Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  ‘Where are you, Major?’

  ‘I am here, Mr President,’ Kaiser Vula replied.

  ‘In the bunker?’

  ‘With your secretary.’

  ‘You have your file for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All the names?’

  ‘Those that we know.’

  He paused. ‘Good. Good. I will be down. Let me talk to my secretary.’ To his assistant said, ‘You have served the major coffee, breakfast?’ Was told it had been ordered. ‘He can sit inside. Give him the document we prepared. For his eyes only.’

  ‘Of course, Mr President,’ said the secretary. ‘Even with …?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The president disconnected, swung his legs off the bed. Brushed a hand at the powder in his pubic hairs. Shook his head. The contradictions of the girl sometimes beyond understanding.

  A gripe of pain ziggered across his stomach. Made him bend over, gasp at this sudden stabbing. They were becoming more frequent, more intense, these bolts of fire. He’d even had to call off a tennis practice the previous day. There were occasions he had to smother a cry.

  When the spasm eased, he straightened, lifted a white dressing gown from a chair, shrugged into it, fastened the cord. In the bathroom said to Nandi, ‘You have been to the sangomas again.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her face turned up to him. Those wide eyes sparking.

  ‘Enough, please. We’ve been through this.’

  ‘You must trust me, Baba,’ she said, reaching up.

  He took her soft hand in both of his. Had told her not to call him baba. ‘I am not your father,’ he’d said. ‘For me you can use the name husband.’ But still she called him baba.

  Said now, ‘I am not asking, my dear.’

  Not a flicker of doubt crossed her face. ‘I have powers. The sangomas tell me I have powers.’

  The president sighed. ‘You must stop.’ He released her hand.

  ‘Baba,’ said Nandi. ‘I have organised the party. Everything is ready. You can make the announcement.’

  The president turned to the mirror. Peered closely at his image. There seemed to be a grey tinge in the whites of his eyes. He needed honey. A spoonful of honey would sort out his problems.

  13

  Her buzzer went. Vicki about to leave for the Aviary, update the Linda file, do some legwork on the palace party, get background on the president’s new piece. Would be news to Henry Davidson. Which would piss him off. She liked that. Anticipated Henry pouting, his lips pursed in sour resentment that she was one-up.

  She frowned at the buzzer box: on the display, Fish staring at her. Blond surfer hair awry, pleading look in his eyes.

  The last thing she wanted. The first thing she wanted.

  Her pulse up.

  His lips moved. Please. Was he saying please? Pleading? Fish pleading?

  Not the moment. Not right now. She couldn’t handle it on the fly, not without some psyching.

  He’d brought his hands into view. Holding them up to her, palms out.

  Don’t, Fish, don’t. Not now.

  She got out of the apartment fast. Could hear the buzzer going again and again as she closed the door. Could imagine his face on the screen, begging.

  She couldn’t be ambushed. Could only do it on her own terms.

  Vicki took the stairs, went out the opposite side of the building. The mountain above her, the ancient god Adamastor looming down, disapproving. Went left up the street, the pavement damp with night dew, the sun on the old cottages opposite. Had decided to skirt round the top of Wembley Square. Chances were Fish would’ve parked in the underground. When he gave up he’d go back to his car and by then she’d be down Glynn Street behind the Archives to the crumbling homes of Harrington Street. Easy to keep out of sight.

  The feeling kicked in halfway along Glynn. The sense of being followed.

  When you get the feeling, don’t stop. Go with your instinct. Best not to let on that you’re aware. Wait for an opportunity. Wait for a rabbit hole, to use Henry Davidson’s term. None such here. She was exposed. The stone wall of what had once been the hanging prison one side, on the other cars parked at the kerb.

  Should have known Fish wouldn’t be an easy dodge. Vicki crossed Solan Road, waiting for the call of her name, the sound of his running. Her phone rang. She stopped beside a window, an arty media house, enough reflection in the glass of the street behind her. Fish not mirrored. His name on her phone screen. Pressed him to voicemail, walked on.

