Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  Wanted to type: What’s going on?

  Saw that Henry Davidson had logged out.

  Vicki clicked off her account, shut down Skype. Cleaned her links from the history. Went through to reception. About to tell the woman on the desk: Unexpected change of plans, have to check out. I’ll be down in half an hour, please call a taxi. Was about to. Then had second thoughts. Why give the watchers the heads-up?

  In her room packed in twenty minutes. Methodical, focused: clothes first, bathroom items, netbook, chargers, passport, credit cards from the safe. The flash drive in her jacket pocket. Stood at the door, gazing round the room: nice room, weird time. Like being in someone else’s story. Swallowed to clear the dryness in her mouth. Wheeled her suitcase to the lift.

  At reception the woman said, ‘Such a pity you cannot stay in Berlin for longer, Ms Kahn. Maybe you will come again one day.’ Smiled at her.

  ‘Maybe.’ Vicki returned the smile. ‘You live in an interesting city.’ A city of ghosts.

  48

  In the taxi Vicki Kahn wondered if the receptionist would be phoning the Berlin spooks. Standing at the foyer door watching the taxi pull away. Saying quietly into her cell, ‘The woman you want to know about has checked out. She is going to Tegel in a great hurry.’

  That’s where they’d be waiting for her. The men in black leather coats, fedoras. Two of them. If this was a movie. ‘You must come with us, Ms Kahn. For a little chat, ja.’ The men who’d killed Detlef Schroeder.

  Nausea rose in her throat. Vicki clapped a hand to her mouth, shut her eyes. Don’t hurl in the taxi. The wave passed, left a hot prickle of sweat across her chest.

  An hour later at the KLM desk, Tegel, Vicki had her seat on the next flight out. Watched her luggage bump onto the conveyor belt. Looked round. No men in black leather coats had been waiting at the drop-off point. Weren’t hovering on the concourse reading newspapers, drinking takeaway coffees.

  Was a man in a brown anorak reading a magazine. Wore jeans, black Converse sneakers. No backpack, no laptop bag. Standing twenty metres off against a pillar. Farther down the concourse, a woman also in jeans, low-heeled ankle boots, duffel coat. Standing there. No hand luggage. Gazing up at the departure board. Waiting.

  Were they secret service?

  ‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ the booking clerk tapping the boarding pass on the counter. ‘Excuse me, Ms Kahn, the gate will close in half an hour. You must hurry please, Ms Kahn.’ Sliding a diagram of the airport towards her, indicating the route with a shiny red fingernail. ‘This is terminal c where you must go. It is a long walk. Please.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vicki, swivelling back. ‘Yes, of course. Thank you. Where?’

  ‘Over there.’ The clerk, pointing. ‘You see the c on the board? You will be in time.’ Telling Vicki to have a nice flight.

  Vicki hitching her bag onto her shoulder, starting towards the man in the anorak. Noticing the length of his hair, how it curled over the collar. As she passed, licked his finger to turn a page. Didn’t look at her.

  The woman about her own age, fiddling with her phone. Keying numbers. Talking softly as Vicki approached. Head down, hair falling forward over her face. Vicki noticing the boots, scuffed, creased, in need of polish. The woman turning away, shielding her conversation.

  Vicki passed, walking briskly. Headed down the corridor towards terminal C. Midway, at a coffee shop, stopped. Dug a purse from her bag. Checked her watch.

  You’ve got to hurry. The gate’s going to close.

  Glanced back: the woman was gone, the man too.

  Paranoia, Vicki told herself. You get into this thing, you see menace in everyone. Guy can’t even stand reading a newspaper. Woman can’t take a phone call. You get into this thing, you become like Detlef Schroeder. Except you didn’t want to be like Detlef Schroeder.

  Talked herself away from the image of Detlef Schroeder crumpled on the floor, the red flower in his forehead. Talked herself out of the paranoia all the clip to terminal C.

  Went through security: laptop out the bag, belt off, boots off, coat folded into the tray. Still rang the buzzer on the walk-through detector. Vicki taking a breath, calming herself. Woman with a wand scanned her. Didn’t once make eye contact.

  Thirty minutes she sat in the lounge, watching the passengers. People sitting down, getting up, moving around. The restlessness of travellers. Expected at any moment someone to bend over her, whisper: You are Vicki Kahn. Come with me please.

