by Mike Nicol
‘Yes,’ said Vicki. She’d crossed the apartment to the window. Gazed down on a quiet street. The occasional car swishing past. No one out in the cold darkness. This wouldn’t go easily. In fact, she couldn’t see it going at all. Moved the odds to five to two against. Turned into the room. The two men, Linda Nchaba, focused on her.
‘All yours then,’ said Henry Davidson. ‘Sprinkle your fairy dust. Wave your magic wand. Cast your spell. Let me know when it is done.’
Vicki handed the phone to the man with glasses. ‘No idea how to switch this off.’
The man laughing, tapped the screen.
‘Why are you here?’ said Linda Nchaba.
‘Good question,’ said Vicki, sitting on the couch beside her.
‘They want me to go back.’ Linda Nchaba looking down at her hands. Long-fingered, slender hands Vicki noted. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? They want me to go back. The videos on the flash drive weren’t enough.’
‘We haven’t seen them, they’re protected.’
‘So what? Passwords can be cracked. You haven’t done that yet?’
‘No, actually, I haven’t. That’s not my line.’
Linda Nchaba held out her hand, waggled her fingers. ‘Give. Come on. Give. Let me have your netbook.’
Vicki obliged. Looking hard at the pretty face of Linda Nchaba as she conjured out first the computer, then the flash drive. Watched the long fingers click through to video clips of men she recognised.
‘You know who these men are?’ said Linda Nchaba. Derision in her voice.
‘Some of them.’
‘Bastards,’ said Linda Nchaba. ‘All of them. Bastards.’ Closed the computer top, pulled free the stick. ‘All yours.’ Handed them to Vicki. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Not quite,’ said Vicki, getting no further.
‘They want me. Don’t they? They want me to go back.’ Linda Nchaba raising her eyes to Vicki’s. ‘I’m right? They want me? He wants me to come back.’
In Linda Nchaba’s eyes Vicki saw a dullness. An inevitability. Even resignation. Believed she could maybe change the odds to five to three in favour.
‘Tea first,’ said Vicki. ‘And I need some biscuits.’
The short man brought round a plate with the Maria biscuits. A mug with the chamomile bag in it. ‘You’ll make someone a good wife,’ said Vicki, squeezing the bag between her fingers. Ignoring the sting of the hot water. Plopped the bag in the palm of the man’s hand.
‘You feel no pain?’ he said.
Vicki grinned at him. Bit into a biscuit. Shifted herself into the corner of the couch.
Linda Nchaba said, ‘My God! How can you do this?’
‘Has its perks. International travel for one.’ Vicki brushed crumbs from her jeans. ‘Just can’t do without these biscuits. Have one?’ Offering the plate.
Linda Nchaba shook her head. ‘They assaulted me.’
Vicki frowned. ‘What? Who? Who assaulted you? Assaulted you how?’
‘Undressed me.’
Vicki looking from the short man to the one with glasses. Both of them not meeting her eyes. Uncomfortable.
‘Not these men. The ones that took me at the airport. These ones knew it happened.’
‘These two men?’
‘You can ask them.’
Vicki moved forward, stuck cushions behind her back. ‘Wait. Wait. Slowly. Let me catch up. What’s going on here?’ Sipped tea. Swallowed the biscuit mush. Said to Linda Nchaba, ‘You start.’
Heard out her story about being stripped naked. Photographs taken of her.
‘You know this?’
‘Someone undressed me. Left me naked. No bra, no panties. Of course they took photographs.’ Linda Nchaba not emotional, keeping it together, her voice hard.
Vicki thinking, a fair deduction. Turned to the men. Heard out the men’s story, the man with glasses doing the talking.
A silence in the room. Long minutes. Vicki wondering, shit, what to do with this? Decided, okay, move on. Not strictly the problem at hand. Finished her tea. The short man coming from behind the counter to take the empty mug.
‘We’re going to have to talk about that later, okay? There’s something else we have to talk about first. You know why I’m here?’ she said to Linda Nchaba.
Linda Nchaba nodding. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I’ll go. I’ve decided what to do. He can’t go on. They can’t go on doing it. So I’ll do what you want.’
‘Come home?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what about him, you know who I mean?’
