Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  Kaiser Vula stepped back, watched Zama introduce her to the mine captain, the co, other senior staff. Bring her back to the table. A dignified woman even in a uniform. The uniform a political statement. Her support of the coup.

  ‘Your husband, how is he doing?’ Zama offered her a plate, serviette.

  Cynthia Kolingba paused. ‘I’m sure you know, Mr Zama.’ The two of equal height, assessing one another. ‘He is still in a coma. Two months it has been now.’ She took the plate.

  ‘Of course. I know that. I am sorry.’ Zama breaking eye contact. Glancing down at the table, still holding the serviette.

  Kaiser Vula loaded up a plate with sausages, the round tasty bacon prunes, thought, this is one tough lady, my friend. Step carefully.

  Zama saying, ‘I mean, you are satisfied with his treatment?’

  ‘Naturally. You have provided the best. Your government has been very generous. Your father very attentive.’ She selected a bowl of mixed fruit. ‘But at least my husband is still alive. My daughter is not. That is the trouble with assassination attempts, Mr Zama, the innocent who are killed. What our friends, the Americans, call the collateral damage.’ She reached out for the serviette. ‘Is that for me?’

  Zama released it. ‘Yes. Please.’ He picked up a sandwich, shaking off the lettuce shavings. ‘We are sorry for your loss.’

  ‘You see, Mr Zama, grief for a child is not like other grief. A mother, a father, you know they will die. Even a husband, there is this possibility. But not a child. You do not expect to grieve for your child. It is a painful grief. A long grief. Sometimes I think it is a pity the man who killed her was not caught. I would like to have talked to him.’

  Zama bit into his sandwich. ‘Your husband had many enemies. We think they left the country the same day. The assassins.’

  ‘That is the story I heard, yes.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘I don’t know. There are so many possibilities. My husband was … is … an important man.’

  ‘Now you are important. You are their leader.’

  ‘And I can be shot. That is why I am cautious.’

  ‘In an old Jeep with one guard.’

  ‘Ha hah.’ No humour in Cynthia Kolingba’s laugh. ‘You think a blue-light brigade will help? All they do is tell the bandits where you are.’

  ‘We find them useful. Especially my father.’

  ‘Yes. I have seen him flashing by.’

  ‘It is a stupid thing but he likes it.’

  ‘The men do.’

  ‘And ladies. We have lady ministers. They want the blue lights.’

  Cynthia Kolingba moved to stand at the window. ‘Your ladies, Mr Zama, they look like men. They behave like men.’ Spooned fruit into her mouth. ‘It is a pity. Then I think it is difficult for ladies to behave in a different way in this world we have. Look at how I must dress.’

  Kaiser Vula did. Thought Cynthia Kolingba in fatigues more striking than his wife in a negligee. Almost as good as Nandi. The hurt of Nandi’s memory striking across his chest.

  ‘But you do not come here to talk about these things, Mr Zama. We have other matters to discuss. This, for example.’ She pointed out towards plumes of dust, the signals of distant mining. ‘It is good to see.’

  ‘We must thank you,’ said Zama. He finished his sandwich. Picked another. Joined her at the window.

  ‘You must thank the coup,’ said Cynthia Kolingba. ‘You must thank whoever shot my husband, whoever killed my daughter. Without that the mad man, our former president-dictator, would still be the president. Your mine would be still in ruins.’

  ‘We appreciate your protection, madam.’

  ‘Quid pro quo. You know this expression?’

  Kaiser Vula watched Zama nod. Could see puzzlement in his eyes.

  ‘I have an agreement with the major.’ She turned towards Kaiser Vula. ‘That is in order?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Zama. ‘Of course. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. We can supply. That is our agreement. Men, weapons. Because of you we can work our mine. It is safe here again. What can I say? Thank you. We support your democracy.’

  ‘It is not a democracy yet, Mr Zama. As you know. We who were rebels are now the rulers. Those who were rulers are now the rebels. And there are other rebel groupings. It is a complex situation. We play musical chairs. Men like this game.’ She put down her bowl of fruit, half-finished. Opened her briefcase. ‘I have a photograph for you. A memento for your father.’ With long fingers drew out an envelope, handed it to Zama. ‘Have a look.’