  The rabbit hole came at the Book Lounge. She’d jay-walked Roeland Street between hooting cars, continued on Harrington past the charity hall, jinxed left into Commercial. In Buitenkant, with no sign of Fish, slipped into the bookshop’s side entrance, taking the stairs down in leaps. Neat, short man wearing a bow tie coming out of an office said, ‘Whatever it is, it’s not sold out, no need for you to rush.’

  Gave him the wither stare.

  He held up his hands, said, ‘Oh, dear.’ Clucked his tongue.

  In a corner chair Vicki phoned Fish.

  ‘What’re you doing, stalking me? You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘I’m not stalking you. It’s …’

  ‘Look, give it up, okay. I’ve got stuff going on, Fish. Just give it up. We can talk when this’s over.’

  ‘You’re being followed.’

  ‘Being stalked, you mean.’

  ‘Listen, Vics. Listen to me.’

  The Vics catching her. When he called her that, he could still do it. Flutter her heart.

  ‘There’s a guy on you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stay where you are. I’ll call on another line. We can’t talk on this one.’

  ‘It’s my phone.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The call dropped. Vicki sat looking at her phone. Fish could be the limit. Thought about someone stalking her. A watcher. Who’d have her under bloody surveillance?

  The bow-tie shortarse returned holding out a mobile handset. ‘There’s a call for you on our landline, madam. If your name’s Vicki. It sounds very mysterious.’

  Vicki took the phone.

  ‘A thank you would be nice.’ Mr Bow Tie, pouting, spinning on his heel.

  ‘Listen, Vics,’ said Fish in her ear. ‘I got a call earlier. You’re in shit street.’

  ‘What’re you talking about, you got a call? Who from?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Okay, how’s this: I’m looking at him, your watcher. The dude’s about my height, dressed like a bergie, bit fat for a bergie. Does a lot of dustbin work. Mutters to himself. Not far from the Book Lounge, actually across the road at the shop that sells Gatsbys, that’s where he’s standing. Probably he eats too many Gatsbys, all that bread and chips, that’s why he’s fat.’

  ‘Don’t be a prick, Fish.’

  ‘I’m not shitting you. I mean this. Look out the window, you’ll see him.’

  One thing she’d been sure of was being clean going into the bookshop. Did a quick scout up the stairs, Mr Bow Tie calling out, ‘Don’t walk off with our phone, madam.’

  There was the vagrant, pawing in a bin.

  ‘Where’re you?’

  ‘Up the road a bit. I’m not gonna wave. Believe me now?’

  She went back to her chair. The neat man standing in his office doorway, stroking his moustache, keeping her under surveillance. Everyone at it.

  ‘He was onto you from Wembley Street. About the same time I was.’

  ‘Oh, very smart.’

  ‘It happens, Vics. To the best of us. Problem is also whatever this other thing is you’re doing.’

  ‘And you got this from?’

  ‘An old friend. Well, not a friend as such. What do you call them? An informer. A low-level informer.’

  Vicki knew who that meant. Could be only one person: Mart Velaze. She closed her eyes, leant back in the leather. In all her time at the Aviary she’d never seen him. Not once. Not so much as
glimpsed a fleeting shadow of Mart Velaze. Wasn’t a record anywhere he worked for the Agency.

  ‘He’s full of nonsense.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m telling you what he said. If you’re under surveillance, maybe he’s right. You need to watch it, that’s all.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake! I’m only going to the office, not as if I’ll be meeting covert operators.’

  Vicki saw Mr Bow Tie coming towards her. ‘Can we have our phone back, please? This is a business, you know. Not a telephone café.’ Holding out his hand, his fingers going give, give, give.

  ‘Wait,’ she said to Fish. To the shortarse said, ‘Don’t do that.’

  The vehemence stopped him, had him back-pedalling. ‘Oh, my dearie me.’

  ‘We got to talk,’ Fish was saying. ‘About us. About why the fuck you won’t return my calls. About why you just let us unravel.’

  ‘You mean it’s my fault?’

  ‘I mean we’ve got to talk.’

  Vicki bent forward, looked down at her neat feet, her shoes, black slip-ons, a scuff on the left toecap. He was right. They needed to talk. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘Tonight.’

  A silence. Then: ‘You want me to sort out the bergie?’

  She nodded to herself. Said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tonight,’ said Fish. ‘You better do it.’

