by Mike Nicol
Just phone him.
Her cellphone rang: Linda Nchaba.
About bloody time. Vicki got up, turned down Melissa, took a breath.
‘What’s happening?’
‘You won’t believe this.’
‘Try me.’
‘He’s taking another wife.’
‘Who?’
‘The president. Big party at the palace coming up.’
‘We’ve not heard anything.’
‘It’s hush-hush. Not the party. The engagement. The party’s one of the things he does.’
‘I’ve heard about them.’
A pause. Vicki waited.
‘You alright?’ The handled handling the handler.
‘Of course.’
Another moment’s silence. Vicki looked down into the square. Gym people in tracksuits at the coffee shops. A young family eating breakfast. Keep control. Keep it solid. Said, ‘Everything okay?’
‘Yes. Yes. Still waiting.’
The operation had been running two weeks. Linda in it from the get-go. Had been in Mozambique for the collection, the cross-border journey, the holding arrangements. Had kept the girls quiet, gaining their trust, getting them used to her. In their new harsh world, not a difficult task.
Since she’d come back from Europe, there’d been no contact from Zama. She’d expected it. Part of his game: unsettle her, let her understand he was angry, hurt by her running away. She’d been part of the run from the start, met with the other traffickers, been in on the planning, but no sight or sound of Zama throughout.
Couldn’t go on much longer. He’d have to auction the girls soon, disperse them. Each day he kept them, he risked discovery, someone chancing on them.
‘It’s okay,’ she said now to Vicki. ‘This’s how he does it. Cautiously. Chooses his time.’
Vicki thinking Linda was holding up well. Not easy, what she was doing. The long gaps in between her time with the girls. Not knowing when Zama would make contact. Said, ‘The hotel still bearable?’
‘Not exactly five star.’ A splutter of a laugh. ‘I’m watching a lot of YouTube. Series. Movies. It’s just …’
‘Just?’
‘Each day …’
Each empty day that passes, the anxiety ratchets up. You are dealing with a fearful agent, you are dealing with a problem. The wisdom of Henry Davidson.
She should be there. To hell with the old-school way of things, she should be there. Because you had to give it to him, the man they’d codenamed Walrus. Henry’s choice of name. You had to give it to him, he was one cool player. One very cool player. Didn’t go rushing into things. Checked out the scene.
He’s got the pepper, the vinegar, the loaf of bread, was Henry Davidson’s way of looking at things. The Walrus’d pitch eventually.
‘Hang in there, Linda,’ Vicki said. ‘Things are moving. We know that.’
Linda’s ‘I know’ barely audible. Then: ‘Sometimes I get scared.’
Vicki came in quickly: ‘You have to phone me. When the fear comes, you’ve got to phone me. We can talk through it.’
‘I need you here.’
‘I can’t be there. You know that.’
A silence lengthening. It didn’t surface much, Linda’s fear, but it was there. Lurking in the endless hours. In the waiting. Nibbling away at her motivation.
Vicki moved off the subject. ‘Tell me, where’d you hear the engagement gossip? I can’t believe we don’t know.’
‘It’s everywhere. It’s no secret round here.’
‘When did you hear?’
‘Yesterday afternoon.’
‘Who told you?’
‘The cleaning lady told me. Her son’s a gardener in the palace. Says this one’s young. Says she’s got him with muti.’
‘What? Like cast a spell?’
‘It happens. You can get all kinds of stuff for that. I got powder in the market to rub on my shoes. Keeps anyone from following me.’
Vicki didn’t respond. Changed tack again. ‘That party’ll be interesting. The sort of party we need to be at.’
‘Maybe I’ll be there.’
Which took Vicki by surprise. That the thought had occurred to Linda already.
‘You never know, I could be.’
‘You could. That’d make your life really exciting.’
‘If the Walrus comes knocking.’
‘Oh he will, Linda. Guaranteed. Then you phone me, okay, let me know immediately. The moment he appears. Right?’
A hesitation. The pause of doubt.
‘Linda?’
‘Alright. Alright.’
Vicki disconnected soon afterwards. Thought of Linda in some hotel room, in some desperate town, waiting. Spending time grooming the girls, then going back to her hotel room. Not easy. ‘You mean I’m the live bait,’ was the way she’d phrased it. Vicki hadn’t disagreed. Hadn’t said anything. Had thought of the Walrus, of his reputation.