  Kaiser Vula stepped closer. Saw a colour photograph of two men in bathing costumes in a gazebo. Bare-chested men. Women leaning over them. Women wearing kikoys, skimpy bras. The two men drinking cocktails, Manhattan-style, olives in the glasses. The photograph taken across the swimming pool with a zoom lens. The men in clear focus.

  ‘I am sure you recognise your father and our former president-dictator. Enjoying the good times. You might not realise, this was taken at our presidential palace. You cannot see them but there are guards not far off with hyenas on chains.’

  Zama flicked his fingers across the image. ‘The past is the past.’

  ‘They were friends, Mr Zama. Maybe they are still friends. Maybe you have given our ex-president refuge too? No one knows where he is. Perhaps he is sitting beside your father’s swimming pool. Maybe someone will take a photo like this.’

  ‘He is not there. I can tell you … I can swear to you, he is not there.’

  Cynthia Kolingba smiled at Zama, eyebrows raised, included Kaiser Vula in her disbelief. ‘Good. Then our understanding, our agreement is safe.’

  ‘You are saying … threatening …’

  ‘I’m saying nothing, Mr Zama. It is not even a threat. One Sunday a man is shot, a child is killed. The world changes. It can change so easily again.’ She held out her hand to Zama. ‘I must go. I have rebels to execute. It is not easy being a leader.’ Again the smile, charming, disarming.

  Kaiser Vula wondering if she meant what she said. Expected she did.

  They walked with her to the Jeep. As they approached, the driver and the guard crushed out their cigarettes.

  Kaiser Vula felt the humidity prickling sweat down his back. A heaviness dragging at his legs. Reminded him again why this was no country for comfort.

  ‘Goodbye, gentlemen,’ said Cynthia Kolingba. ‘Let us hope the world continues as it is. For the benefit of your mining venture. We need the taxes.’ No smile, the blankness of her dark glasses.

  Zama reassured her. Mentioned again the weapons, ammunitions, support equipment. Stabilising forces.

  ‘I shall rely on you, Mr Zama,’ she said.

  Kaiser Vula and Zama watched the Jeep drive off, stop as the gates were opened, turn onto the track through the jungle.

  ‘Tsho, tsho, tsho.’ Zama shook his head. ‘That is one lady. What the English call a ball-crusher, nè. Colonel Kolingba can be glad he is in a coma.’

  2

  Fish thought, bullshit. Sat on his barge on the backline in a decent swell. For Surfer’s Corner as hot as it got. The promise of good-time winter waves in coming months.

  Thought, bullshit this stand-off with Vicki. What in the hell was her case? Like she’d just drifted away.

  ‘I can’t tell you, Fish. Trust me, please.’

  Bullshit.

  ‘I’m out of town again for a while.’

  Bullshit.

  And again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Bullshit.

  ‘This will come to an end, I promise. It’s just really difficult right now.’

  Bullshit.

  Put his calls on voicemail. Didn’t respond to SMSes. Had closed her Skype account. Hadn’t been out to see him in weeks. Probably more like over a month.

  Still some of her clothes in his cupboard. Shoes. Toiletries. cds. Magazines.

  Didn’t seem she wanted to end things. Just that she couldn’t fit him i
nto her life.

  Maybe it was her job. The secrecy thing. What’d they tell you in the spy novels? There would be secrets. Secrets, like sharks, came out of nowhere, took off your leg. Maybe. Maybe it was that, the secrets of her job. Also, maybe she was back at the cards. The tables. Whatever it was she gambled on.

  Fish paddled the board round to face the shore. The car park filling up. Happy surfers heading for the glassy waves. Hadn’t been anything like this for weeks. Surf reports would be full of it, mid-morning you’d be hustling for waves. Not that Fish had any thoughts about staying longer. He’d had the best of it. The dawn shift. Just him and a couple of locals strung out along the backline. Enough water between them to prevent any chit-chat. The way Fish preferred it.

  He waited for a swell.

  Glanced up at the mountain, the twin peaks hot, yellow, Peck’s Valley in between. Last time he’d been up there was with Vicki. In the spring. Flower season, patches of colour among the sandstone. They’d sat on a high rock looking down: the beach scything eastwards to the barrier mountains. A blue haze over False Bay.

  She’d said, ‘It might not be easy for us, my new job.’

  A warning he’d ignored.