  Vicki pressed off the connection, stood. ‘Here,’ she said to the bow-tie guy, ‘catch’ – lobbing the handset. He missed. Dropped it.

  ‘You’re very rude,’ he said, picking up the instrument.

  ‘And you’re no cricketer.’

  She left the bookshop through the main entrance, closing the security gate behind her. Glimpsed Fish talking to the bergie, the bergie struggling to get out of his grip.

  Her phone beeped a message: ‘Walrus lunch tomorrow. Phone me tonight.’

  14

  Kaiser Vula sat at the long table in the bunker. The flat-screen showed cnn news, the sound muted. Problems in Gaza. Putin holding forth. Obama hurrying with his aides across a lawn. Kaiser Vula didn’t watch it, sat at attention, his hand on a thin manila file, his eyes on the secretary entering.

  The secretary brought a cafetière of coffee. Three slices of lightly buttered toast. A pot of jam. A bowl of grated cheese. An apple. He had not asked for the jam, the cheese, the apple. Breakfast on a silver platter.

  ‘Major,’ said the secretary. ‘The president says he will be fifteen minutes. I have a document I must give you.’ The secretary unlocked a cabinet door, lifted out a folder. ‘These are names the president wrote down. He prepared it. You must not show anyone.’

  Kaiser Vula glanced round the empty room. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘Perhaps you should remember the names.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You know there must be no paper trail.’

  Kaiser Vula reached out, slowly depressed the cafetière’s plunger. Kept his eyes on the secretary. A gay man, he suspected. Not like some, not flamboyant, this one discreet. But you could hear it in his voice, the soft lilt. You could feel it in the small handshake. The president joked about them, yet had this one in his office? Puzzling.

  ‘When you’re finished, I must shred it.’

  ‘Alright.’

  Kaiser Vula stared at the file.

  ‘Yes,’ said the secretary. ‘Well, enjoy. I’m the other side of the door if you need me.’

  Kaiser Vula flexed the corner of his mouth, a stiff smile, left his hand on the plunger until the secretary had gone. Then relaxed, pulled the file closer, opened it. A single sheet inside, a handwritten list of names. All the names from the party’s national executive committee. All who were not communists.

  The president was a communist. A member of long standing.

  Kaiser Vula poured himself coffee, black, no sugar. Bit into a slice of toast, crumbs spraying over his suit. Thought: This will not be easy. There had not been a worse time in his life. The humiliation by Nandi, the taunting thrusts of his wife, the grasp of the president, the business of the son. He brushed the crumbs from his lap, clucking in irritation.

  How quickly it had got like this. How quickly he had been sucked in.

  Become the confidant.

  To Zama who revealed nothing, who lived nowhere, who was running the Sydney Sun Run or the Tel Aviv marathon. Or had stopped at this beach hotel in Bazaruto, or that golf resort in Guyana. Or was hunting with American senators in the forests of Michigan. Or fishing with Russian oligarchs in the Caspian Sea. Who might phone from New York, London, Shanghai, Cairo, Mumbai.

  ‘Yes, Kaiser, we must visit the mine.’

  ‘Yes, Kaiser, we must be in touch with Madame Kolingba.’

  ‘Yes, Kaiser, we must meet with the president.’

  ‘Yes, Kaiser, we must have a drink. The One&Only. Tonight.’

  Where Zama’d said, ‘You’ve heard about my father’s plans? No?’ A laugh. ‘You won’t believe it. This man, he is seventy something, he has three wives. Now he wants another one. Which will mean a child, of course. Without a child can it be a marriage? Not in our culture. The old gogos will whisper about him. The old gogos think already there are too many children. Enough, old man. No, he must marry again.’ A pause, a sip of whisky. A tap on Kaiser Vula’s knee. ‘Actually, Major, you know her, his intended.’ A snort of derision. ‘Very beautiful. Very smart. Very young. Yes? Yes, the woman who left you. Nandi. I forget her family name.’

  Nandi.

  Who would not tell him what had happened that night of the party. Who had stayed in their room until it was time to go. Who had said on the flight back to Cape Town, ‘I hate that man. I really hate him.’ Who had told him later, ‘We are finished, Kaiser. I am leaving the city.’