She came away from the window, wound up the sound system. Went through to shower. Even under the deluge could hear Melissa fancy-free, raising a cup, falling or flying, falling up.
Fish came back into her thoughts.
All you have to do is phone.
Or get some muti powders to cast a spell.
4
‘You’s had a delivery, Mister Fish. From a darkie.’ Janet waving an A4 envelope.
Fish came around his bakkie, hauled his wetsuit from the back, hung it over the washing line. Hosed it down. ‘From the postman.’
‘No, man, I told you from a darkie. Very nice darkie, this one. Very smart clothes. Got a jersey over his shoulders like the rich men wear it. Soft pink jersey. I could see it was soft. Said to me he was a friend, that I must put this in your hand. I must wait for you. I said to him but, Mr Man, Mister Fish could be surfing anywhere. Maybe he’s not gonna be back all day. What must I do then? He gives me fifty rand, Mister Fish. One whole pinkie. To wait here give this to you personally. You got a very nice friend, Mister Fish. Is he maybe from another country?’
Fish held up his hand. ‘Whoa, Janet. Whokaai. Slowly. Let me finish this.’ Switched off the water, coiled the hose on its wall bracket. Held out his hand to Janet. ‘Well, give it to me.’
‘It cost you. Ten rand, toast ’n tea.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Give it to me.’
Janet holding it against her chest. ‘Where’s Miss Vicki? Why’s she not here? I never see her anymore. You made a problem with her, Mister Fish. I said to you treat her proper. You can’t be like a surfer dude with Miss Vicki. Miss Vicki’s got class ’n style.’
Fish reached out, gripped a corner of the envelope. ‘Hannah, hannah, hannah. You’re worse than my old lady.’ Tugged at the envelope, tearing off the corner. ‘Come on, give it to me.’
‘Whooo, holly, holly. Look what you done now, Mister Fish. You mos torn it. Shame on you.’ Janet holding it above her head. ‘Shame on you.’ Running behind the Maryjane.
Fish chased her. Grabbed her, the two of them falling on the thin grass that was his back lawn. Not so much grass as patches of kweek scrubgrass that took hold in sand. Janet giggling. Fish on top of her stretching for the envelope, his face close to hers. She lifted her head, kissed him on the mouth. Let go of the envelope at the same time.
Fish pushed up on his elbows, looked down at her face. Janet winked. He levered himself onto his knees, his haunches, stood. ‘You’re a piece of work, Janet. You know that.’
She held up her hand. ‘Give me a rise up, man, please, help a lady.’
Fish pulled her to her feet. She dusted off her dress.
‘What about the ten rand, toast ’n tea. For keeping it safe.’ She pointed at the envelope in his hand.
‘You’ll get your tea and toast. First things first.’ Tore open the envelope, eased out two colour prints. Janet jigging at his shoulder. Fish blocked her view.
‘Let me see, man, Mister Fish, what’s it?’
‘Nothing you need to know about.’ Fish headed for the
kitchen. ‘You take a seat, I’ll get you something.’
‘Just like inna restaurant, hey. Very larney.’
On the kitchen table Fish put the prints side by side: one a long shot of a man at the wheel of a car, stopped at a traffic light. The zoom close in on the man’s face. Impossible to tell what sort of car. Impossible to tell the intersection. Some stonework above the car roof, could be any city building. The man’s face in profile. A face Fish thought he recognised. A face grimacing, mouth open, teeth showing. Like he was looking at something bad.
The other photograph of the same man sitting on a couch. His face in harsh light, fluorescent light, relaxed this time, bored even. Staring straight ahead. Could be he was in a waiting room, pastel pictures on the walls, bland beige wallpaper. Bland beige couch. A blue carpet. The man dressed in summer gear: green golf shirt, fawn chinos, trainers.
Fish thought, bloody hell! Could be a hospital waiting room. Could be the hospital waiting room on the Kolingba guy’s ward. Could be where he’d last met Cynthia Kolingba.
‘Thank you for your services, Mr Pescado,’ she’d said then, giving him an advice of electronic payment. Very smart in a black suit. Young female bodyguard standing to one side. She was new. ‘Our situation has changed.’ A quick smile.
