Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  Heard Vicki saying, ‘Jesus, Linda, just keep it together.’ Feeling certain Vicki was talking to herself.

  Only then thought, bit tacky stalking her.

  Her phone again.

  ‘Henry. You’ve read the letter, I assume.’

  Fish thinking: China, you’re in the kak. Wished he could hear this one out. But no time. Didn’t want to leave Prosper having second thoughts.

  19

  ‘Henry. You’ve read the letter, I assume.’

  ‘What do you think, Vicki? Of course I read it. A letter comes for you from a dead Detlef Schroeder, I am going to read it. Obliged to read it, you know.’

  ‘I don’t know. How can I know? You didn’t tell me. I don’t get why you didn’t tell me earlier. It’s my letter. A personal letter.’ Vicki walked about her apartment, touching surfaces, avoiding the letter from Detlef lying on the coffee table. Avoiding it, but her eyes drawn to the flimsy paper. The neat blue handwriting, sloping right. Nothing weak or shaky in the form of the letters. Nothing to presage his death.

  ‘Well, hardly.’

  ‘Concerning my family.’

  ‘I would have thought it was more than that.’

  ‘My aunt.’

  ‘I would have thought otherwise. Given the people who are involved. I would have thought there were concerning issues here.’

  ‘Concerning issues. That’s nice. Concerning issues. Like the killing of my aunt. Her possible rape by the man now our president. The fact that she might have had his child.’

  ‘Conjecture, Vicki.’

  ‘Which part?’

  ‘You know which part.’

  ‘It adds up.’

  ‘In the mind of an old Cold War spy, a paranoid old Cold War spy miffed that his lover might have had a one-night stand.’

  ‘And was then mysteriously redeployed.’ Vicki stood in front of the photograph of Amina Kahn. The wind in her hair. Her arms open wide. A carefree moment in a harsh time.

  ‘For which there were probably very good reasons.’

  ‘Pregnancy being one of them.’

  ‘Supposition. Remember that the pigeon thought Alice was a serpent.’

  ‘What? Jesus, Henry. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Supposition. I am talking about making assumptions. Deducing one thing from another. Incorrectly.’

  ‘Whatever. I can find out, you know. There will be records.’

  ‘In Botswana? Going back thirty years! Good luck to you. Leave it, Vicki. There is nothing to be gained.’

  ‘In learning that our target is my relative, you mean?’ A silence. Vicki waited. Wondered what Henry Davidson was doing. Where was he? Probably in his chair, a discarded supper tray at his feet. A glass of whisky on the chair arm. Inevitably. She tried the oblique.

  ‘Why was he killed? Detlef?’

  Imagined a slow shake of his head. ‘I am too old for that one, Vicki. Very sad, though. Very sad.’

  She ignored this. Said, ‘Was it us?’

  ‘Oh, God, no. We wouldn’t do a thing like that. What for, for heaven’s sake? No, no, it wasn’t us. I don’t know who it was. Or why. Detlef was an international man of mystery, a man with many secrets. Perhaps he was finding them difficult to contain. Trust me. We were not involved.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you give me the letter earlier?’ Vicki wondering, if Detlef wasn’t connected with the videos of European men on the Nchaba flash drive, why hold back the letter?

  ‘No particular reasons.’

  ‘So connection: Detlef and the flash-drive videos?’

  ‘No connection. Coincidence. Separate stories. Look, I could take you off this operation.’

  ‘You could. But then why reveal all these things?’

  ‘Because you have a right to know.’

  ‘At this time. A little too coincidental, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I would not say anything, Vicki. It is not coincidental. It is the way things happen. There are causes, there are effects. Actions and consequences. That is what we are dealing with: consequences. Now. You are off tomorrow. Sparrows, I hope?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Should be an interesting little operation. Mixing with the great and the powerful. Watching the beautiful people at play. Get some sleep, Vicki. Keep in touch. I need reports. I need to know what is going on. And please, please stay lead-free. Things might get a little … what is the buzzword?’