  ‘Come’n, Vics, what’ll be so different? Lawyers drive desks. So do spooks these days. Not going to be a quantum of solace.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying. I might have to travel.’ Turning to face him. Her hair pulled back in a short pigtail. Brown eyes, serious, ancient. A tension in her cheeks, tightening her mouth.

  ‘This’s Henry Davidson giving you the rah-rah spiel. The agent in foreign capitals.’

  A quick sadness that she blinked away. She’d reached out to stroke his face. Then the Vics he knew, bright, smiling.

  ‘Henry? Where’d Henry come from?’

  ‘Henry’s all I hear about these days.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense, said Alice.’ And she was on her feet. Pulling him up. ‘Can’t sit here all afternoon. You’ve got supper to make.’

  There’d been nothing about Henry after that. Like he’d ceased to exist. She’d been a desk-jockey, as he’d said. But the office chatter dried up. No more: this prick the minister, that arsehole the dg. No more I’m working on this … What do you know about that? There had been the odd bit of farm-out. Mundane research work that an intern could’ve handled. Like the Linda Nchaba titbits. Then that went away fast. After the Berlin trip everything went away fast.

  There’d been a flare-up: ‘Leave it, Fish. Just forget it. Subject gone. Over. Time to move on, okay?’

  How weird she’d been. Given him the minimum about Berlin. Dropped out of his life bit by bit over the weeks. Like the disappearing Cheshire cat she’d mentioned.

  Thing was, he hadn’t paid enough attention to the slippage. Been too focused on other things: getting background for his mother’s Chinese on the politician and one-time gangster Rings Saturen for one. Making some serious bucks from a corporate client for another. Had let things slip with Vicki.

  Except it wasn’t him. It was her. She didn’t return calls, messages, emails. She didn’t leave voicemails. Didn’t send emails. No SMS traffic. She’d let things drift away.

  Why? Why’d she done that? Let it go this far.

  It was bullshit. Least he deserved was a straight fuck off. Nothing like the present for sorting that out.

  Fish glanced over his shoulder, a set sliding towards him. Nice, neat little boogers that held up for a decent ride. He paddled over the first one, came round, went with the second swell. Felt the wave take the board. Got to his feet. Bit like riding an escalator. You could stand there, roll a joint, it would be that exciting.

  Let the wave take him into the shallows. Resolved now: he’d go into town, to her apartment, wouldn’t leave until he’d talked to her. Sometimes, you had to hustle to get what you wanted.

  Fish wanted Vicki.

  When the wave power gave up, stepped off the board, ripped the leash from his ankle. He’d get the Perana out of the garage, settle into the black leather, let the v6 rock ’n roll. Pitching in the mean machine’d show her that it wasn’t over. Not by a long chalk. Also. Could probably do a few drops along the way.

  3

  Melissa Etheridge sang of the scratches on her soul. Of having to choose. Of untold lies. Of the shadow of a black crow.

  Vicki Kahn thought of Fish. The song always made her think of Fish. The fish she’d let go.

  Stood at the window of her apartment, waiting for a call from Linda Nchaba. Gazed out at the city. The city bright in the early sun. An April sun losing its heat. Her thoughts on Fish.

  There were times Vicki Kahn ached for Fish.

  It would be so easy to stop the ache. Pick up the phone. Talk to him. Drive to his house. Let him make lasagne. Sit there watching him prepare the meal. Sit there with a glass of white, candles fluttering on the table, her sentimental lover’s idea of a romantic dinner. Nothing wrong with that.

  ‘Got to have candles, Vics. For the atmosphere.’

  More like to disappear the chaos of his kitchen.

  She smiled.

  Could picture it: her attentive surfer boy chatting about his weird clients, rolling a joint, the sweet smell of grass permeating. The back and forth of the doobie. Their chatter dying.

  He’d be playing who? Alison Krauss. Laurie Levine. Jesse Sykes. Some sad heart-breaker.

  That was okay. Her heart was breaking. Because Fish couldn’t be her lover, her surfer boy, anymore.

  Didn’t stop the longing for the feel of his fingers as he took the roach. That electric touch.

  She’d take his hand, lead him to the bedroom. Pull off his T-shirt. Reveal those pecs, the ripple of his stomach. Make him strip her. Place his hand on her breast. Looking at him all the time. Fixed on his eyes. Make him kneel. Pull his face into her. Wait for his tongue.