  Next thing he learns, she has been seen at the palace, a regular visitor there. She’s moved in, become the president’s favourite.

  ‘I hate that man. I really hate him.’

  Kaiser Vula heard her vehemence. Low. Intense. Angry.

  ‘So your little lovebird is screwing the president,’ his wife had said when gossip became news. ‘You groomed her well, Major.’

  ‘She is not my lovebird.’

  ‘Sorry. Was. Was your little lovebird.’ His wife holding up the magazine spread. Nandi and the president in full colour.

  ‘If you want a divorce, then it is easy to arrange.’

  ‘Snatched off by your president.’

  ‘Give me a divorce.’

  ‘Are you mad? How am I to live without your money? I am your prisoner, Kaiser Vula. And you are mine.’

  The truth. He drank off the coffee. Poured another cup. Never more than now, a prisoner. Through the door, heard the president’s voice, cheerful, booming.

  ‘Major. Good morning. You have been looked after? More coffee? More toast?’ Formal in his suit and tie, sat opposite Kaiser Vula at the long table. Stared at him. Kaiser Vula lowered his eyes. Thought he could smell Nandi’s scent ghosting. ‘You have done some investigations?’

  ‘I have.’ Kaiser Vula slid his file across the table.

  The president left it lying there. ‘No, no. I don’t want to see it. What about the names on my list? Do they match?’

  Kaiser Vula shook his head. ‘They are not the same.’

  ‘No?’ A frown. ‘You are sure of this?’

  ‘We are. I am. Yes. You have been given a decoy list.’

  ‘The minister of security would do this to me?’

  Major Kaiser Vula kept silent. No emotion on his face, his eyes steady on the president. A perfect servant.

  The president sucked at his lips. Silence in the room, except the soft plosive of the president’s breath.

  ‘Who are they? Give me their names.’

  ‘It is the communists.’

  The president didn’t respond. Shifted in his chair, staring at the major. ‘Which communists?’

  ‘The leadership.’ Kaiser Vula cleared his throat, named the
comrades.

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘It is our information.’

  ‘You have someone in the committee?’

  Again the major had to clear his throat. ‘We have someone.’

  The president leant forward, nodding. ‘Of course. There is always someone. Always someone who is not what you think. That is how it was in exile. In government I thought it would be better. That the plotting would stop. But it is how we are. There is always the spy. In those days, we took the traitors to the Quatro camp. It was easy. The camp was far away in Angola. Far away anything can happen. Now we cannot do that anymore. What can we do now?’

  ‘We can raid them with the Hawks.’

  ‘Pah.’ He waved a hand. ‘The Hawks. The Hawks are a joke in the police service. We have no laws for traitors now.’ The president got up, walked the length of the bunker. ‘We must do nothing, Major. We must listen. Wait. You are sure of these names? You are one hundred per cent? These are my friends, these people. They have benefited. Look at where they live: the garden suburbs, safe behind their walls. In their big houses, driving their smart cars. They have international holidays. They are the rich. In twenty years, they have all this. More than they could have if they worked for a lifetime.’ He came back. Stabbed his finger on the manila file. ‘That is what I have allowed them. Now what do they want? What is their plan? To kill me?’

  ‘That is what we heard.’

  ‘What?’ The president sat down. ‘You mean this? You are serious? These comrades think they can do that? What? They will shoot me? They think I am a dog, they can shoot me? How can they do this? Where will they do this? Will they have a coup? Like the CAR?’

  ‘There are no details.’

  ‘But they have talked of this?’

  Kaiser Vula nodded slowly. Sucked in his breath. ‘They have talked about it.’

  ‘My comrades. My friends.’ The president stared at the table, the manila file lying there.

  ‘Other ways can be used.’

  ‘Other ways?’ A pause. ‘No, no. No. We wait.’ Pushed the file back to Kaiser Vula. ‘Destroy this.’ Raised his eyes, Kaiser Vula seeing no fear there. Only the president’s shark stare. ‘They will not dare. They know me. I am president-for-life. For communists, if they are not planning something secret, their lives are empty.’ He placed his hands together. ‘Now tell me, how is Zama, my marathon-running son?’