  ‘Hectic.’

  ‘Exactly. Hectic.’

  Vicki disconnected. Sat on the arm of the couch, leant down, picked up the letter from Detlef Schroeder.

  My Dear Vicki,

  I have not much time so I have to tell you quickly straight away. I have told you that Amina went very suddenly to Botswana. There she was for six months when we did not have any physical contact. I have told you that afterwards she did not tell me much about her months in Gaborone. She would tell me only about her work there, about the MK soldiers and people escaping from South Africa. I have told you that it was not a happy time for her.

  Yesterday I told you that after we were together in Paris at the Tuileries it was a month before we were together again in Berlin. Then some months later she goes suddenly to Botswana for some half a year. When I see her again, I said she was my same Amina. This is true but it is also not true. She was hiding some things from me. Maybe she was more quiet, more thoughtful. When I think of it now I must write that Amina was different when we met in Paris. She was not the same laughing person. In those days I did not know why.

  There are some things I have found out that I did not know in those days. What I have discovered is that in Botswana Amina had a baby. This baby was a boy. Afterwards the baby was taken to a safe place and Amina must return to Paris. In Paris when we met she is like the old Amina again but there is something not right with her. That is what I think. Of course she is joking, and happy and we are having a good time. But now I think she was acting for me, hiding her sadness. All the time she was pretending when inside there was a deep hurt. Two painful things she could not tell me.

  I think the baby she had in Gaborone is the baby of the man who is now the president of your country. I think he has raped her. I have no proof of these things. But I do know she met with this man in Paris some months before she went to Gaborone. He was her boss in those days, and we know what this man’s reputation is with the ladies. What I do know for certain is that Amina was pregnant and that she had a child. Of this I have proof. I have photographs. I have the documentation papers. The child was not my child. The opportunities do not match.

  Then in Paris before Amina was killed I told you she met with this man Dr Gold from the old South African nationalist government who had gold bullion in Switzerland. Some of that money went to your president and his men before they were even the new government. This is not the only thing.

  Amina also found out that there was other nuclear trade between the French and South Africa. Moreover there were contracts for armaments: some navy ships, some weapon systems, and maybe even some jet fighters. This was a lot of money. I know Amina knew this because she told me. I also know that Amina told this to the ANC top men. She wanted them to make this information public because of the arms embargo against South Africa in those years of the late 1980s. She threatened if they did not go to the newspapers then she would do it.

  What I write now I cannot prove. What I think happened is an arrangement between the African National Congress and the apartheid government hit squad to kill Amina. She was too dangerous to them all when she was alive. The nationalist government told the top people in the African National Congress that there was lots of money in the arms deals. They told them when they were the new government the leaders could make so much money from these deals. The man they talked to is now the president. Only your aunt Amina was in their way. It was easy in those days to sort out this type of problem. The apartheid people could make it happen.

  I am sorry I have to write this for you. It would
have been better if I could tell you this story in the way we were talking yesterday. Unfortunately other things in my life make this impossible.

  It would be nice if we could meet again but I do not think this will happen.

  Thank you for coming to visit here with me yesterday. You brought comfort to an old man, and you stirred up memories. You are so much like Amina. You remember I told you yesterday, you are the spitting image.

  So much like Amina.

  Dead Amina. Assassinated Amina. Amina who’d abandoned a child. Though it would have been better had he, too, been aborted.

  Vicki stood, a sudden pounding in her chest. Flashed back to the gynaecologist leaning over her. ‘You can go now, Ms Kahn, that’s sorted.’ That. Sorted.

  Now she grabbed her car keys, rushed out. In the basement parking fired up the red Alfa MiTo, headed into the night. Took De Waal Drive, going too fast through the corners, hearing tyre squeal even above Melissa Etheridge. Melissa singing about it being too dark to see. About falling up. About flying or dying. About the darkness in front. The MiTo’s headlights cutting into the night down the highway, the mountains coming at her. End of the highway, Vicki thought, what am I doing here? Like she was on autopilot headed for Fish.

