by Mike Nicol
‘Yes.’ Kaiser Vula seeing no reason to deny it. Thinking of the list of names he’d received. Those suspected of plotting against the president.
‘You are concerned?’
‘Of course.’ Yet in a month there’d been nothing to confirm the conspiracy. ‘We are alert but it doesn’t seem likely.’
‘Those are my thoughts.’
‘And the president’s.’ A lie. Major Kaiser Vula had seen no cause to alarm the president, not until he’d done the background checks.
‘There have been many before, you know. All empty noise. No one will take the final step. For that they are too scared.’
Maybe, thought Kaiser Vula, but had there been a list of conspirators before? A list of comrades, communist comrades? Probably not. But this time should you take these old men seriously? These grandfathers. Struggle heroes a step from the grave. Major Kaiser Vula didn’t think so. Major Kaiser Vula thought it hot air. On top of that, didn’t trust unsourced drops, never knew what agenda was being pushed.
Said, ‘The president is too well loved.’
Zama laughed, raised his glass. ‘Another toast. We cannot know how the world works. What happened outside the cathedral doesn’t matter. The mine is in operation. We have our soldiers to protect it. We have Mrs Kolingba on our side. We must toast to money and the president.’
‘To money and the president.’
The thing about Zama Kaiser Vula didn’t get was his skin colour. Light. That was strange. The president was dark. Then you looked at Zama’s nose, the shape of it. Middle Eastern. Arab. Indian. Could also be Italian. You wondered about Zama’s mother. Not one of the current wives. You wondered about the life story of the president.
‘Something else,’ Zama said, leaning forward, ‘that might come to your ears. A girlfriend, Linda Nchaba, is soon to be back in my life.’
‘Why should I hear about it?’
Zama grinned. ‘I know about your types, Major. I know what you do.’
‘A girlfriend is your private life.’
‘Ha. Come, Major, come, you know I do not have a private life.’
Vula wasn’t convinced, held his counsel. For a man without a private life, Zama had plenty secrets.
‘What I’m saying is, you hear whispers about her, you let me know.’ Zama drained his glass. Stood. ‘Now there are the night’s attractions.’
6
Mart Velaze thought as dead-drops went you could do a lot worse than a community notice board in a shopping centre. Had heard of computer chips sewn into dead rats, pouches replacing the stomachs of deceased cats when you needed more space. The bodies no doubt placed in dark alleyways.
This drop was in plain sight: a notice asking for a Saturday char. Always assuming it was a drop. Mart Velaze believed it was. If Henry Davidson really needed a char, a better bet would be Marvellous Maids. You could set that up by phone. You didn’t need to pin an index card on a corkboard in a shopping centre.
Thing was, who was Henry Davidson handling? Who was going to pop by to read his message? Let alone the when question.
Mart Velaze phoned the Voice. Told her what Henry Davidson had done. Told her Henry was shopping at Woolies.
‘You see, Chief, something’s going down that Henry’s in the middle of,’ the Voice said. ‘He’s the postman. Just need to give him a bicycle and a bag. Has to be this commie plot against the president, maybe has more intent than we credit.’
Mart Velaze realising the Voice had an inside track on Henry Davidson. Had probably bugged his office. The Voice getting her little listeners in everywhere.
‘Now, all you’ve got to do is see who comes to look at the notice board, nè. Could be a long night. Coffee shops’re all going to close soon. Thing I remember about fieldwork, Chief, how exciting it was.’ The Voice giving a low chuckle. ‘Got to salute the old spies, hey, they’re full of tricks.’
Mart Velaze didn’t respond, no ways he was going to waste time playing watchman. Had already seen half a dozen people give the board a scan. Could’ve been any one of them picking up whatever it was: info for a meet; operational intel.
The Voice saying to him, ‘What other news’ve you got for me? What juicy gossip from our beloved Mother City? See you’re right up there on the statistics: most violent city in the country. All those coloureds, Chief. Beware of coloureds. Even the pretty ones.’
