by Mike Nicol
‘He is fine. Very fine. Since car, he has been travelling.’
‘So much travelling? What for, I cannot think. He is never here.’ The president broke off a piece of toast. ‘He has not taken you into his business?’
‘Only the mine.’
‘That is a pity. But you have found out what he does, his business?’ Chewed on the toast.
‘Only the mine. Of course also he is a director on many companies.’
‘You like dry toast?’
Kaiser Vula watched the bobbing of the president’s epiglottis. Sharp, hard against the skin.
‘You know which ones?’
‘Some here. Some in America. China.’
‘America? How? Tell me, Major. How does this happen to a Zulu boy?’
Kaiser Vula held up his palms. ‘You are the president. He is your son. There is black empowerment.’
The president smiled. ‘Where would they be without black empowerment?’ Toyed with another piece of toast. ‘You have seen his bank account?’
Kaiser Vula shifted his eyes to the flat-screen. A refugee camp in Syria, a young girl, four, five years old staring at the camera. ‘Yes, we have seen his bank account.’
‘Don’t worry, Major. It is what I asked of you. You can tell me about it.’
‘Everything is in order.’
‘In this country. But we do not know offshore. There could be a different story.’
‘It is possible.’
‘It is likely.’ The president crunched into another slice of toast. ‘You know his mother died, Zama’s mother. I have told you that story? You see there is his problem, he had no mother. Only gogos to bring him up. A grandmother is not the same as a mother. Even me, I didn’t see him grow up. It was too difficult in those years of the Struggle. For the children of the Struggle, nothing was easy. No mothers. No fathers. They are the lost ones.’
The president swallowed.
‘Zama doesn’t come on your list?’
Why would he, thought Kaiser Vula. The last thing Zama wanted was a change in the presidency.
‘No,’ he said, ‘your son supports you.’
‘This is good, Major. Without me he has no lifestyle.’ A pause. ‘I hear one of his girlfriends is back in favour. Linda Nchaba. A most beautiful woman. Have you met her?’
Major Vula said he hadn’t.
‘A strange type of girl. A woman of moral conscience. Perhaps you should flag her, Major. It can do no harm.’ The president stood, walked to the door. ‘We must always be alert. For all things. We must watch. We must wait. But there is no reason to be anxious.’ At the door, held out his hand. ‘You will be here for the party?’
Kaiser Vula picked up the manila file, walked quickly towards the president. ‘Of course.’ Shook the outstretched hand.
‘A last thing.’ The president keeping hold of his hand. ‘It is time we said goodbye to Colonel Kolingba. You understand me? Today, it is important, today. I have my friends to think about. We cannot allow this nonsense. My friend is suffering in the CAR because of that woman troublemaker.’
That woman, thought Kaiser Vula, his hand still firmly grasped, saved your investments.
‘I mean you,’ said the president. ‘You must do it.’
Kaiser Vula noted a twitch of what looked like pain tighten the president’s face.
15
‘Hey, my china, you want one of those?’ Fish took the bergie by the elbow, pointed at the shop selling Gatsbys. Strange thing about the bergie, he didn’t smell like a bergie. Not like Janet. Janet ponged. That sour sweat and smoke BO. This one had dirty fingernails, old clothes that hadn’t been washed, lacked the intense smell. Had to be SSA. Only the Agency would be this casual.
‘What sort?’ Fish steering him into the shop. The bergie didn’t resist, kept in character, but twisted to look back at the street. ‘Check here, you get your roll with vinegar chips, then you got a choice: polony or hake or calamari. And a chilli sauce. Which one, hey? Which one you gonna go for on your lucky day.’
‘The best one in the city, I tell you.’ The shopkeeper getting in on the sale. ‘Fresh rolls this morning.’
‘Calamari,’ said the bergie. ‘The calamari one.’
‘The gourmand man’s taste,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Top calamari, I tell you.’ He picked out a bread roll, cut open a mouth to push in the chips.
Fish kept his hold of the bergie, but looser now. Not a bad job they’d done on the disguise. But smell was the thing. They always forgot the smell.
‘We have one calamari Gatsby in one moment’s time,’ said the shopkeeper, squirting chilli sauce from a plastic bottle into the stuffed roll. To Fish said, ‘This is most kind of you, my good sir.’ He named the price.