Again the silence. The long minutes. To Vicki the nagging doubt: this’d come too easily.
‘Because of him.’
Vicki not convinced. Why? Why this sudden change of heart? ‘Why?’ Watching every gesture.
‘Because.’ The word sighed out. ‘Because.’ Linda Nchaba raising slow eyes to meet her gaze. ‘When you see what he does, you’ll understand. When you see more of the videos.’
Fair enough. Vicki not looking away. ‘You don’t want to hear our plans?’
‘They don’t matter.’
‘You will be safe. Protected. I can assure you.’
Linda Nchaba shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. This thing must end.’ She held up a finger. ‘One condition.’
‘What’s that?’ Vicki waited. Looking beyond the finger to the woman’s unblinking eyes. Could see Linda Nchaba was exhausted. Had run out of options.
‘They free my grandmother.’
She came in quickly. ‘That can be done. Can be done immediately.’ Asked for a call to Henry Davidson. Was given the phone, said to her handler, ‘It’s agreed.’
‘That was fast. Well done, Ms Kahn.’ The tick, tick, tick of Henry Davidson clicking his tongue in thought. ‘Or something we’re missing here?’
‘I don’t think so. She wants her grandmother freed. Now. A Skype call’d do it. Would convince her.’
‘Skype?’
‘Come on, Henry, kidnappers carry smart phones. Get them to call me.’
Twenty minutes later on the phone’s screen is a woman in a print dress, adjusting her headscarf. An elegant woman. No recognisable background. No one else in the frame. The woman took off her glasses, wiped them. Leant forward, peering.
‘Gogo,’ said Linda Nchaba.
PART TWO
TWO WARNING SHOTS TO THE HEART
FRIDAY 4 APRIL
The girls came from the coast, from the river plains, from the mountains. From villages in the outer provinces. From Maputo, Beira, Matola. Some were brought by their fathers, others by relatives. Some were the bounty of traders. All were there to be sold.
A raggedy group in thin dresses, tracksuits, old T-shirts.
They sat beneath a large tree, huddled together. On this hot morning, a group of thirteen. The youngest six, the oldest twelve. They watched those who had brought them with anxious eyes.
Occasionally one would call for her father. One would whimper.
They were given no water, no fruit. Some had been travelling for days.
About them stood guards with Kalashnikovs. Young men in camouflage fatigues, their guns pointed at the ground. Playing Angry Birds on their cellphones.
Those who’d brought the girls lined up at a double-cab to be paid. They averted their eyes, held out their hands. Received rolled wads fastened with elastic bands. These men hurried off. Did not look back.
They heard the girls cry out for them. They walked on faster.
The girls sat fearful on the red earth. One keened, rocked, hugging her knees. Only went quiet when a guard hit her.
In the afternoon came an eighteen-wheeler from the north, circled the clearing in a rise of dust. Like a beast wheezing, throbbing, hissing.
‘Olá. Ninjani.’ The truck driver waved, flashed his teeth in a smile. ‘Greetings, my friends.’
A woman climbed out the passenger side, went to the children, spoke to them in broken Portuguese. A beautiful woman, impala eyes, red lipstick. Long
legs in skinny jeans. High heels. Her voice gentle. She held out her hands, touched them, brushed their cheeks. Told them not to worry. Used the Portuguese word for fear. Medo. Não medo. Shook her head. No fear.
The guards put away their phones, cradled their rifles. Alert.
‘You are late. We’ve been waiting for many hours.’ The man from the double-cab tapped his watch. ‘This is not the time we agreed.’
‘It’s a long way. A slow way.’ The truck driver jumped down, wiped his hands on his shorts. ‘We’re here now.’ Looked over at the girls beneath the tree. ‘That’s all of them?’
‘We said thirteen. We said there would be thirteen.’
‘Okay. Fine. Fine.’ Reached into the truck for a plastic bag, flung it at the man leaning on his double-cab. ‘You want to count it?’
‘Of course.’
They waited. The girls clustered in the shade, watching the woman and the men.
‘Pee-pee,’ the truck driver said to the woman. ‘Get them to piss.’ Pointing at the girls, going, ‘Pss, psss, psss, pisss. Now. Pee-pee. We have a long way to go. They must pee now. Tell them in Portuguese.’