  Enough.

  It’d been too long.

  Vicki moved away from the window, thought, come on, Linda, ring, for heaven’s sake. Linda’s idea of time sometimes too flexible. Every morning the anxiety of the check-in.

  At her desk, tapped her laptop’s keys, brought up a photo of a wetsuited Fish coming out of the water, surfboard under his arm. Walking up the beach towards her. Blue sky, white water roiling behind him. Blond hair plastered down. Broad smile.

  In the next pic she had him stripped to the waist, those bronze pecs gleaming.

  All you had to do was phone, explain why you hadn’t returned SMSes, answered Skype calls, responded to voicemail. Why you let things drift.

  Tell him …

  All you had to do.

  Vicki clicked through more photographs. Pictures of the two of them. Selfies mostly. Mostly outdoors at surfing spots. One at a braai, not a selfie. A posed shot: standing arm in arm. Her hair pulled back. Both in jeans and T-shirts, bare feet. Fish with the inevitable stout bottle dangling from his fingers. He was into stout then. That’d been about six months after she’d been shot. A couple of months before she joined the Agency. A while before the names of Linda Nchaba, Zama, the president, Detlef Schroeder altered her world.

  ‘Thing is here, Vicki,’ Henry Davidson had said, ‘sometimes the personal gets in the way. When that happens, you have to let go. Or get out of the Agency. Your decision.’

  Hadn’t been any quips from Alice that time.

  Henry again. ‘Look, I prefer not to interfere, but this operation is high priority. You know that. You know how important it is. And for that I need you on it. Focused. Totally focused.’ The pause, the sniff. The pat of the toupee. ‘You’re going to have to sacrifice. We all do sooner or later.’

  Subtext: end it with Fish. Henry Davidson not exactly a fan of private detectives. Terminate your relationship.

  Terminate. The medical profession’s word.

  So much she’d had to terminate. Sometimes she thought about it; mostly she didn’t. When she did, it got her in the chest. She took a deep breath, moved on as best she could. With Fish always on the backli
ne of her thoughts. Could come surfing in at any moment. Pop out of a pipeline, flick back his hair. Be there. The smell of him: sea and wax, salt and sweetness.

  Jesus.

  Sliding towards her the shadow of the black crow.

  Vicki Kahn circled her sitting room, waiting for the call, trying to push Fish away. Thinking, phone me, Linda. Phone me now. Circling the room.

  A comfortable room. A place she could be herself. Old Persian she’d inherited, three-seater couch facing a flat-screen, glass-topped coffee table scattered with magazines: Economist, Financial Mail, yesterday’s newspaper.

  At the wall unit ran her hand over the cherry wood, warm, soft beneath her palm. Scandinavian-style wall unit. Straight lines, simple, beautiful. Custom-made by a German cabinetmaker Fish’d recommended. Another surfer dude. Guy had fitted out her kitchen, made her bookcases, her desk.

  Her hand stopped at two photographs in silver standing frames: her parents; Amina Kahn.

  Her parents posed outside the street window of their Athlone law office sometime in the 1980s. Smart couple: her mother in a skirt and jacket, her father in a suit. Neither of them smiling. She liked that – the severity. Behind them, reflected in the glass, a street of hawkers, cars, people. Late 1993, they were dead in a car accident.

  The Amina Kahn photograph a new addition. Taken on some windy beach with a brown choppy sea, Amina arms out wide like she wanted to fly. Probably also in the 1980s. Part of the surprise from Detlef Schroeder.

  She lifted it, looked closer, as she’d done many times. You could read anything in Amina’s face. Happiness. A moment of freedom. Desire for a bright future. A few months later she was dead. Stabbed in a Sunday crush of people getting onto a Metro train in Paris. What had Detlef Schroeder called it? ‘A useful assassination.’

  She put the photograph back on the unit. How to deal with that one? That was a long game, that one.

  Heard Melissa sing of being rocked and rolled all night long. Again brought up her ache for Fish. Thing was, she might’ve ended it but it wasn’t over.

  Plopped down on the couch, her gaze shifting round the room. The blank television screen, the crowded bookshelves, through the doorway to her unmade bed. Which reminded her of Fish.