As Fish dug for notes in his pockets, the bergie pulled free, dashed into the street.
‘Hey, my friend, my friend, don’t run away. This is fine food for you. A most nourishing meal. You are one fortunate fellow on this beaming day,’ the shopkeeper shouted. Turned to Fish. ‘You try to help these people, that’s what you get, I tell you. There is no appreciation. Every day they come in here, please give me food, please give me a bread. They think I am a charity. That I am here to feed all the rubbish of Cape Town.’ Held up the Gatsby. ‘So, now it is all for you.’ Repeated the price.
‘I don’t want it.’ Fish shook his head. ‘It was for him.’
‘I have made it. You must pay for it.’
‘Someone else will buy it.’
‘You must buy it. You are the customer.’
Fish looked at the shopkeeper, his baggy eyes, his stumpy teeth. His face set, determined. Thought, what I do for you, Vicki. Said, ‘Sorry, okay. I don’t want it.’ Got out of the shop, the man swearing at him, shouting, What did he think this was, Gift of the Giver? Good Samaritans? Red Cross? Seaman’s Mission? Nelson Mandela day? The Gatsby man coming round the counter with a cricket bat.
Fish jogged away up Roeland Street, glanced back once at the Gatsby man yelling from the corner, his cricket bat raised. Couldn’t resist a toodle-oo wave, as his mother would call it. Then headed back to Wembley Square through quiet streets, office workers smoking on the pavements, young suits making for the deli for their morning croissants. Followed them up the steps into the square. At the lift to the apartments, keyed in Vicki’s security code. At the apartment door used the key she’d given him months back.
Could smell her instantly. Stood there just breathing her in. The scent of her hair, her deodorant, the hint of perfume. Felt the loss of her in his chest. She’d better bloody ring. She didn’t, he would. Took the gsm bugs from his jacket pocket, wondered where’d be the best spots. The apartment so Vicki. Neat. Everything in its place. You didn’t know who lived here, you might wonder, obsessive-compulsive tidiness.
First, did a sweep of her apartment, found a bug beneath the couch, another really sexy little thing behind the bed’s headboard, a third in the bathroom. Whoever had installed them really wanted aural on Vicki Kahn. A relief: no cameras.
Thought, Vicki, Vicki, Vicki, you need to do some house cleaning. Of course, could be she knew, didn’t want them to know she knew. Either way, Fish left the gizmos.
Stuck one of his own beneath the corner desk, the other under her bedside table. Thinking, might be a complete waste of time. Except you never knew what you’d pick up. Felt a shit for doing this. Then again a man had to do what a man had to do, but he wasn’t a snoop, not in the jealous sense. Wished he could test them, but he said a word, whoever else was out there listening to the private life of Vicki Kahn would prick up their ears. No other option: trust to the gods of electronics. Took a last look round, wondering if or when he’d be here again. Not a thought he wanted to think. Got out of her apartment before the morbs attacked.
Fish’s next call: the comatose colonel. Recalled something Cynthia Kolingba had told him about the colonel being close to home. Close to home was Constantiaberg. He knew that hospital. You went in with a bunch of flowers, you could
get more or less anywhere. Duly went in with a bunch of flowers. At reception asked for the colonel. Was told second floor, ICU, no visitors except family. Could leave the flowers, a messenger would take them up.
No bother, Shereen, said Fish, reading her name tag, he’d do it, drop them at the nurse’s station. Quick as a flash.
‘You can’t, sir,’ said Shereen. Buzzed a security guard, told him to take the flowers. ‘Please, sir, respect our regulations.’ Shereen a large lady of wobbling fat.
‘No problem,’ said Fish, walked with the guard to the lifts. Pulled out the photographs, plus a blue hundred bucks. ‘You seen this guy?’
The guard nodded. ‘I seen him.’
‘Here?’
‘Every day. Upstairs.’
‘Can you give him a message?’
‘What message?’
‘Give him these.’ Handed the photographs to the guard. ‘Tell him I’m in the foyer.’
‘You?’
‘In the foyer.’
The lift doors opened, Fish stepped aside for attendants pushing wheelchairs. People in the wheelchairs looked like zombies.
Before the doors closed, said to the guard, ‘What’s his name?’
