnected, went to the kitchen. There was Janet in the doorway, her odour reaching him.

  ‘Where was you, Mister Fish? I thought you had forgotten me.’

  ‘How’m I going to do that, Janet? You’re standing right there. I can see you. I can smell you.’

  ‘Ag, sorry for you, Mister Fish. You know mos on the mountain there’s no showers ’n Badedas for a lady.’

  Fish cut slices of bread, dropped two in the toaster. Boiled up water to make her tea. When he was done, handed her the plate and mug.

  ‘Mister Fish maybe got a spoon of jam for me, please, man, Mister Fish.’

  Fish gave her a jar of marmalade. Janet bent into a half-curtsy. ‘You’s too kind, my gentleman.’ About to retreat to her chair outside, she stopped.

  ‘There was a coloured man come here yesterday, Mister Fish.’

  ‘Oh yeah, what’d he want?’

  ‘I dunno. Man, I just sleeping here, Mister Fish, under the blanket to keep the wind out. But you know the blanket’s thin so I see him standing there peeping round the corner. First I think it’s another bergie, maybe Jonnie or Suzie or someone, also come for a bit of toast. Then I can see this is not a bergie. This man got a nice haircut, a nice jacket. Even Nike shoes. I stay still like I’m fast asleep. He sees me, he gets a fright. Even jumps a little bit backwards. Next thing, he goes down the drive to his car. A white car. Before he goes he takes some pictures with this big camera. He don’t see me.’ Janet frowning. ‘Mister Fish not going to sell, is you, Mister Fish? Was the coloured from estate agents?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ Fish shook his head. ‘I’m not selling.’ Wiped toast crumbs from his fingers. ‘What sort of car?’

  Janet sniggered. ‘It’s white, Mister Fish, man, I don’t know cars.’

  ‘You try and remember the number?’

  ‘Mister Fish always wants the numbers, hey? Last time I give you numbers, you help me with
a little cash.’

  ‘You got the number?’

  Janet told him off the top of her head. Fish wrote it down. ‘That cost you one hundred, Mister Fish.’

  ‘Okay, I owe you.’

  ‘You in my debt.’ Janet walked off to her chair. Called out, ‘You must tell Miss Vicki I think she a lucky girl. From what I seen.’

  44

  Kaiser Vula woke with a sense of dread. As if someone had been in the room. As if he had heard the snick of the door being closed. Lay unmoving, listened to silence. Distant lawnmowers, the sudden quark of hadedas in the garden. Listened to Nandi’s breathing: shallow, rhythmic. What had happened to her last night? The stupid woman getting so drunk. He refocused. Kept his eyes closed, kept absolutely still. In his temple the hammer of too much whisky. Even he had weakened beneath the president’s insistence.

  He put out an arm, found his cellphone: no missed calls, no message from Prosper Mtethu. No message from Joey Curtains. This did not sit well with Kaiser Vula’s pounding temples.

  In the bathroom, swallowed two headache tablets. Drank one of the mineral waters from the minibar, these chalets stocked like hotel rooms. Craved greasy food, a Coke.

  But first he needed to sweat out the Johnnie Walker Black.

  Kaiser Vula yanked on Lycra running shorts, moulded a neat bulge in his crotch, tight, macho. Reached in, adjusted his balls. Pulled on a T-shirt, laced up his trainers. Took one look at Nandi sprawled under the sheet.

  The president saying to him, ‘She is a young one. Young ones do these things.’ The president making light. ‘Have another Johnnie, Major.’ Calling for women to sort out the lovely Nandi. The lovely Nandi sprawled on a couch, flashing her thong. He’d accepted the Johnnie, turned away from the sight of the stupid, stupid girl’s dry-retching. What had she done to him? Forever now the sniggers of the major’s drunk girlfriend. Yo, yo, yo, remember that party where …

  Shit.

  The girl had been out of it. Crying, vomiting. The stink of her mess acrid in the room. What had she drunk? In front of the president. Never seen her behave like that before. The Nandi he knew was together. In control. Loving.

  He let himself out of the room through the French doors, went into the bright morning. Heat already pushing down. The sky a white glare of light. From somewhere came the laughter of people splashing in a pool. Kaiser Vula sucked his teeth, hardened his face, hid his eyes behind sunglasses. Set off across a lawn towards the security point.

  The guards saw him approaching, straightened up, snapped salutes as he passed through. Both guards grinning. The mad major running in this heat. Too much of the president’s good stock. They knew. They’d seen it all before.

  Kaiser Vula ignored them, ran onto the road, turned uphill, running easily, bottle of water in one hand, cellphone in the other. Didn’t take long for the sweat to start. For his chest to tighten. Ran against the pain, against the heat, up the long rise of the hill. Near the crest, a gravel road fed off towards woodlands. He took it: a red strip leading into shade, patchy shade, but shade out of the relentless sun.

  As he jogged, checked his cellphone signal: two bars. He stopped beneath a jacket plum, an old tree, tall, thick-leaved. The sort of tree the elders would gather under to discuss village affairs. A good place to hear what his men had to say. A place of wise counsel. Keyed through to Prosper Mtethu.

  Heard ringing, until the call went to voicemail.

  Kaiser Vula cursed. Wiped sweat from his brow, flicked it from his fingers, swore again. The throb of the headache behind his eyes relentless. Stale whisky thick on his tongue. He spat into the dirt. Where was Prosper Mtethu? Why had he not phoned? The major about to call Joey Curtains when his phone rang. Prosper Mtethu.

  ‘Major,’ he heard Prosper Mtethu say. ‘It is early.’

  ‘Not so early,’ said Kaiser Vula, heaving, still short of breath after his pull up the long hill. ‘You should have reported.’

