Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  Fish disconnected. Two kilometres farther, turned off the road at the palace gate, a guard in shades, ak across his chest, waved him into a parking lot. Half an hour later was accredited: a card-carrying, gun-carrying member of the security staff. Stowed his overnight bag in a small bedroom in the security quarters, doubted he’d be sleeping there. Checked the gun: a RAP-401. On the heavy side but easy to conceal. A niner with eight up. Mild recoil, solid reliability. Useful on both counts. Tucked the pistol under his belt in the small of his back and set off to get the lay of the land. Skirted the main buildings, the compound of houses, this suburb of the guest accommodation. Saw his mother stretched out on a lounger, her Chinese businessmen talking with faces he recognised but couldn’t name. In the swimming pool, people cooling off after their travels. No sign of Vicki.

  Found a vantage point in deep shadow among the shrubbery. Could wait there unseen, check the comings and goings of guests, security, the spooks obvious in their quiet circulations. No signs of untoward security, no crackle of radioed anxieties. Everyone chilled in the dying light.

  Then saw Prosper Mtethu. Couldn’t believe his eyes, but the man there cucumber cool in a beige jacket, beige golf shirt, beige slacks like he’d come in from eighteen holes. A long blue drink in his hand had a paper parasol in it. Prosper standing beside a group as if part of it. Except he was scoping the scene, taking in every person, all the muscle, waiters, the position of every table and chair. Made Fish grin looking at these parallel worlds. Made him wonder when these realities would intersect, what sparks would fly. The thought even crossing his mind that he wasn’t doing anything to stop it.

  Then saw Vicki. Saw a man approach her.

  34

  ‘You are Vicki Kahn?’ the man said.

  Vicki had seen him come out of the building with the Doric columns, pause there on the steps looking over the gathered guests. The light going fast now, the braziers become flickering beacons taking hold across the patio. A chill in the air. Had watched him scan the area. Got a feeling he was her man. Had stepped away from a group, walked into plain sight.

  He’d noticed her instantly. Clipped down the steps towards her. Athletic, purposeful.

  ‘You are Vicki Kahn?’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘How ever did you guess?’ Knowing full well how he knew. After all, didn’t he have her under surveillance?

  ‘We’ve been expecting you.’ He waved in the direction of the gate into the palace. ‘Security at the entrance …’ His face bland, unsmiling.

  ‘They’re very efficient.’ Vicki looked him over. Couldn’t recall ever seeing him at the Aviary. Then again, if he was from the military SS, he could have an office in the outer reaches of the nest. A compact man. Something rigid in his face, disappointment perhaps. A man disillusioned with his life. Something to work on, Vicki reckoned. If it came to that.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Major Vula.’

  No extended hand. No make-believe politeness. Vicki kept her arms at her sides, could also play hardarse if he wanted to. ‘It is Mr Zama I want.’

  ‘I know.’ The major gestured back up the steps. ‘He is waiting for you. Please follow after me.’

  She did. Into the marble reception hall, up a flight of stairs, down a long passageway to a door at the end. The major running his knuckles against the wood, more a warning than a knock. Opened the door on a twilight room. Standing framed by the window, the black shape of Mr Zama. Not subtle, Vicki thought. A man who liked to work his status.

  ‘Joh, at last! The mysterious Agent Vicki Kahn. The lady of the messages.’

  ‘I can’t see you,’ said Vicki, squinting. ‘How about some lights?’

  ‘You don’t like the effect? My advantage.’

  ‘I don’t like playing games.’

  The man said something in Zulu to the major, forced a laugh. Said, ‘I said to him you’re a tough cookie. That’s what we’ve heard.’ Spoke again in Zulu. ‘You don’t know Zulu, Agent Kahn? You should. You would understand some things.’

  Vicki walked up to him, moved to his right, forcing him to turn his head. ‘I was going to learn a language, I’d learn an international one.’

  ‘Ah ha. She bites, Major. She bites.’ Zama flicked his fingers, feigning a nip. ‘Such as?’

  ‘French, Chinese, Spanish. Something useful.’