  At the boarding call checked through, walked down the corridor to the plane. The quick smile of the hostess, glancing at her pass, directing her. Vicki found her seat. Tense, expectant. Telling herself: Relax, think of Fish. Fish probably surfing. Sea and sun. Wild-haired Fish with his firm flesh. Bronzed Fish. Walking out of the water, surfboard under his arm. Keep with Fish, you’ll get through this.

  49

  They ran down the slope into the ravine. From the light into a shadowed cut, dense vegetation on the rock face, a high canopy. Ran along a narrow path, not much used, ferns, creepers snagging at their shins. Branches whipped back to strike their faces. The running difficult on the uneven ground.

  Kaiser Vula kept the pace Zama set. Each breath damp, heavy. The heat oppressive. Sweat trickling down his back. But his legs were strong. Behind him, the security men panted.

  They ran for half an hour until Zama stopped.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. The word faint between his gasping breath. ‘Smell.’

  Kaiser Vula could hear nothing but blood-throb, his heaving lungs. Slowly his pulse subsided. No sound. Not birdsong. Not the whisper of leaves.

  He sniffed the pungency of sweet rot, damp fur. ‘What is it? This awful smell.’

  ‘It is memory.’ Zama pushed through bushes. ‘Come, come.’ Led them into an amphitheatre.

  Here no vegetation grew. A sandy floor, sheer rock walls to a jagged sky.

  ‘It is a grave of white people. That is their smell. You have heard of the Bambatha uprising, a hundred years ago. Here our warriors had a victory. We killed the white wizards. This is why nothing will grow to remember our triumph. Many, many are here gone under the earth. Settlers. Boers. Farmers. Men, their children and women as well.’ Zama walked round the clearing. Scraped with the toe of his trainer at the dirt, a fine dust rising. ‘It is a memory in this dark wood. There are memories everywhere in Africa.’ He pointed at the exit. ‘Enough. We must go.’ Went quickly, calling, ‘Follow, follow.’

  Kaiser Vula took a last look: something had happened here. The ground was soft. Weeds starting in the soil. It was not that nothing grew here. It was that the earth had been dug, turned over. Something buried.

  The security men crowded him. ‘We must go. We must go.’ Patted at his shoulder. Held aside the bushes. Bumped against him.

  Kaiser Vula shook himself free, went through the bush to the path. Zama there, jogging on the spot. He said nothing, headed along the path.

  The route was up, a short, sharp climb. At the top Kaiser Vula bent over, hands on knees, gasping for breath. His legs wobbly. Below them lay the Bambatha compound. Distant figures moving about the gardens, shifting hosepipes. Before them, the road that led to the palace gates.

  ‘From here it is downhill,’ said Zama. ‘Five kays. Let’s go.’ He set off. Again the security men hustling Kaiser Vula to follow.

  Now the pace was easy. Kaiser Vula matching his stride to Zama’s, letting the gradient propel him. Inside the palace gate, Zama stopped. Waved on the bodyguards.

  ‘Wait, Major,’ he said. ‘One moment. Let me get my breath.’

  Kaiser Vula stopped, his chest heaving, a taste of iron in his mouth.

  ‘You are a marathon man,’ said Zama. ‘A fit man.’

  Kaiser Vula shrugged. ‘I can do it.’ Felt his cellphone vibrating against his thigh. Maybe Joey Curtains. Moved off a few steps, withdrew the phone, saw the name Marc on the screen. Nandi. She was a matter for later. An embarrassing matter for later.

  ‘You don’t want to
answer?’ said Zama.

  ‘It can wait.’ He let the call go to voicemail.

  ‘Come,’ said Zama. ‘Walk with me.’ Guiding Kaiser Vula towards the lower cattle kraal.

  They walked in silence, Kaiser Vula preparing a question. Wondering if he should ask it. He spat out a glob of saliva, said, ‘What happened at that place?’

  Zama slowed. Glanced at him. ‘What place?’

  ‘That place you showed me.’

  ‘I told you. It is where the corpses of white people were buried. The ones who stole our land.’

  ‘Even today?’

  ‘Perhaps. Who can tell what happens in our secret country? You can find bones everywhere.’ He smiled at the major. ‘I thought it would interest you, that strange place. But now I have something to ask. You don’t mind?’

  Kaiser Vula shook his head. ‘I am your guest.’