  ‘It has not been easy,’ said Prosper Mtethu.

  Kaiser Vula stopped his breathing, squinted against the ache of his hangover. ‘Tell me.’ Keeping his voice low. ‘Tell me, Agent, tell me.’

  ‘The operation was not good.’

  Kaiser Vula hearing the words, the confirmation he dreaded.

  ‘You cannot say that to me, Agent Mtethu,’ he said. ‘That is not what you should report. You had strict orders to make this operation good. There could be no failure.’ He paused, rubbed his hand over the tree’s smooth bark, reassuring, dry. This bark he knew had protective charms. Maybe he should tell Nandi, have her make medicine from its magic. Shook his head to clear the thought. ‘Is that what you are telling me, that you have failed? This is your report?’

  ‘Yes, Major.’

  ‘You know there can be no failure.’ Kaiser Vula waited. ‘Where is Agent Curtains?’

  ‘I do not know what has happened to the agent,’ said Prosper Mtethu. ‘He does not answer his phone.’

  ‘Since how long?’

  ‘From yesterday.’

  ‘After the operation?’

  ‘Correct, Major.’

  ‘And this morning?’

  ‘Correct, Major.’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘I do not know, Major.’

  ‘He has not been detailed?’

  ‘No, Major.’

  ‘You know this for certain.’

  ‘I have checked, Major.’

  Kaiser Vula closed his eyes against his hangover. ‘You briefed him?’

  ‘Yes, Major.’

  ‘Then what, Agent? Explain it to me. What happened?’

  ‘Agent Curtains did not complete the operation.’

  Why did this not surprise him? Why was he expecting to hear that Joey Curtains had made this operation fuck up?

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There was a problem, Major.’

  ‘From last Sunday there have been problems, Agent. Nothing but problems. Big problems. This was a simple task with three trained men for the operation. Nothing should go wrong. But everything has gone wrong. Both times. I have to explain this, Agent Mtethu. I have to explain this to important people, why we could not perform a simple operation. Why we are so useless. What happened?’

  Kaiser Vula leant against the tree, looked back the way he had come, the roofs of the palace buildings just visible in the valley. Waited for Prosper Mtethu’s explanation. Imagined the veteran, probably standing to attention in his shorts and white vest, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Uncomfortable, resenting the conversation, the operation’s outcome.

  ‘I went to the target’s location and told Agent Curtains everything that I found out.’ Kaiser Vula nodding at the efficient language. Good. The young ones could learn from a man like this. ‘Then we went to the target. I told Agent Curtains he must go first, then I would come behind. He must go down the corridor to where the target is. While Agent Curtains was walking I made a disruption at the nurses’ station. During this time the policeman on guard came to find out what was causing my problem. He moved me back to the lifts. During this time I did not know what happened to Agent Curtains. At some moment the guard saw Agent Curtains and chased him. When this happened, I went down in the lift.’

  ‘At what moment, Agent Mtethu? How long before he was alerted to Agent Curtains?’

  ‘It was about three or four minutes.’

  ‘Long enough for Agent Curtains to perform his task?’

  ‘It was long enough.’

  ‘And then what?’ Kaiser Vula catching an acid rise at the back of his throat. Swallowed the reflux.

  ‘I left the scene.’

  ‘You don’t know what happened to Agent Curtains?’

  ‘No, Major.’

  Kaiser Vula walked out into the sun thinking, this was not good, this was not good, this was not good. This was not what he wanted to report. This was going to cause major shit.

  ‘Find him,’ he said to Prosper Mtethu. ‘Find him. Complete the operation. Report to me every two ho
urs. You understand, Agent? I must have this information.’ He disconnected before Prosper Mtethu could reply.

  On Monday, back in the Agency, he would be called to account. Have to wait under the eyes of the secretary, her red lips pursed. The woman not smiling at him, sitting behind her desk, poised for the light to flash on her telephone. The call from the big room. ‘Go in now, Major.’ Her eyes shifting to the door, coming back to him, softening with pity. He could imagine it clearly. The long walk across the wooden floor. Being watched every step of the way. To account for the reason he was here.

  Here beneath the elders’ tree, sweating in the early heat. Sweating not just from the sun. Kaiser Vula glanced down the slope to where the road curved into a ravine. There would be shade in the cut, maybe even river pools. He could think more clearly in the coolness. As he started forward, he heard voices greeting him. Turned. Three runners heading towards him. Zama with two bodyguards.

  ‘Major,’ Zama said, ‘come run with us.’

  Kaiser Vula trapped: needing to be alone, unable to refuse. Said. ‘You are too fit for me.’

  The men laughed, jogging on the spot. ‘Not for you, Major. We know your running. Come, we are good for ten kays.’ Zama with his hand in the major’s back, pushing. ‘Come, come.’

  Kaiser Vula with no option. Phoning Joey Curtains would have to wait.

  45

  Vicki woke in darkness. Switched on the bedside light, assembled her phone. Four missed calls: no numbers displayed. One an hour from midnight. Jesus! The nerve game. Yet they hadn’t escalated the harassment. Kept the pressure to a message of unease: We are watching. Who was we? One thing, they didn’t know about the flash drive. They wanted it, they’d be more proactive.

  Vicki sighed. Lay back against the pillows, trained her breathing into a steady rhythm. Brought her thoughts to the night’s play. Her triumphs: a pair of kings; four straight diamonds; three aces; a pair of black twos.

  Oh, she’d gone down in the beginning, come off a hundred and twenty dollars. Game after game in the losing streak. Weaker hearts might have folded. Not Vicki Kahn. Vicki Kahn stayed with it until the pair of kings changed her luck. What lovely boys.