  He pushed away from the window. Spoke in vernacular to the major. ‘You would find it useful now, Agent Kahn. For example, if you knew Zulu you’d know I’d just called you an Indian whore.’

  ‘You can call me anything you like, Mr Zama. I have come to fetch Linda Nchaba.’

  ‘Your secret agent.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘As I told you, she is sick. But a doctor has seen her, there is nothing to worry about. She is lying down, asleep in dreamland. She is looked after, Agent Kahn. She will be fine.’ Zama began circling the room, switching on table lamps. Easy in his movements, graceful. ‘There? This is better for you? You can see me now. Come.’ He indicated a couch and chairs. ‘Let’s talk. A little chat. You see, at this moment I am more interested in you than Linda. I am more interested in why our glorious State Security Agency is spying on me. What would you say, Agent Kahn, to that charge?’

  Vicki didn’t move, noticed the bruise on his forehead, the plasters on his knuckles. His clothes were fresh, his shirt uncreased, unmarked. The bulk of a sidearm under his jacket. ‘I would say I want to see her first.’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’ Zama turned to the major. ‘Please convince her, Major.’

  ‘I will bring her through soon,’ said Kaiser Vula. ‘First I must do some duties, then I will bring Linda Nchaba.’

  ‘There, Agent Kahn. You have the major’s word. Do we have a deal?’

  Vicki glanced at the major. No reason at all to trust him. Every reason not to. But what options? Perhaps best to play along. There was the letter. In the interim the letter would give Zama pause. Something to think about.

  ‘Okay. Deal. In half an hour I want to see her, though.’

  ‘Fine.’ Zama touched the spot on his forehead. Winced. ‘The major will be back in thirty minutes. Until then you can explain things to me. Please sit.’

  Vicki sat on the couch, relaxed into the leather. The image of cool, calm, collected. Watched the major exit quietly, the door snapping closed behind him. ‘Actually, Mr Zama,’ she said, fishing a letter from her jacket pocket, ‘before we get onto other matters you might like to read this.’ She waved the folded paper.

  ‘Why?’ Zama perched on a chair opposite her. ‘What is that, that it is so important?’

  ‘A message from the dead.’

  35

  Fish watched Vicki and the man: the formality of their meeting, the way he led her up the steps into the building, expecting her to follow. A man of authority. Held the door open for her, though.

  Wondered, should he get into the building? Or wait? Stayed in the shadows, hesitant. Two minutes. Three minutes. Five minutes later lights came on in a first-floor room. There was Vicki, clearly visible. A man passed across the windows. Not the man who had met her. A man too briefly seen, too far off for Fish to ID.

  Best to get closer.

  He came out of the darkness, slipped among the partygoers. Their mood excited, cheerful, waiters circulating among them with drinks. Beside the pool, a new band went into their routine: funky, upbeat with a tune from Freshlyground he recognised.

  His phone vibrated: Estelle.

  She opened with, ‘Don’t think in this half-light I can’t see you over there, Bartolomeu. Beside that brazier, next to that dolly bird in the short dress. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. And don’t go creeping away. You need to check in, show my principals I’ve got them covered.’

  ‘Later,’ Fish said. ‘I can’t do this now.’

  ‘When then?’

  ‘Now-now.’

  ‘Now-now’s the same as never, Mr Clever Dick. What’re you doing that’s so important? Exc
ept for perving the talent.’

  Fish spotted his mother now on the outskirts of the crowd, the two short Chinese men beside her. He didn’t move quickly, she’d be starting towards him.

  Heard her say, ‘Actually, I saw your Indian friend go into the building. You’re after her still, aren’t you? You can tell me, Barto, I’m your mother.’ A pause. Fish declined a champagne flute, smiled at the waitress. ‘She’s giving you a merry run for it, isn’t she? I can tell, you know. I can tell. Didn’t you see she’s with another man? Really, Barto, don’t make a fool of yourself. Your girlfriend’s multi-tasking. Best thing you can do is forget about her. Completely. You can’t tell with Indians. It’s that Karma Suture stuff in their culture, believe me.’

  Fish disconnected, decided, best if he got into the building. Got out of his mother’s sightline, got closer to Vicki. Found out what was going on there. Could be she was attending a briefing for spooks. Though he doubted it.

