by Mike Nicol
‘I’m lost here, Prosper. Help me out. Why’d he do that?’
Prosper left a long gap. Fish waiting. Three cars came past, headlights sweeping over them. In the dark again, said, ‘There are people against the president. They don’t want him to be there anymore.’
‘People in SSA?’
‘SSA. Even in the cabinet. In the movement. Many are communists.’
‘They want a coup? Here. In our democracy.’
‘A coup? A coup? What is a coup? We call it a redeployment. For this occasion they want someone for the job.’
Fish wondered if he was on the right wave here. Reckoning Prosper was talking about a hit. ‘You. They want you for the job, a triggerman?’
‘Me.’ Another exhalation of breath.
‘Why?’
Prosper laughed. ‘That is a story from a long time ago.’
‘I’m in no hurry.’
‘No. It is not a story for you.’
‘Okay. Then will you take the job?’
Prosper’s phone rang. ‘My friend, you think I will tell you?’
Fish watched him squirm about to get the phone out of a pocket. ‘Leaves one more question, why’m I the messenger boy?’
Prosper squinted at the phone’s screen. Shook his head. ‘For that answer you must ask Mart Velaze.’ Swore. Clicked on the phone. Said, ‘Ma’am.’
Fish could hear the voice of Cynthia Kolingba.
Heard Prosper say, ‘You can phone me later. At any time.’ He disconnected, stared into the darkness. Said, ‘The colonel, he is dead.’
22
Cape Town International Airport, 20:45
‘Interesting, Chief,’ said the Voice. ‘Nice bit of initiative on your part.’
Mart Velaze gritting his teeth at the sarcasm.
‘Going to cause some … what do the Yanks call it? They’ve got that sexy word. You’d think they had someone at Langley making up the lingo to keep them hip. Blow something, isn’t it?’
‘Blowback.’
The Voice clucked her tongue. ‘That’s it. I was thinking of blowjob. Blowback. Good one, Chief. Nice. Going to be some consequences to this demise I would say. Yes, yes …’ The Voice drifting off.
Mart Velaze waited. Nothing else to do anyhow, Mart Velaze sitting in the holding pen at gate nine. Had been there long enough to see Major Vula take an earlier Durban plane. Both of them heading to the same destination. The birds were flocking.
The Voice said, ‘Sometimes it makes you wonder what sort of intervention we’re talking: divine or secular. What’s your leaning, Chief? You favour the colonel was ushered out of the building? Or’re we talking natural causes? Organ failure? Not as if the colonel wasn’t on a waiting list. Hadn’t been toeing the precipice for some weeks now. Don’t answer that.’
Mart Velaze wasn’t going to.
‘Rather keep me in the loop as and when. Be starting my own thread soon enough, to mix in some more metaphors.’
Mart Velaze said he would.
‘Moving on to our man Prosper. Clearly your well-connected type of gent. What’s it you know about him?’
Mart Velaze rattled off the basics: MK vet; tortured in the hellish Quatro camp because he was thought to be an apartheid spy; held there for many years, seems that might have been at the now-president’s pleasure; no evidence that he was an impimpi; after the dawn of democracy was with the National Intelligence Agency, mostly a fieldworker, reliable, was the driver on the Kolingba job. Left the Aviary unexpectedly on a week’s notice to guard the colonel. No history with his immediate boss, Major Vula. Nowadays on Mrs Kolingba’s payroll. Political leanings more communist than Africanist. Wife deceased. Daughter deceased. Takes care of his teenage granddaughter.
‘How touching,’ said the Voice. ‘Our Prosper gets more and more interesting.’ Her voice easing off again.
Mart Velaze heard his flight called. Everyone already in a queue at the gate counter. What was it with people? Like they enjoyed standing in queues. Wasn’t as if their seats weren’t booked. Wasn’t as if the plane would leave without them.
‘Any more activity on our Prosper’s phone you let me know asap. Doesn’t matter what time of the night.’ The Voice suddenly brightening. ‘Enjoy your little weekend break in the country, Chief. Should be very interesting. But like I said, we’re not active on this one. Watching only. Non-intervention. Even if the commies get their act together, you stay out of it. Don’t want to hear that you saved the president, Chief. That would displease me.’