Mart Velaze wondering was she getting at his girlfriend, Krista Bishop? How the hell’d she know about her, anyhow? Deciding to keep schtum on the Zama trafficking front. At least for the moment, no point in telling her. Would maybe keep that secret from her for maximum return when the pay-off was right. Did put into play that he’d got Fish Pescado chasing Prosper Mtethu for the Kolingba hit.
‘Funny name, Fish,’ said the Voice. ‘Whiteys love that nickname nonsense. Like Blackie Swart or Nobby Clarke. How’d the English work that one? Nobby? I asked my MI6 people. They said it’s after a hat, the famous bowler hat. Who wants to get named for a stiff little black hat?’ Gave her chuckle. Mart Velaze unable to work out if she was serious. With the Voice it was possible she’d done just that. Might even have MI6 people. A pause, then she zeroed in: ‘Get me more on Prosper, Chief, he’s an unknown. Used to work for the major that’s in with the president and son. You know what gets me? What really gets me? It’s the alliances. You don’t know who’s connected to who. Or’s that whom? Bloody English language.’
Mart Velaze said he would.
‘Good man, Chief. Listen. Listen, there’s a big gedoente, really big occasion, big party-party at the president’s palace on the calendar. Upcoming this Saturday to be precise. Could be useful to have you in the vicinity. Just in case. Don’t need to get onto any guest list. Half of the Aviary’s flying in as it is. So’re all the bigshot movers and takers. Couldn’t think of a better moment to pull a wet job, if you were going to, of course. Best to have you nearby. Observer status only, okay. Strictly, strictly. If there’s action, you’re not in it. Not our remit, Chief. You got me? BWO. Bear witness only.’
Mart Velaze said he understood.
‘Pack your bags for Saturday.’ The Voice wished him safe travels. Assured him the ancestors would have oversight on the project.
7
Was on Fish’s mind all day: what to do about Vicki? He’d woken with it. At unexpected moments it caught him, this nag: to take Mart Velaze at his word or not? Thing was, Mart Velaze came across as a serious dude. Not one to arse about.
So Fish’d left voicemails, twice: ‘I don’t know what this means but you’re not safe. Call me.’ ‘This is no joke, Vicki. You’re in danger. We must talk.’
SMSes: You are not safe. Serious. Call me.
A couple of hours on: I’ll come round tonight if I don’t hear from you.
Email: I’m not joking about this, Vicki. The warning comes from Mart Velaze. Please be careful. Please phone me. I need to know you’re okay.
No response.
Late in the afternoon Estelle rang. Fish in the Canal Walk shopping mall tracking a smart woman into Mugg & Bean, wishing he could use a long lens. Cellphone cameras didn’t crack it on some jobs. So much easier snapping clandestine meetings in car parks from a distance. Saw his mother’s name on the screen, thought to press her off. Then: No, this’s good cover.
Said, ‘I’m on a job, Mom, but we can talk.’
‘Oh, very kind of you. What sort of job? One of those cheating husband larks?’
Fish went with it. ‘Something like that, yeah.’
‘It’s sordid, Bartolomeu. Unworthy of you. That sort of behaviour, people cheating on those who love them, leaves a bad odour on all it touches. I keep telling you. You should get a job. A real job. Join the decent world.’
‘Didn’t know there was one,’ said Fish, turning his back on the coffee shop. Watching the reflection of another woman approaching.
‘Don’t be clever with me, Barto. It doesn’t suit you. Now, I’ve got a favour to ask.’
Surprise, surp
rise. ‘Sure,’ said Fish, ‘what’s it?’
‘Research. Paid at your hourly rate. Your normal hourly rate.’
‘Since when do I overcharge you?’ The second woman, corporate mover, blonde hair short, carefully styled, walking up to the first, arm outstretched. The women shaking hands.
A turn-up for the books. The first time in a week his target had made a contact. Usually her lunchtimes were shopping expeditions. Ms Public Works getting down to business at last. Would please his client. And cause him grief. Want the good news first or the bad? Fish headed for the Mugg & Bean. Lousy coffee but what could you do?
Heard his mother saying, ‘It’s for my Chinese principals.’
When was it not?
‘You see we’ve been invited to the palace.’ A silence. ‘You do know what I’m talking about don’t you?’