  Fish angled away from the crowd towards the side of the main building. Had to be other doors round the back. Kitchen doors, scullery doors. The servants’ way in.

  Realised as he moved through the groups, Prosper had been invisible for a while.

  Fish’s phone rang twice as he hurried along a gravel path away from the laughter and the music, guided by solar lights on stalks. Both calls he let go to voicemail, both calls he reckoned were Estelle. Sometimes she didn’t know when to let things be.

  The path took a right angle to the back of the building, voices ahead, a drift of cigarette smoke. Fish pushed through a half-open door into a courtyard, three people in aprons and hairnets standing there, smoking. Moved to crush out their cigarettes.

  ‘Hang five,’ said Fish, flashed his credentials. ‘Relax. Just a security check.’ Kept his face impassive, asked for their IDS.

  The three digging under their shirts for name tags. Fish glanced at them, nodded, went on into the kitchen. The place a maelstrom. People shouting. The sizzle and flare of cooking food. Nobody even noticed the man with the blond hair, the bronzed face, the sturdy shoulders, passing quietly among them, lifting a sausage roll off a platter.

  Fish now followed the passageways Prosper had taken a few hours earlier through the building. Cloakrooms, anterooms with their bored attendants, coming to the empty reception area. Could see through the glass doors the outside party lit only by braziers, candles, a myriad of garden uplighters. The swell of music and voices rising in volume. On a paved area beside the pool, people already dancing. The president’s people knew how to throw a party.

  36

  Major Kaiser Vula stood hesitant in the president’s bedroom. A slow rise of smoke from burning herbs acrid in his nostrils. The room stuffy, uncomfortably warm.

  ‘He cannot go outside,’ said the first wife. The woman behind him, sitting on a chair at the door.

  Kaiser Vula looked at the president, prostrate on the large bed, grey-faced, eyes closed, perspiration oozing from his brow. The man’s collar loosened, his shirt creased. Nandi beside him stroking his hand. Nandi in a short white dress, stiletto pumps. Ready for her party appearance.

  ‘You can see he is a sick man. The witch’s power is strong.’ The voice of the first wife at his back, insistent. ‘There is a sangoma we have called to protect him.’

  No doubt the president was a sick man. Major Kaiser Vula considered the options. Unlikely there was an assassin among the crowd, he couldn’t see it. With the precautions there was low risk. And the president needed to show himself. Convince them he was their leader.

  ‘Perhaps, Mr President …’ he began.

  ‘Exactly, Major.’ The president opened his eyes. Hooded eyes. Eyes on fire. ‘I cannot believe they have sent anyone, my comrades, the cowards. They will not go against me, they are too weak. They have always been too weak. He sat up, held out a hand. ‘Where is the bulletproof? Come, come. I must go out. People must see me. I am their president.’

  Kaiser Vula caught Nandi’s triumphant glance: you see, he is my man.

  Thought, the man must have a fever. But he was right, he needed to be seen. He was the man of the people. Major Kaiser Vula snapped to. ‘I will secure downstairs. You will be safe.’ Alerted the head of security: the president is coming out. Maximum presence. Maximum vigilance. Maximum response.

  The first wife let out a wail, her lamentation echoed by the other wives waiting in the passageway. ‘Ai, ai, ai, this is the wrong thing. This is the wrong thing. Wait. Wait. You must wait for the witchdoctor.’ A man in a suit carrying a bucket of brown liquid in one hand, a wildebeest’s tail in the other entered. Greeted the president by his clan name, sang his praises.

  The president acknowledged the greeting with a raised hand.

  Muttering, the sangoma dipped the tail in the liquid, flicked it about the room, damp stains appearing on the floor, the bedspread, the curtaining. Dip, flick. Dip, flick. Dip, flick. Until the room had been purified, strengthened.

  At the door he stood mumbling, drew a wet line across the entrance. Was led away by one of the wives.

  The president changed his shirt, slipped on the bulletproof vest. Nandi helping him into a light jacket. ‘We are ready, Major.’ The stern face, the upright posture. He drank from a glass Nandi handed him. ‘We can join the party people.’