One of the men spoke in Portuguese. The girls shook their heads, the younger ones crying.
The guards laughed. The girls cowered away.
‘Shut up,’ said the young woman, ‘I’ll deal with it. You sort him out’ – gesturing at the man counting the money. ‘I’ll look after them.’
The girls stared at her. Her caressing fingers brought tears.
She spoke to them in English, asked if anyone understood her. No one did. The girls gazing at her, big eyes, open mouths.
‘Go,’ said the man from the double-cab. ‘Go. We’ve been here too long.’ He shouted at his men to move the children.
The men prodded with their rifles at the girls, herded them into a container on the flatbed. Pushing them inside. Swearing. Shouting.
The young woman screaming at the men, telling them not to hurt the girls, telling them they were animals. Savages.
The girls big-eyed, frightened. Staring out as the steel door slammed closed.
***
WEDNESDAY 9 APRIL
The girls were kept in a warehouse. Thirteen of them.
The warehouse part of an industrial estate on the outskirts of a small town. Most of the premises vacant. Abandoned, vandalised. Once a siding for freight trains. A while since freight trains shunted in these yards. Rails ripped up for scrap metal. Sleepers sold to garden nurseries. Weeds grew where tracks had been.
This warehouse well maintained. High tin roof, iron girders, fluorescent tubes humming day and night. Beneath the girders skylight windows hazed with red dust. On the cement-block walls the patterns of tools, empty racks, empty shelves. Dry oil stains on the concrete floor.
One drive-in entrance closed by two doors: an inner grille padlocked top and bottom, an outer roller shutter with a walk-in doorway.
At first the girls cried, begged the young woman not to leave them. She told them to shush, be quiet, that she would come back to see them soon.
Hours later the girls beat their fists on the metal shutter, shook the grille. A vagrant heard them. Had heard girls before. Knew to stay away. Kept hunched over his fire, a dog at his feet. Knew the girls would tire.
Their warehouse fitted out: showers, toilets, hand basins; a dormitory of twenty beds, the beds with sponge mattresses, heavy grey Pep Stores blankets. Pillows without cases.
A scattering of plastic chairs. Flattened cardboard boxes as carpets. In a corner, a kitchen sink for washing mugs, plates, spoons. Opposite, a wall-mounted television played a cartoon channel, the sound muted.
In the morning the young woman came with two men, brought pots of food, bottles of water. Made the girls undress, collected their clothing in plastic bags.
Pointed over their heads at the washroom. Said, ‘Wash, lavar.’ Raised her left arm, used her right to rub her armpit.
‘Yes? Understand? Sim. Compreender.’ Had the men give them towels.
‘New clothes,’ she said in Portuguese. Dumped a pile of jeans, T-shirts with pussy-cat designs, red Crocs, on the floor. The two men watching the girls clean themselves. The woman helping the younger ones.
When the girls were dressed, she went off. Blew kisses from the doorway, laughing. The girls in their new clothes listened to them drive away.
In the evening the woman returned alone. From a plastic bag she gave them hamburgers and chips, jelly babies, Bar Ones, Crunchies. Fruit drinks. Had the girls sit on the floor, told them in English that everything would be alright. Smiled at them.
Told them to eat: comer. As she always did, used her right hand to indicate eating.
The girls nodded. The older ones smiling.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said, ‘amanhã. School. Escola. Sim. Sim. You go to school.’ She walked her fingers through the air. Yes. Alright. You will be alright. No fear. Não medo. Compreender.’
The girls staring at her, this kind mama with the gentle voice who touched them, dried their tears, comforted them. They ate their burgers, the chips, left only crumbs. The woman watching them.
‘Eat your sweets,’ she said. ‘Comer, Bar One.’ Herself tearing open the wrapping, taking a bite. Offering the chocolate bar to a child at her feet. The child stroking her high heels. She raised the child’s face. Said, ‘It will be alright. Tudo bem. Promise. Promessa. I promise you.’
The girls beginning to chatter. Relaxed. Eating their sweets.
At the door a man appeared, said in Zulu it was time to go. The girls went quiet at his voice.
The beautiful woman stood, said, ‘Tomorrow, amanhã, escola. Yes? Sim?’ She nodded.