Fish sat down a few tables away from the women. Took out a voice recorder. Good directional mic would pick up their chatter.
‘I’m talking about the president’s residence. Bambatha Palace, no less. Apparently – this much I have found out – he holds parties there, well, not so much parties, call them events, from time to time. You know, meet and greets. Ooze and schmooze occasions. For all the high rollers who make the world go round. It’s an honour getting onto that list, Bartolomeu. It’s the equivalent of an invitation from the Queen. The English Queen, obviously. Now.’
Fish ordered an apple juice, waved away a menu. Smiled at the waitress. Got a whiff of bo in return.
‘Now, what I need to know is who else is on that list? I need to brief my clients.’
‘Hell, Mom,’ said Fish.
‘Can do?’
‘What, like phone the president’s secretary, ask who’s on the list?’
‘Don’t be facetious. You’re an information analyst, or that’s what you tell me. For an information analyst this should be easy-peasy.’
Fish watched Ms Corporate take an envelope out of her bag, letter size, put it on the table. Leave it there. ‘Doesn’t require me to phone the secretary, Mom.’
‘Estelle. When are you going to call me Estelle? You’re thirty-four now, Barto. I’m so over being mom.’
Fish ignored her. As the women ignored the envelope, talking quietly. You glanced at them, you’d say they knew one another. Maybe not friends but easy colleagues. ‘You can do it. Phone the secretary. You’re going to be there, you’ll be on the list. They’ll tell you chop-chop. No harm in asking.’
‘I don’t want them to know, Bartolomeu. Don’t you get it?’
‘Nothing I’d worry about.’
A sigh. ‘It’s called being discreet. My gentlemen are very particular about this. They like to be prepared and unobtrusive.’
Ms Corporate tapping her finger on the envelope. A polished nail. Varnished. Slid the envelope closer to Ms Public Works. ‘When’s the great occasion?’
‘On Saturday. I’ve still got to decide on something appropriate. We stay there, you know. We’ve been invited to overnight. Not an invitation that’s extended to just anybody. My principals are important men. More important than the Dalai Lama, I’d say. Mr Yan and Mr Lijan thought it a wise decision, withholding the Lama’s visa. You learn that from history, Barto, there are always meddlesome priests.’
Ms Corporate standing. The women shaking hands. The envelope still on the table. Fish took the phone from his ear, muted his mother, selected the camera. Wondered how long it’d be before his mother realised he wasn’t listening. She was into a history lesson, could be a while. Ms Corporate offered a fifty note for their coffees. Left it lying on the envelope. A final ciao.
A Samsung moment: the envelope going into Ms Public Works’ handbag.
He keyed back to his mother. Dead air.
Sat there watching the woman finish her coffee, pay the bill. Thought of Vicki. What’d happened to them just such bullshit. Keyed the second SMS to her into his phone.
8
‘Hello, Linda,’ said the voice.
A voice Linda Nchaba recognised. The oily tone. Like his mouth was awash with saliva.
‘Long time.’
Her pulse up. Her throat constricted. Her mouth dry.
She clutched hard on the phone. Managed: ‘What d’you want, Zama?’ Took a quick drink of tea. Knowing the answer.
‘To see you.’
‘Why?’
‘You came back.’
‘I didn’t have an option. Remember.’
‘Why not? You can go anywhere in the world.’
Linda Nchaba stood at the first-floor window, staring into the street. Typical Zama, the snappy reply. Deflect the issue.
‘You kidnapped my grandmother. You had me kidnapped.’
‘No, no, no. That wasn’t me. Not my style. Not at all. No, no. Man, what you think I am? I didn’t kidnap you.’
Liar. Lying one of Zama’s stock-in-trade responses. His world a mix of fact and fiction. Of omission. Linda relaxed her grip on the phone. Kept tense, alert, watching the street. Down there a man leading a donkey cart, a woman and child walking behind. A clutter of scrap iron on the back of the cart. The man singing out a constant refrain.
Heard Zama going on: ‘Why’m I likely to do that? Why? I can phone you any time, baby, ask you personally, like now. Why would I do that? Look, we had a problem. I know. I was, what you say, out of line. My bad, okay, my bad.’