  ‘My father’s guest.’ Zama laughed. ‘You are the guest of the president.’ Grinned. ‘Not the same thing as being my guest. But enough.’ Waved his hand, changing the topic. ‘I must go to the Central African Republic, I want you to come with me.’

  ‘I have …’

  ‘You work for the state, Major. This work is for the state. I will sort your secondment. What I want is a military man. I am a military man, you are a military man but also in intelligence. That is an important combination. Together we can sort this matter in the CAR. We are talking to the rebels. You have heard this, in the Agency? Our breakthrough.’

  Kaiser Vula frowned. ‘I thought …’

  ‘The situation has changed, Major. It has changed very quickly. You know, I know, nothing stays the same. There are always new details coming up. New things to think about. What is the situation today, is not the situation tomorrow. We must test the wind all the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kaiser Vula. ‘Yes. I understand. Then with Colonel Kolingba …’

  ‘We must be vigilant. Concerned for his welfare. That was terrible what happened. Agents of another country fighting their battles on our streets. We cannot condone this, Major. We are not a go-to zone for assassinations. Not at all. We must see the colonel is safe. That he gets the best medical attention. These are the wishes of my father.’

  They stopped at the kraal fence: cattle grazing in the farther paddocks. Kaiser Vula confused, wondering who to obey: his standing orders, or this new information from Zama. He needed clarity. He needed time. First contact Prosper Mtethu. Stop him. Get him to stop Joey Curtains. Do this urgently.

  Zama pointed at the cattle. ‘Those are my father’s.’ He turned, leant back against the fence. ‘Everything is my father’s. My father makes things happen. What do you think, Major?’

  Kaiser Vula unsure how to answer. ‘I think everything is possible.’

  ‘Of course. The diplomatic answer. Good. Then we will proceed. You will join my staff.’ Zama pushed away from the fence, held out his hand. ‘We have an arrangement.’ They shook. ‘And now we must become sociable, Major. I have kept you from your lady.’

  50

  Fish got to Knead with ten minutes in hand. Parked the bakkie in a back street, walked round to the café. No need to advertise his arrival. Hellish southeaster coming off the sea, he had to lean into it along Sidmouth Road.

  The parking area empty except for an old kombi, farther off a dad and two boys sheltered by a double-cab, struggling into wetsuits. Good luck to them in a blown-out sea. Have to be desperate.

  As he entered the café, a gust wrenched at the door, ushered him in. The Nigerian waitress grinning at him from the counter. Her pixie smile irresistible. Something Vicki didn’t let up on. Always kidding him the waitress was after his bod.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said. ‘To the place of howling wind.’

  ‘Becoming a pain.’ Fish glanced round the café. Couple of tables with people breakfasting. Lone man with a croissant and coffee reading a newspaper. Fish’d seen him about. Teenagers drinking milkshakes, two women in conversation. Nobody out of place.

  ‘You want a pain aux raisins with your cappuccino?’ The waitress leading him to his usual table at the window.

  ‘Somewhere different today,’ said Fish. Chose a table away from the windows. Anybody out there pitched up to take photographs, wasn’t going to get him in the frame with Joey Curtains. Not a chance.

  ‘That’ll be good,’ said Fish. No need to let her know he was waiting for anyone.

  Sat down, toyed with his phone. Wondered should he SMS Vicki a good morning, tell her she wasn’t the only one with an interesting life? She’d be off to finish with the old German spy. Probably eating breakfast. All hyper about her new status: the international spook in spook city. Strange thing Vicki’d got herself into. Like after she’d been shot, law wasn’t enough. She wanted in on the action. Wanted to know what was happening behind the scenes.

  Her bag. Her career.

  Fish decided, no, let her be. Leant back in his chair, stretched out his legs. From where he sat, had a view of the parking lot through the salty panes. The boys and their dad heading towards the sea, fighting their boards in the wind. Along towards the toilet block, the kombi still parked. Real old surfer’s kombi with ratty curtains.

  Fish checked the time on his cellphone. If Joey Curtains was going to appear, he had less than five minutes to make good. The waitress coming towards him with the pain aux raisins on a plate.

  ‘Coffee’s on its way,’ she said. Fish smiling up at her, his gaze flicking off to the two women. Caught the eye of one, the woman quick to look down, to keep on listening to her friend.

  ‘Quiet,’ he said to the waitress.