‘We call him Prosper.’
Prosper! There was a name to conjure with.
Fish ambled back past Shereen. Smiled at her. Said, ‘You see, obeying your regulations. Get you something from the canteen? Custard slice, maybe? Chocolate cupcake?’
Shereen glowered at him.
‘Lighten up,’ said Fish.
He didn’t wait long for the man called Prosper. Saw the security guard step out of the lift, point a man in his direction. The man holding the envelope with the photographs.
Came up. ‘Eh, who are you?’ Deep voice. Stepped right up to Fish, crowding him.
Fish held his ground, told him, friend of the Kolingba family. Stretched it a bit that he was working for Cynthia Kolingba. The man glaring at him, his brow furrowed.
‘I don’t know you. Where’d you get these?’ Tapping the envelope against Fish’s chest.
Fish took hold of the envelope. ‘Doesn’t matter where I got them.’ Took out the one of Prosper in the car. Decided to up the ante. ‘I know what’s going on here.’
The man grinned. Two teeth missing from his lower jaw. The others yellow stubs. ‘You think, eh? You think you know. You a clever? Such a clever.’ Snatched back the photographs.
Fish smelling the cigarette smoke on the man’s breath.
‘You, blond man!’ The words spat out. ‘I am the colonel’s security. Go.’ Shoved Fish towards the door. ‘Go.’
Fish stumbled, regained his balance. Saw over Prosper’s shoulder, Shereen smiling. Felt the hard jab of a gun muzzle below his ribs. The man pushing him out of the foyer.
‘You think you know what is going on? You come with your photographs, you think you know what is going on? You know nothing. Nothing, my friend. You are dog shit.’
Fish being frogmarched through the ranks of cars to the back of the parking lot. Being patted down, glad he didn’t have the Ruger in his belt.
‘ID? ID? Who are you?’
Fish brushed the gun aside, took a pace back. ‘Cool it, okay? What the fuck you think you’re doing, man? I’m working for Cynthia Kolingba.’
‘Mrs Kolingba’s in CAR. I am the colonel’s security.’
‘You are SSA.’
‘Where’s your ID?’ The man still holding his gun, his arm lowered. ‘Show me.’ Clicking his fingers. ‘Show me. Quick. Quick.’
‘Look, screw you,’ said Fish. Opted for another flyer. ‘You know Joey Curtains?’
Prosper squinted at him. ‘Joey Curtains is dead.’ Paused. ‘How’d you know Joey Curtains?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Fish. ‘We didn’t get the chance.’
‘Maybe you’re lucky, blondie.’ Prosper putting the gun muzzle against Fish’s breastbone. ‘You think you know lots of things. You think because you got pictures, you a clever. Let me tell you, you know fokal.’ Jabbed the muzzle, pushed Fish up against a concrete fence. ‘You go away, blondie. You go away from the colonel. You go away from Mrs Kolingba. You go away and stay away. No more funny blondie business.’ The man tucked his pistol into his belt, pulled out a cellphone, took a few quick snaps of Fish. ‘For my Facebook.’ Laughed, shook his head.
Fish watched him walk away, a limp in his gait as if he swivelled from the hips. His life catching up with him. One thing about Prosper, he could get excited. Fish massaged his breastbone.
Shouted, ‘You want me, Prosper, my card’s in the envelope.’
The man didn’t even turn round.
Had to make you curious, too, thought Fish, why Mart Velaze was pulling your strings?
16
Vicki reckoned she was clean. Had headed along the empty pavement, past the dingy shops, paused at the car lot, ensured there was no one following. Could see all the way back. Other side of the street, two women talking outside the Kimberley Hotel; her side, a man stepped from the bottle store, his daily bread in a paper bag, went off in the other direction. No sign of the bergie. Good for Fish. The thought of him brought back the pain of longing. Made her feel worse that he’d been watching out for her. After the way she’d treated him. Considered SMSing him thanks. But didn’t.
Later. Later they could deal with it. She hurried on.
At the Aviary went straight to Henry Davidson.
‘Tell me,’ she said, standing over his desk, ‘what’s going on, what’s happening?’