  Melissa sang about having a heavy heart.

  She could go to him. Be there in five minutes. Confess all. Her body wanted to. Wanted to press Fish against her, wanted to hold him, have him hold her. Skin to skin.

  Her mind said, no. You are an agent of the state. You have commitments. Obligations. Responsibilities. You have put your life aside. There are the girls. Fish would have to wait.

  At the end of the highway she turned round, drove back to town.

  Melissa sang about falling off the edge.

  In the quiet of her apartment, Vicki opened her laptop, logged onto 888poker. Just for an hour, to wind down.

  20

  Cape Town International Airport, 19:30

  Kaiser Vula watched the queue shuffle past the boarding desks, the airline staff telling passengers to have a good flight. The passengers rumpled businesspeople at the end of a long day. The major stood aside to make the call. Spoke softly into the phone.

  ‘We can meet at Majuba whenever it is convenient.’

  ‘Tomorrow. Tomorrow for lunch would be suitable. I will make a reservation.’

  No hint of gratitude. No note of relief. Just the agreed code. ‘Very good,’ said Kaiser Vula. ‘I hope the weather is fine.’

  ‘The forecast is promising.’

  ‘Until we meet.’

  Kaiser Vula about to disconnect.

  ‘Have you heard of a Vicki Kahn?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘From what I have been informed she works in your Cape Town office. We have also found out she makes a lot of phone calls to a certain person. And she gets a lot of phone calls from that person.’

  Kaiser Vula thinking, Zama had other sources in the Agency. The cunning jackal. Everyone spying on everyone else. Trouble with Zama he had to go off-script. Could be anyone listening in. How often hadn’t he warned about it? Cleared his throat now, wanting to close down the conversation. ‘You would like to change the arrangements?’

  ‘No. We can discuss this at lunch. Everything is in order, my friend. She is coming to us. But I have an auction on Sunday. I do not want her causing problems.’

  The line went dead.

  Kaiser Vula keyed off, noticed one missed call: Cynthia Kolingba. There would be time for Cynthia Kolingba, but not now. Switched off his phone, headed for the boarding gate.

  Thinking, was it possible, someone in the Agency running Linda Nchaba? This Vicki Kahn running Nchaba. What for? To get close to Zama? To get another line into the presidency? That was the trouble with the Agency, too many hidden agendas.

  At cruising altitude, Kaiser Vula ordered a whisky and soda. Pushed his seat back. Zama had said, ‘I have been informed …’ Meant he had another source in the Agency. Or someone in the Agency passing on information. This the more likely scenario. Some shit-stirrer with maybe no higher motive than making quick bucks. Trouble was there was always something to sell. Always someone willing to buy.

  He finished the whisky, closed his eyes. Not a weekend he looked forward to. A too-confident president. The so-called communist threat. The call back to Cynthia Kolingba. The lovely Nandi parading her sweet body.

  21

  Fish Pescado said to Prosper Mtethu, ‘You were SSA?’

  The two of them in the Toad on the Road: the pub jumping, a rugby match on the widescreen. The pub’s team chalked high to win. Sighs and yells with every breath.

  Fish focused on Prosper. Not a twitch of his lips. No movement in his face. Thinking maybe he should’ve chosen a quieter place. People bumping past their table to get to the loos. Laughing, joking people stoked on the moment. Fish shook off apologies, pulled his chair into the table. ‘You’re Agency?’

  Prosper didn’t say yes or no. Sipped his beer.

  ‘That’s a question.’ Fish leant forward, watched Prosper wipe a hand over his mouth.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘It bloody does.’

  ‘Now I’m not.’

  ‘Ah, so that means once you were. Like when this picture was taken you were.’ Fish stabbed his finger at the close-up of Prosper in the car.

  ‘Already I have told you, what does it matter?’ Prosper’s mumble inaudible under the roar of the pub.

  ‘What? What’re you saying?’

  Prosper waved a hand. ‘It does not matter. This is not important.’