Not much chance of that, Mart Velaze could’ve said. But didn’t.
‘Be in touch tomorrow, Chief. Until then, go with the ancestors.’
Mart Velaze disconnected. Joined the queue.
23
Cape Town International Airport, 09:45
Vicki in the terminal building waiting to board, phoned Linda. Was worried Linda’d back out. That during the night she’d change her mind. Maybe even do a runner.
Stared out over the planes, across the apron to the mountain ridge. The blue Hottentots Holland mountains buttressed against the sky. This morning the colour of riesling. The sort of day you didn’t want to leave the city.
She counted the rings. Five, six, seven.
A sleepy voice. ‘What time is it?’
‘Late. I’m on my way. Be there in two hours. We need to meet this afternoon.’
The sound of Linda yawning. ‘I’ve got lunch. Remember. With the Walrus.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten. It’s not something I could forget. Afterwards is fine.’
Another yawn. ‘Oh, God, why’m I yawning? I’ve slept for seven hours. I can put him off if you want.’
Vicki heard her flight called, saw the airline staff open the gates, passengers crowding forward. ‘No you can’t. You know you can’t. We’ve got to keep everything as it is. Stay with this, Linda. Stay with it please.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like. What he’s like.’
‘No, I don’t, which is why I’m going to be there.’ Vicki angled away from the passengers, leant against the glass. Chiding herself. She should have gone earlier. Days ago. It was wrong to leave her alone. Henry’d screwed up. Not like Linda was a trained agent. Trading on her guilt, her shame, her commitment to the girls, to keep them safe, stop the trafficking wasn’t enough. Not with Zama now working the fear factor. The other thing that worried Vicki: that Zama was onto Linda. He’d been quiet for so long, had to’ve been watching her in that time. Checking her out, making sure she wasn’t a trap. In that time could have picked up a link between Linda and herself, tracked her back to the Agency. Which might be another reason for the surveillance.
‘When you know where you’re meeting for lunch, SMS me.’
‘What if he just pitches?’
‘You tell him you’ll go in your own car. Come’n, Linda, we’ve been through this: you go in your own car. Don’t let him drive you. How many times? Your own car.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘It is. You give him grief, give him some of your sharp tongue.’ Vicki joined the tail end of the queue. ‘I’ve got to go now. Remember, you SMS me, let me know what’s going on. We’ll meet this afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘That’s my worry. I’ll organise something.’ Vicki wishing her good luck, disconnected. Smiled at the flight attendant scanning her boarding pass.
At cruising altitude Vicki thumbed listlessly through the in-flight magazine. Decided four of a kind with a kicker to a straight flush this thing would go badly. Linda wouldn’t hold up. Zama was playing good cards. Then again there was always the final twist. You could come through on the final twist. Brought a dryness to Vicki’s mouth. An increase in her heart rate. An anticipation.
24
‘You know who did it?’
Prosper Mtethu on the hands-free hunched forward over the steering wheel, said, yes, he did. A long silence. No background noises. As if they’d been disconnected. He waited. Then could hear her brea
thing, a tapping of a fingernail against wood.
‘You are sure?’
‘I am.’
‘Your people, not mine?’
Prosper nodding to himself. His ‘Ja’ more a grunt than a word.
All night, he had expected her call. As he drove into the dark between towns, knew she would phone. Knew what she would ask. Knew that he would not say no. Why else was he on the road if not for this purpose?
‘It is the same people?’
He told her, yes. The same people who killed her child.
‘Why have they done it?’
To that had an answer. But no answer for her.
‘It is never enough. Always there is something else these people want. More money. More power. More women. More of everything.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Do you think we are like them, Prosper?’ Again a silence. ‘Do you think I am like them? That I am killing for power?’
Prosper kept his eyes on the narrow road. Burning, tired eyes. He should pull over, sleep. Twenty minutes would be enough.
He’d expected her to phone earlier, not wait until the morning. Would rather have spoken to her in the dark. Conspirators conspiring. Would rather not have had this conversation in the banal light of midday.
Prosper Mtethu shifted up his sunglasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, felt a grittiness in the corners of his eyes. Just twenty minutes. Maybe he should stop.