The girls smiled, nodded back at her.
Watched her walk on her high heels across the concrete floor.
1
They took a 21 Squadron Falcon 50 out of Waterkloof Air Force Base before dawn. Two men dressed casually, light jackets, open-necked shirts, Italian slip-ons, wheeling overnight bags across the apron. Not hurrying through April’s early chill to the plane. Confident men. Men at the top of their game.
The flight plan over Zimbabwe, Zambia, Congo, landing at Bangui, Central African Republic. First night the five-star Ledger Plaza Hotel.
Welcome back, Monsieur Zama, Major Vula. Enjoy your stay.
They did. An hour in the fitness centre, treadmill work. Massage. Saunas. Then dinner, French wine. Hostesses, young hostesses.
Next morning the hop to Berbérati, from Berbérati by helicopter to the mine. An aerial survey before touchdown to get the scene: this red slash in the jungle. The mine at maximum capacity. Up and running for a week, as Kaiser Vula had left it.
‘Impressive,’ said Zama. ‘Like magic. We have done a good job. Would you not say so, Major?’
The buildings repaired, mechanical diggers in the opencast cuttings. Men working lesser seams by hand. New troops guarding the site. A cleared break around the operation.
‘What did I tell you? Only military men can do this.’
Kaiser Vula thinking possibly more the work of one military man than two.
‘The president will be pleased. What am I saying, he is pleased. There will be rewards, Kaiser. Plentiful rewards.’ Zama flashed whites in a big laugh. ‘You are sure she will meet us?’
‘It is arranged. She said she will be here.’ Kaiser Vula looked down. No entourage of 4×4s parked outside the office buildings. No dust of approaching convoys. In this country nothing was sure. You made arrangements, hoped they would take place.
‘Yes, Major, she will be here.’ Zama snorted. ‘If she is not imprisoned, or shot dead, or forced to flee. They call our country a failed state. What is this place, then? We are a strong democracy. Here are only bandits.’
They came down on the helipad beside the barracks. Armed security patrolling the perimeter. Zama fast out the chopper, striding through the dust towards the welcoming party. Hand out, shaking, slapping shoulders. Kaiser Vula followed into the sudden heat,
shielded his face against the swirl. The rotors winding down, the engines shutting off.
At his ear the commanding officer shouted, ‘She has radioed, Major. They are not far.’
‘On the ground?’
‘That is what we were told.’
‘There were no vehicles approaching. Nothing we could see.’
Hooting. The crackle of the radio.
‘They are at the gates,’ said the operator.
‘So quickly.’ The co frowning at Kaiser Vula. ‘Do you think they have been outside, watching us?’
Kaiser Vula wiped sweat from his face. That would be just like her. Cautious. Check out the scene.
Was also like her to pitch not in a convoy but a 1970s-model Jeep, a driver, one man riding shotgun. The Jeep stopping under a shade-cloth awning. Out stepped a woman wearing dark glasses, a beret, dressed in camo fatigues, toting a briefcase.
‘You don’t recognise me, Major?’ she said.
Major Kaiser Vula snapped his heels. ‘Ma’am,’ he said. ‘You took us by surprise.’
‘Caution, Major. There must always be caution.’ She smiled quickly without humour. ‘I have learnt that. To my cost. Pleased to see you again, Major Vula. In my own country for a change. My troubled country. Now, where is Mr Zama. It is time we met.’
‘Please.’ Kaiser Vula led her into the building. ‘Inside it is air-conditioned.’
‘You don’t like our heat, Major?’
‘It is not what I am used to.’
In the common room, a spread laid out there on a trestle table. Sandwiches, crusts cut off, strips of lettuce garnish. Cocktail sausages on sticks. Bacon curled round prunes. Bowls of diced fruit. Fresh orange juice. An aroma of coffee. Two waiters in bow ties, hovering. Zama stood beside the table, relaxed, twirling a toothpick between his fingers.
‘Welcome. Welcome.’
Kaiser Vula made the introductions. ‘Her Honour Cynthia Kolingba.’
‘Mrs is good enough, Major.’
‘One day president,’ said Zama, shaking her hand.
‘We’ll see. When there are elections, we will see what the people want.’