  ‘It bloody is, my china. Who took this picture, Prosper? Why? Why was it taken? Why do I even have these pictures?’

  ‘That is the question I must ask you.’

  Fair enough. Fish gave it some thought. ‘A trade?’

  ‘That is why we are here?’ The man not even looking at him. Gazing at the enraptured drinkers.

  ‘You phoned me. You first.’

  ‘No, my friend. It was you who found me. We must start from there.’

  Fish ran his fingers through the damp ring on the table. Decided, what the hell. Break the impasse. Decided to give up Mart Velaze. ‘You know the name Mart Velaze?’

  Again the slow response from Prosper. The drink. The hand over the lips. ‘I can say maybe.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  ‘Is it from him, these pictures?’

  Fish laughed. ‘We’re trading here, bru. I need something first. You understand me? I need something. Like where was this taken?’

  With his head down, Prosper said, ‘I was the driver.’

  Fish caught the word driver. ‘I can see that. I’m not a complete stupid moegoe. I can see you’re sitting behind the steering wheel. But where’s this? What’s happening here? Actually, really happening. Is it what I think?’

  ‘Kolingba.’

  Fish heard that. Clearly heard that. Sat up. ‘Faaaack. You’re kidding me?’ Impressed that he’d got it right.

  A shake of the head from Prosper.

  ‘And now you’re working for her. Protecting him. No. No. That’s fucked up, my bru. That’s radical. Way too radical.’ Fish laughed again. ‘I don’t bloody believe it.’ He took a large draw on his beer. ‘You’re telling me you were there on an Agency operation. Couple of weeks later they let you go’n become hired security for their target? You want me to credit that? You’re still working for SSA. You have to be.’

  ‘I have told you the truth.’

  Fish stared at him. Nothing in those eyes: no open window to the soul there. Perhaps a sadness in the sag of his face. That sort of Labrador look. ‘Okay, let’s go with that. So why’d Mart Velaze give these to me to out you? What’s all that about?’

  ‘The president.’

  ‘The president? He ordered this? You’re telling me he ordered the hit?’

  Prosper drained his beer, stood. ‘My friend, finish your drink, we can have a short drive in my car. It will be easier to talk then.�
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  They drove up Boyes Drive, Fish waiting for Prosper to break the silence. Looked out at the blaze of lights strung down the peninsula, thinking, come on, dude, what’s it about?

  At the Shark Spotters lookout Prosper drove onto the pavement. A couple in the opposite lay-by sucking face. Just asking for it, someone to come tapping on the window with a gun.

  Prosper switched off the ignition, pointed at the sea way below. ‘You go surfing down there, with the sharks?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fish.

  ‘You seen sharks?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fish.

  ‘You not worried about them?’

  ‘No hassles,’ said Fish.

  ‘Wena, my friend, you abelungu.’ He tapped his head. ‘Crazy white people.’

  Fish left it at that, didn’t feel the need of a response. Heard Prosper sigh.

  ‘Okay. I will tell you. This thing is about money. Always it is about money. You understand, in the Struggle days, there was never money. Our friends, Mugabe, Kaunda, Qaddafi, they have to help us with so many things. Some give weapons. Some give refuge. Some give money. Some give us investments in mining. In diamonds, gold, other minerals. Now our president has those investments in the CAR. Colonel Kolingba is a threat for him. His rebels can make a coup in the CAR that can make a big problem. Our president does not want this. Also the president wants to help his old friend the president in the CAR.’

  ‘By shooting the colonel.’

  Too dark for Fish to see any reaction on Prosper’s face.

  ‘Then there is a coup in the CAR, everything is upside down.’

  ‘This is Africa. Shit happens.’

  ‘But the man Colonel Kolingba, he is a good man.’

  Fish came in. ‘You reckon, hey?’

  ‘It is why I work for him.’

  ‘Doesn’t tell me why Mart Velaze hooked us up.’

  ‘We are not hooked up. He is pushing me against the president, this Velaze.’