Here the traffic was occasional. Goats, cattle that strayed onto the road a greater hazard. You lost concentration, you ended up in a cow’s stomach.
All through the night he’d thought of men who’d killed in this terrain. Of the men who’d died among the aloes. For what? For this empty frontier. These game farms. These hunting lodges. These safari parks.
Land. Always blood for land.
The colonel had died for land. Now his wife was killing for it. For the power to rule those who lived upon it.
‘I could walk away, Prosper,’ she was saying. ‘Leave here, be in exile with my sons. Watch them grow up. One day play with my grandchildren. I could forget this country. I could live another life. Have a successful career in science. Attend conferences. Write papers. Live without fear. United States. United Kingdom. Europe.’
You could not, thought Prosper. We cannot live other lives. We have no options. There is no choice. There is only the life we get. Why else was he here now, in this car, on this road? In his bag a gun.
‘But it is not to be, is it Prosper? You and I are not those sorts of people. We have surrendered our lives.’
Prosper slowed at a widening in the road, pulled off the tar onto the verge, the dirt crunching beneath the tyres. Here was the top of the world. The hill sloped away, dropped into a gorge. In that, he knew, there’d be a river. Women washing clothes. Laughing. Their constant chatter. Children playing in the pools. Scenes from his early life. The way things had ever been. Until it was not like that anymore.
Until policemen with dogs came for him.
Hunted him. Forced him to flee.
Until he returned, a soldier. A killer.
‘You do not have to do this for me, Prosper,’ she said. ‘You know that? You understand that?’
‘I know that.’
‘But you are going to do it?’
‘Yes. There are others …’ Left it there.
She said, ‘I see.’
Others. The other. Who’d given him the order. Paid him a fee. Supplied the weapon, the ammunition. Told him it had to be done now. This weekend. That there was no alternative. That the man had become a dictator. His family out of control.
She said, ‘That does not change our arrangement. What we have agreed is between us.’
Prosper switched off the ignition. A quiet flooding in. Didn’t respond to her. Could not say thank you.
Heard her say, ‘I am going to take over their holdings. The mines, the businesses, all the assets. They have stolen enough.’
Again a silence.
‘We should not talk anymore, Prosper. Goodbye. Au revoir, my friend. You are a good man. A man of conscience. Your granddaughter will be proud of you. I will ensure.’ Disconnected before he could reply.
Prosper got out of the car. Stood beside it, gazing across the valleys. Drew air into his lungs, roared it out: ‘Yakhal’inkomo!’ The bellow of the ox before slaughter. The sound echoing, becoming muted, distant.
25
Fish waited three hours in King Shaka International Airport. Some of the time at a coffee shop, some of the time strolling around the terminal, an activity you could do in twenty minutes. Not much happening in King Shaka International Airport this time of a Saturday morning. Did allow him to check out the scene. No welcoming committee, unless they were cleaners. Only drawback, he was on a lot of video footage.
A Joburg flight landed. Fish saw faces he recognised: MPS, DGS, business people. Smiling faces. People in a happy mood. Party people.
Among them his mother. Everything-under-control Estelle. Meeting the security muscle. Gathering the baggage. Shepherding her Chinese businessmen towards a black Benz at the entrance. Estelle, playing the organiser in a cotton summer dress, bold green-and-gold flower pattern, mid-length hem, a deep v-neck. Trust his mother to put her boobs out there. Hard to tell her age, given the blonde bob, the way she moved. No underarm sag noticeable. Even her face, people thought she’d done a Botox. ‘This’s me,’ she’d say. ‘Original me’ – putting the back of her fingers under her chin, on show. Now glancing around, her cellphone to her ear.
His phone rang: Estelle.
‘Where are you, Bartolomeu? I thought you would be at the airport. If you’re supposed to be part of my security, you should have been at the airport.’
‘Catch you later, Mom,’ he said. ‘At the palace. Can’t talk now.’ Hoping there’d be no tannoy announcement to give him away.
‘You’re being very irritating. Very mysterious, Bartolomeu. We had an arrangement. At least, I thought we had an arrangement. You should stick to your commitments.’