‘You hit me.’
‘Baby. My bad. I’m saying sorry. That’s why I’m phoning. To say sorry. I want to see you.’
‘My grandmother’s dead.’
That dropped heavily. Left a silence. Linda kept her watch on the street. No pedestrians. A knot of people outside the bottle store. A man perched on his bicycle, talking on a cellphone. With Zama you never knew. He could be outside in the street. Watching.
‘Yes. Sorry. I know that. Sorry for your loss. This was a sad thing.’
‘You killed her, Zama.’
‘No. She was fine. No one hurt her. I know. I know, every day I checked up. I made sure. Personally.’
‘It wasn’t enough. She was old. With a bad heart. Why, Zama? Why do that to an old lady? Why take her away from her home? Lock her up.’
‘You made me mad, baby. You made me mad, running away. I had to bring you back …’ A pause. Linda silently finishing his sentence: … because you knew too much. The real reason he wanted her back. ‘All you had to do was come back.’
She could hear the distant hubbub from the taxi rank. Hooting. Whistles. ‘I came back a while ago. I’ve been out on a collection. As you would know.’
Imagined Zama in his air-conned SUV, the smell of new leather. Could be parked round the corner. Mr Cool: blue shirt, chinos, slip-ons, no socks. Planning to surprise her. Zama’s way.
‘You see, when you came back, we took your gogo to her home. No problem. We always treated her nicely, with respect. We bought flowers for her home. Food, meat from the palace, chocolates. Every day with us she had chocolates. We didn’t lock her up. She could walk around the house, sit in the garden. Sometimes she made food for everyone. It was a holiday for her.’
‘She was a hostage.’
‘It was a holiday for her. Top class.’
‘You kept her where she didn’t want to be. She was my gogo, Zama. Why do that to my grandmother?’
‘To bring you back. We only did it until you came back.’ A silence, Linda listened for background noises. Nothing obvious. ‘I’m sorry she passed. She was a very nice person. Always kind, always smart. Always smiling.’
‘She was an old woman.’
‘I am sorry. I have said this. I am saying this. How many more times?’
Linda Nchaba heard her gogo. ‘You must promise me you will not go back to him, Linda. Promise me.’ The old woman’s hand in hers. The thin skin, the bones almost visible, still a strength in the grip. She’d faded so quickly. Gone within a few weeks of Linda’s return. ‘Promise me, child. He is not a good man. When I am dead, you must go. Leave this place of wee
ping.’
She’d wept for her grandmother.
At the graveside said, I can’t leave, there are the girls. I can’t let him do that anymore.
Heard Zama saying, ‘I want to see you. I mean this. We can have lunch. The Cape Grace is my favourite. You will like it there.’
‘Where? I don’t know it.’
‘The Waterfront.’
‘In Cape Town?’
‘Yes. Why not? By plane it is two hours only.’
Once she would’ve laughed at crazy Zama, the crazy playboy. Gone along for the ride. The extravagance. Hopped his jet, tooted French champagne on the flight. Enjoyed the lunch. The buzz. The whirl. Nestled against the window on the return, nursing a Johnnie Walker Black. Watched the white strip of coastline spool past. Thinking, this is my life.
Now she hesitated. ‘I’m scared of you.’
A laugh from Zama. ‘You came back. That is not a woman afraid of me. That is not Linda Nchaba. I know you, baby. You’re strong. All the times you’ve been to get the girls, you’re strong. That’s why I need you. One lunch. I’m asking nicely. One lunch. We can talk.’
That feeling again of Zama playing with her. About to surprise her. See, you cannot escape me.
Linda stepped back from the window into the shadow of the room. Could still see the street. The man on his bicycle peddling away. ‘Where are you, Zama?’
‘Close. We can eat now if you are hungry. Kentucky Fried Chicken.’ Again the laugh. ‘It’s not the Grace, but it’s food.’
There, the black Fortuner, tinted windows, driving slowly down the street. The driver’s window sliding down. An arm, a hand waving. The spooky bastard. Very smart. Very cheeky.
She heard Vicki Kahn, ‘Don’t make it too easy for him. Resist. Just don’t lose him.’