  Major Kaiser Vula brushed at the wet spots on his trousers, the globules on his shoes. If the president believed such nonsense he couldn’t say. The president looked a very sick man. Unlike the radiant Nandi walking beside him.

  37

  ‘A message from the dead! Very dramatic, Agent Kahn.’

  Vicki held out the letter. ‘Go on. Read it.’

  ‘What can be so vital in a letter?’ Zama settled back in the chair, crossed his legs. Made no effort to take the letter. ‘Later.’

  ‘Now would be better.’

  ‘Later. After the party. Now I think it is more important to talk about you.’

  Vicki ignored him, flicked open the pages. ‘We’ve got thirty minutes. Let me read you a small bit. A taster, so to speak.’ Read the section about her aunt going to Botswana to have a baby. A son.

  ‘You,’ she said, her eyes on Zama, alert for any tell: fingers touching his nose, a squirm.

  ‘Of course.’ Zama laughed. A quick, hard snort. Threw open his arms. ‘This all fits together. I am the right age. I am born in Gaborone. No one knows what happened to my mother. Everyone knows my father cannot leave women alone. There are his babies everywhere. Of course, why not believe this person Amina, your aunt, why not believe she must be my mother? Why not? It is a good story. You can say we are family.’

  Vicki watched him, the ease with which he brushed off her charge, as if he’d been confronted with it many times. Unless Zama was a poker player, this was not a man surprised. This was a man confident, untouchable. Caught her by surprise, though, his attitude. She took the killshot.

  ‘There’s more.’

  Again the blasé gesture, the languid hand. ‘There is always more, Agent Kahn. But let me tell you the rest of the story. Yes? You can see if it matches with your secret message from the dead.’

  Vicki glanced down at Detlef Schroeder’s letter: 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. Back at Zama: no embarrassment in his face, but a mocking glint in his eyes. He was playing with her.

  ‘You want to hear it?’

  Vicki shrugged, go ahead.

  He grinned, uncrossed his legs, sat forward, elbows on knees, hands either side of his cheeks. Stared at her. ‘You want to hear this, Agent Kahn? Really, you want to hear it?’

  You cocky bastard, Vicki thought. Be a whole lot less cocky when she’d finished with him. ‘I’m waiting.’ Her tone abrupt.

  That took the smirk off Zama’s lips. ‘Remember where you are, Agent Kahn. Remember who you are talking to.’

  Vicki kept up the eyeball until he said, ‘Fine. It goes like this: one night these two people mad
e love, your aunt, my father. But, Agent Kahn, that is what happened in the Struggle. All the time this happened. You can understand it: people are lonely. They are in foreign countries, sometimes half a world away from home, they can’t go back, so where must they find love and comfort except from their comrades? People need it. We all need love. All you need is love. In the long dark night people need it. Maybe this is what happened to your aunt. She is with my father in Paris, in Zurich, Berlin, London, Moscow, any city, I don’t know, and they have this one moment. One moment.’ He held up a finger. ‘But one moment makes her pregnant. So my father says, come to Gaborone, have the baby, he is my child. So this is what your aunt does. Why not? Maternity leave. Get away from the grey skies of Europe to the sunshine. Be among her own people. But afterwards there is still the Struggle. She must go back to fight the white devils, she cannot be a mother.’

  Zama held up his hands. ‘Yes. This is the story in your letter? I can tell you there are ten, fifteen stories like this with my father. Now that he is president, a rich man, there are even more stories like this. All the time people come: I am your son. I am your daughter. I am one of your Struggle babies. It’s an old story, Agent Kahn. We have heard it before. Many, many times.’

  Zama sitting there before her, smug. In control. Thinking himself untouchable.

  ‘There is something else,’ said Vicki. ‘About my aunt and your father.’

  ‘I’m sure you are going to tell me.’

  Vicki took her time. Kept her face averted, eyes cast down. He wore good shoes did Zama. Expensive shoes. Brown brogues with a white sole. Very cool. Not her favourite shoe style, too self-congratulatory. Too arriviste. His feet solid on the carpet, unmoving, undaunted.

  ‘Your father was head of intelligence in exile?’