‘What’s changed?’ he’d said. Thinking, your daughter’s still dead. Your husband’s still out of it.
‘Politics. In my country. And in yours.’
Took the payment advice she held out, glanced at it. His fee for a month’s work.
‘I didn’t put in that many hours.’ Had flicked at the page.
‘Please,’ she’d said. ‘I must go.’ Again the brief sad smile. ‘We all have our lives, Mr Pescado.’ With that had turned to the bodyguard, followed her out of the waiting room, down the stairs. Fish’d wondered, why’re you brushing me off?
What the heck? Was her money. Still niggled at him over the weeks, this change of heart she’d had. Ending his services before he’d really got anywhere.
Now the photographs. Spy pix. Telephoto jobs. The one in the car was interesting. Interesting angle downwards. More angle than a person’s height. As if the cameraman was a step or two up. And slightly behind. Not a chance photo. Someone had been anticipating the moment. Whatever the moment was. Whatever the man was watching.
‘Mister Fish, man, where’s something for a poor lady?’ Janet at the door, scanning the kitchen. ‘Sho, Mister Fish, you need some cleaning done. You can see Miss Vicki’s not making you vacuum. Yous need a cleaning lady, I’ll be your woman. Fix this place up nice ’n tidy, quick sticks.’
‘Maybe,’ said Fish, focused on the pictures. ‘What was the guy like who delivered these.’
‘I told you.’
‘Tell me again.’
‘Ah, man, Mister Fish …’
‘You didn’t tell me how tall, you know, his size. Fat, thin, muscles.’
‘A fris man like you Mister Fish. A gym man. Nice shoulders, no stomach boep. No beard. Shiny top like the darkies like it. I couldn’t see his legs. But I can tell you he motors. You know, walks fast. One minute he’s standing next to me, then he’s gone. Poof. Like a ghost.’
Mart Velaze.
The name strobing in Fish’s thoughts.
Brought up a set of questions. Such as: Who was the dude in the pictures? What was he watching? Why was he in the hospital? Let alone who took the pix? Mart Velaze? If not, where’d he got them from? Why’d he wait till now? Seemed timing was the critical thing.
Janet said, ‘Mr Fish, come back, man. We got the real world here. Help a poor lady with a little toast ’n tea.’
Fish held up a finger. ‘First a phone call. Your stomach can wait a couple of minutes.’ Used the number in the telephone book. Asked for Mart Velaze.
‘We don’t have a Mr Velaze working here,’ the receptionist said.
‘Sure you don’t.’ Fish waved Janet back to her chair outside. ‘Just tell him we need to speak.’ He left his name. The woman insisting they didn’t have a Mart Velaze.
By the time he’d cut two slices of bread, his cell was ringing.
‘Thought you didn’t want any more contact,’ Fish said to Mart Velaze.
‘Thought you were a private detective. How much help do you need?’
‘More than a couple of photographs.’
‘No, my friend, it’s all there.’
‘So why’d you ring me back?’
‘To tell you your mate Vicki Kahn’s deep in the shit, like she doesn’t even know how deep.’
‘Why’re you telling me?’
‘Cos she’s not going to listen to me.’
‘You’re SSA. So’s she.’
‘Doesn’t mean anything. Warn her, okay? I’m doing you a favour here. Seriously.’
End of conversation.
Fish saying, ‘Wait, wait, wait. The photographs.’
Janet at the door looking in. ‘Can you put the bread in the toaster now, Mister Fish? Please, man.’
His cell rang. The corporate client. ‘We need you, Fish, now.’ Kind of wiped out his good intentions. All he had time for was an SMS to Vicki: Call me. Urgent.
As before, it went unanswered.
5
They took the helicopter back to Berbérati in the afternoon. Hopped the Falcon to Bangui. At the Ledger ran the treadmills, showered, met at seven for dinner.
In bad French Zama ordered wine, a crisp sancerre. ‘For the heat.’ Said, ‘Why don’t they get waiters that know English? You’re an international hotel, you’ve got to speak an international language. In Europe you can speak English everywhere.’