Henry Davidson glanced up from his screen. ‘Have you seen this? Have you ever actually Googled the palace?’ Jabbed a finger at the screen. ‘It’s amazing. Like Sun City. Like a fantasy. Those fabulous buildings. The whole place. A present to him from we the people. Extraordinary. And in what we like to call a democracy. One-party democracy. Or have we had a silent coup d’état that no one noticed?’ He squinted at Vicki. ‘You’re looking peaked. Sit down. Tell Humpty all about it.’
Vicki removed files from a chair, perched on the seat. ‘You tell me.’
‘Ooo, bit aggressive for this time of the morning, I do believe.’
‘I’m under surveillance. Again. First in Berlin. Now here.’
Vicki watched his face. No change to his expression. No sudden glint of interest in his eyes. No twitch at his mouth. Not the first time she wondered if he played poker. Never dared ask. Never dared broach the G-subject. He’d be on it afterwards, exploiting the angle.
‘Are you now? Interesting.’ Drawing out the four syllables.
‘Who’s doing it? Why’re they doing it?’
Henry Davidson leant back in his chair. ‘Good question.’ Came forward, stood up. ‘Much better to talk about it over coffee in the Gardens. Such a nice day. Pity to be cooped up in here, don’t you think?’
On the walk down Plein Street, along Spin, round the back of the Slave Lodge, Henry Davidson nattered about one day in Paris.
‘There I was, strolling beside the medieval Seine, Sunday morning, lovely morning, September, sunny, clear, bright blue sky, song in my heart, all is right with the world. I am dawdling, taking it all in: sights, sounds, aromas. Parisians at their cafés, enjoying the last of the summer sun. Then I get this feeling, you know, that there is someone following. I stop. Lean on the wall, looking at the river. Look up at the sky, turn round, look up at the buildings, your general tourist behaviour. Ah, what it is to be in this great city! Look back. There I see this Frenchman about twenty metres away: coiffed hair, summer jacket, smart shoes. Short man. Shorter than me by a good three or four inches. Got his hands cupped round a cigarette. Slightly turned away as if he is shielding the match from the wind.’ Henry Davidson paused. ‘Is that your watcher scratching in the bin up ahead?’
Vicki’d seen him already. Wondered how he’d known where they’d be. ‘Uh-huh. How? How’d …’
‘Bug in my office,’ said Henry Davidson. ‘Leave him be. He’s happy in his work. Anyhow, back to Paris. I rea
lised I had seen this chappie before, on the Metro. Had to be DCRI, whatever they were before that, RG, DST, one of the French counter-espionage agencies. So I thought, best not to let on. Best to let him do his job. Lovely day like that, the last thing you want to do is spoil it.’
‘Why’re you telling me this?’
‘For a reason, my dear Vicki, for a reason. Come.’ Took her arm, guided her off Government Avenue towards the café. ‘You see this was, let me see, this was 1988. Different place the world was in 1988. Dangerous place. All sorts of chatter coming from all sorts of quarters. Nervous Ruskies, paranoid Yankees, foolish Brits pretending they knew it all. Mossad knocking off whomever they pleased. The French jittery because they had big money involved. Nuclear contracts. Dangerous times. Full of menace. All very exciting. Now the reason I was in Paris was because of your aunt.’
‘Amina?’
‘The very same.’
‘Why? What were you doing there? You were part …?’ Vicki pulled herself free.
‘No, of course not. Of course not. For heaven’s sake, Vicki. What do you think I am? I wasn’t a field agent. I was never an agent. I wasn’t there to kill her.’
‘You were BOSS, the Security Branch.’
‘Well, not exactly, no, not part of them at all, actually. National Intelligence Service as it was then. Very different. Very different type of people. Very different spectrum of operations. More about keeping things together than blowing them apart. Reason I was in Paris was because of what I had heard. You see I had had word from Detlef …’
‘Detlef? Detlef Schroeder?’ Vicki stopped. ‘What’s this about, Henry? What’s this got to do with my being followed? With the bloody bergie behind us?’
Henry Davidson took her arm again. ‘Our bloody bergie is watching. Best to go on and have that coffee. Advisable not to get him all excited.’
Vicki allowed the pressure at her elbow to propel her forward, thinking, now what? Bloody Henry and his damn stories. Where was he going with this one? Always some twisted fable, some Alice in Wonderland quotation.