  ‘It’s the wind. Who’ll come here when the southeaster’s pumping?’

  ‘Me.’

  She laughed. ‘You live here. You don’t count. I only wish it’d give us a break.’

  ‘No kidding,’ said Fish, noticing a white bm crawling down the road, pull into a bay outside the café. The reg number belonged to Joey Curtains.

  A wiry man in a T-shirt, broadies, flip-flops, sunglasses got out. Remote-locked the car. Started towards the café entrance.

  The barista called out one cappuccino. The waitress told Fish, hang on she’d be right back.

  Fish watched the man glance round at his car, slip his keys into a pocket. A man coming in for his morning coffee, no troubles in the world visible on his face. Might even be a small smile to the shape of his lips.

  What’ve you got to tell me, Mr Curtains, Fish wondered.

  Heard then the rumble of a bike. Saw Joey Curtains look up the street towards the railway line. Joey Curtains hesitating, turning towards his car.

  Fish saw the motorbike then, approaching fast. Two riders, black helmets, black leather gear. The bike slowing, coming level with Joey Curtains. The guy on the back, his arm extended, nasty-sized revolver in his grip. A .45. The muzzle flash. The explosion.

  A woman in the café shrieking.

  Fish taking in the waitress with the cup of coffee in her hand, the teenagers looking up from their phones. The man with the newspaper risen half out of his seat.

  On the pavement, Joey Curtains going down.

  The motorbike stopped. Two more shots hitting Joey Curtains, knocking him back across the pavement. A spray of blood patterning the window, blurring into the salt haze.

  The bike took off fast. Fish realising, the kombi’s gone. When did the kombi go?

  Coming out of his chair to see about Joey Curtains. The café suddenly quiet, people rising from their tables, bewildered. Fish dodged his way through. Shouted at the waitress to get the medics, call the cops.

  He got to Joey Curtains: one gut shot, one heart, one head. A pro hitman, wasn’t taking any chances. Take the target down with the stomach wound, whack him with the mortal zingers. Wasn’t anything Joey Curtains would be telling anyone now.

  Fish searched through his shorts pockets, found the guy’s cellphone. Had it away. No reason anyone needed to know who’d been on Joey Curtains’ morning call roster. When the
waitress came up, moved him aside, said she’d been a nurse in Nigeria. Thought she was done with seeing people shot up in drive-bys.

  ‘Nothing you can do,’ said Fish.

  ‘You know this man?’ The two of them standing, looking down at the body.

  Fish shook his head. ‘Never seen him before.’

  ‘Too many gangs round here,’ said the waitress. ‘Too many drugs.’

  Fish waited inside the café when the cops came. Told them he’d been in for a morning coffee. Told them what he’d seen. Gave them a statement then and there.

  ‘You want counselling?’ asked one of the cops when he was done.

  Fish said, no, he could manage.

  ‘You can come to the station any time you want,’ she said. ‘This stuff can get to you.’

  It did. Hours later Fish still had a line running round his brain: Curtains for Joey Curtains. Thing was, who dunnit?

  51

  ‘Now what?’ said Vicki Kahn to Henry Davidson. Vicki talking while she walked. Moving at a fast clip down the corridor, people still brushing past her. ‘I’m in bloody Schiphol.’

  ‘Relieved to hear that,’ said Henry Davidson. ‘Pleasant flight?’

  Pleasant flight. Typical Henry, as if she was on some holiday. Not a care in the world.

  ‘You going to tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘In a minute. No one at Tegel then? I would be surprised if there wasn’t.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. A man and a woman.’

  ‘Yes, it gets like that, doesn’t it? You start imagining things. Things about people standing around, I mean. Curious things. They look normal, like they’re waiting for someone, but you just cannot tell if they are going to disappear. Of course once you have been through the training, nothing is ever the same. Pity, that, is it not? Losing our virginity.’ He sniggered. ‘Pity, too, about poor Detlef.’

  ‘Henry,’ she broke in. ‘This line …’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Nothing I intend saying is of any interest to our … your … listeners. Nothing they do not know already, if you get my drift. They are probably as baffled as you.’ Again the little snigger. ‘Germans always seem to be a bit on the back foot, I feel. But then what do you do with a name that long? Bundesnachrichtendienst, BND for short. Rather a mouthful for the poor intelligence chaps. Where are you now, Vicki? I mean specifically.’