His phone rang. Zama looked at the screen. ‘I told them, don’t phone me until I am home. What do they do? They phone.’ Connected with a huff. Changed his tone, lowered his voice. Major Vula caught the word ‘auction’. The insistent: ‘This Sunday, okay, this Sunday, my brother. It has been long enough. I do not want stories. The auction is this Sunday, after the party, you tell people.’
Kaiser Vula listened, looked round the restaurant. Couple of European white men, some Chinese, Arabs, seven Africans with their women. Wondered what auction, the first time he’d heard of any auction. The mysterious Zama with his mysterious life. Even after these months, he didn’t know the man.
Zama saying to him, ‘Sometimes people make you mad. They can’t organise a simple thing.’ Put his phone on the table. ‘But now, Kaiser, other things. You see I have been thinking of the esteemed leader, Mrs Kolingba. She thinks we shot them, her husband and daughter. That it’s a story we’ve invented about these rebel hitmen.’
‘She thinks so,’ said Kaiser Vula. ‘Yes. She went to a private investigator.’
‘Ah ha. You see. She is devious, this one. What did he find?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No, no, Kaiser.’ Zama wagging his finger. ‘You know about him, so you must know more.’
‘He got nowhere. Then she stopped him.’
‘Joh! Let me see. Let me guess. Because you talked to her. Because things had changed.’
‘Yes.’
Kaiser Vula indicated the waiter, poised beside Zama, holding out the bottle of wine.
Zama put a hand on the bottle. ‘It is cold. Fine. This is a good start.’
‘Oui, monsieur.’ The waiter poured a taster.
Kaiser Vula watched. Zama performed as always. Always the swirl, the tilt, the colour-check against the light, then the sniff, his sharp nose deep in the glass, the comments about plums, apricots, mown grass. The raised finger to the waiter. ‘We can drink this.’
‘Oui, monsieur.’ The waiter poured, plunged the bottle into an ice bucket. ‘You make order?’
Zama scanned the menu. ‘Fish. Grilled fish. No starter.’
Kaiser Vula went with that. Ordered for them both. Using his basic French.
‘I am impressed, Major Vula. You are an international spy. Very sophisticated. Now, a toast. To our mine and Madame Kolingba.’ They clinked glasses.
‘Accuse us? No.’
‘Not directly?’
‘No. She is diplomatic.’
‘She has a nice voice. That Afro-French accent. Very sexy. I like it.’ Zama came forward. ‘Did we shoot him?’
Kaiser Vula shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ Didn’t lower his eyes from Zama’s gaze.
Zama chuckled. Sat back in his chair. ‘Kaiser, Kaiser, Kaiser. The secret agent with all his secrets. You are ssa, Kaiser. You must know.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Alright, let us say you don’t. Here is what I think. I think when the rebels shot up the mine, my father ordered Kolingba’s assassination.’
‘He can’t do that. He doesn’t do that. We have a constitution, we acknowledge human rights. No one can do that.’
Zama sipped wine. ‘It is a good wine, don’t you think? Very clean in this dirty city.’
Kaiser Vula nodded. Wondered where Zama was going with this.
Zama saying, ‘In Botswana, he did that. In those days. When the president was number one in intelligence. I heard the stories, growing up there. He could order hits.’
‘Those were different days. There were bombs. There were infiltrators. It was dangerous for those in exile.’
‘That is the story, yes.’
‘You don’t believe it?’
‘I believe it. What I am saying is this is like it was before. In apartheid times. When we talked of the Boere’s third force. There were no orders to the security police, what did they call it, the Civil Cooperation Bureau. No phone calls to their farm where they murdered people. Instead there was a culture, an understanding, you could say. Today we have another culture. The president’s culture. We sense what the president wants, we see the president is upset, we must do something so he feels better.’ Zama set down his glass. ‘I am right, yes?’
Again Kaiser Vula raised his shoulders. Blank-eyed. His lips damp with wine. ‘It was probably the CAR.’
‘Of course. Of course. You would say that. Because that is what it looks like. Because two weeks after the colonel is shot, there is a coup. A palace coup. How amazing. Such coincidence. One thing happens in one place and then something else happens in another place. We read novels like this. Another thing from the novels …’ Zama paused, glanced quickly at Kaiser Vula. ‘You have heard of a threat to my father’s life?’