‘Something unexpected. Cheers, okay?’ Watched her open the Merc’s passenger door, put one elegant foot inside, scanning the surrounds as if she felt his presence. Uncanny. Her free hand shading her eyes.
‘You’d better be there. I’ve put you on the security list. They’re expecting you. Four o’clock all security’re supposed to be on site. Signed in. Kosher. Don’t disappoint me, Barto. Don’t make things difficult. You know what security’s like at these affairs. Everyone gets jumpy if there’s a hitch.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be there.’ No reason he shouldn’t if Vicki stayed on point. All depended on her, really. Heard his mother’s goodbye as she slid onto the leather seat. The door closed, the car pulled slowly away. Over the tannoy, the arrival of the Cape Town flight announced.
Fish grinned. Lucky escape. Time to rock ’n roll.
For the next forty-five minutes sat in a white vw Polo in the hire-car lot. The humidity higher than comfortable for April: caused a sogginess in his armpits, put a sheen on his face. Five rows ahead, the Toyota Corolla that’d been reserved for Vicki Kahn. Amazing the sort of info you could charm out of the dispatchers.
What he wanted was to see Vicki drive away, know she was in the right car. Spooks could pull funny moves: change hotel rooms; change flights; change hire cars. Almost like it was a rule. Tradecraft 101: be paranoid, change your plans. Don’t go with what’s given you.
Fish banked on it.
Then there she was. Gorgeous, gorgeous Vicki Kahn. Brought a pressure to his chest. This woman with the long legs in skinny jeans, linen jacket over a dark T-shirt, wheeling her suitcase through the cars. You looked at her you saw a career woman right on her game. Confident. Relaxed. Coming to the Dolphin Coast for a bit of R&R. Maybe to see old friends, family. Catch up with the life she’d left behind.
Fish slid down in the seat. Thought not much chance she’d spot him anyhow. Saw her stop at a Chevrolet Cruze, pop her bag in the boot. Thought, just as well he’d waited.
Vics being ultra careful. Thought, the old Vics wouldn’t have dreamt of pulling such a sneaky move.
Watched her take off her jacket, lay it along the back seat. Then straighten, apply a gloss stick to her lips. Fish’s eyes on her, her proximity raised a rasp in his throat. What the hell had happened that she’d drifted away from him?
He followed her out of the airport onto the highway. Enough traffic for it not to be a problem. Fish aware that if the new Vics was that careful, she’d be onto any followers soon enough. He’d worked out the route she’d take, just wanted a positive that they were both headed in the same direction. Twenty minutes later could relax. Everything going as he’d foreseen. Slotted Laurie Levine into the CD player. Hoped whatever serious shit Vicki’d got into wasn’t going to play out on the motorway. Laurie hadn’t sung through her first number, he saw them: two dudes in a black BM.
Realised he’d seen them way back. Twice. First time stopped on the side of the road outside the airport. Next they’d overtaken him going balls-out. Here they were, two cars ahead. Should have been halfway to paradise the speed they were doing. Fish wondering if Vicki had noticed them. Chances were. Chances were the next exit, she’d take it. Fish closed on the BM.
The next two exits Vicki sat tight, the Beemer behind her, Fish a few cars behind it. Upcoming a One Stop garage, Vicki’s flicker on, the BM not indicating. Glued to her nonetheless. Put Fish in a quandary: following them in too risky, best to leave Vicki to pull her own moves.
Fifteen minutes later, at the next exit, Fish came off the highway, found the slip road back on. Waited there within sight of the motorway, hoping there’d be no traffic patrol to move him on. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty, Fish thinking, now what? They’d got her? Take him an hour to get back there. If they had her, they had to come this way. Drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Why were they in this shit, the two of them? Why hadn’t she stayed a lawyer?
Saw then a white Chev Cruze, recognised the number plate. Fish fired the Polo, took off in a spray of gravel. The Cruze five cars ahead. No sign of the dudes in the BMW. Continued that way for ten, fifteen kilometres, Fish wondering what’d happened back at the filling station. How’d she get away? Next thing Vicki’s pulling over to the side of the highway. Clever move. Would give her an opportunity to check out any followers.
