by Mike Nicol
‘This is history.’ The feet moving: the right on its side behind the left.
Vicki looked up. ‘My aunt ran the Paris desk. Reported to your father. She was there for a couple of years.’
‘If you say so. They had their structures for sure.’
‘She found out something. Something serious.’
‘What can that be?’ Zama amused, not taking her seriously. Vicki wanting to slap the mockery from his eyes. ‘A top secret.’
‘Two things, actually.’
‘Two secrets. Your story gets better.’
‘The first that your father was given gold bullion. Gold held in Switzerland by the old apartheid government.’
‘A bribe! Oh no. Never. Not my father. Never. The president is an honourable man. How can you say such things, Agent Kahn? You slander his reputation.’
‘I’m serious.’ Vicki unsure of Zama’s tone.
‘I’m not. You have no proof.’ He frowned. ‘This is nonsense. Stories dreamt up by bitter people. Nothing we haven’t heard before.’
‘The second is about arms contracts with the French. And nuclear trade.’
‘Agent Kahn, this is ancient history. Things that happened a quarter of a century ago. Time to move on. You know, we all know, there have been commissions looking into these things. We even have commissions looking into the commissions. We are a nation of commissions. But we find nothing wrong.’
‘My aunt was assassinated.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’
‘Stabbed in the Metro because of what she knew.’
‘But Agent Kahn, many comrades were killed. Disappeared. Blown up by parcel bombs. It was a hard struggle. The Boer hit squads were everywhere. They used all the dirty tricks.’ He paused, clicked his fingers. ‘Maybe the French killed your aunt. Have you thought of that possibility? You are a spy, you know how the spies work. The CIA, Mossad, MI6, the KGB, whatever they call themselves today, they all do these things. The French must do these things too.’ He laughed. ‘I know. I’ve seen the movies.’
‘Maybe your father didn’t mind that she was killed.’
‘Pah! Nonsense.’ Let out a run of Zulu. Came back: ‘Why? Why do you even think this?’
‘Why? Because she knew too much. She was in the way. An inconvenience.’
‘Kak, Agent Kahn. Rubbish. What the Afrikaners call kakstories.’ Zama stood. ‘You want to ask my father? You want me to call him?’ Took out his cellphone. ‘Let the president tell you what happened? Put your mind at rest.’ Keyed to his contacts.
‘Good idea.’ Vicki stood. Arms loose, wary. ‘We can talk about the girls you traffic at the same time. Let Linda Nchaba tell him about his son.’
Zama held up a hand, phone against his cheek, said, ‘Major, we need to sort this situation.’
38
Prosper Mtethu noticed movement among the security. A drift imperceptible to those not looking for it. A securing of the flanks, a concentration along the walk the president would take towards his guests. A greater presence of men in black at the centre.
Told him the president was expected.
Prosper Mtethu put down the blue cocktail on a table. He’d only sipped it, his kind of drink, that sweetness. Had kept it in hand merely to ward off the persistent waiters bearing trays of champagne. Oysters, caviar, tapenade, canapés. Not the moment for Blue Lagoons.
Inserted an earpiece, fed the wire inside his jacket collar, clipped it to a receiver. Heard Kaiser Vula say, ‘Twenty minutes. The president will be down in twenty minutes.’ Slipped the receiver into his shirt pocket.
Moved now with the spooks towards the centre. They would think he was one of them. They’d seen him around long enough to be unconcerned.
To Prosper Mtethu, the only problem was the major. The major’d be scanning the crowd, picking up on shapes, movements, any sudden shifts. Anyone pushing closer. Wouldn’t be able to see faces in the dark. At least not until it was too late.
Prosper stood behind two Chinese businessmen, both on tiptoes to see over the heads. Their chaperone, a woman in a black pencil dress, too tight for her age, saying, ‘We have been promised five minutes. We’re on the schedule, I’m told. We won’t meet him here, we’ll meet him later.’
Prosper thinking, sorry to disappoint you, lady. There will not be later for him.
His cellphone rang: a private number. He answered. Moved to the side of the chaperone.
A voice said, ‘The deposit has been made to the account you specified.’ A voice he’d not heard before. This one Cape Town English. White. Older.
Prosper said nothing; thought, it better be.
‘Don’t let us down, Prosper. As the queen said, “Sentence first, verdict afterwards.”’
He disconnected.
The chaperone glanced at him. Curious. Tapped at her ear, smiled. Said, ‘Could you tell me when the president’s expected?’
Prosper stared at her, his face a mask.
The woman became flustered. Flushing. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. You’re working.’ Turned away from him.
In his ear Major Vula said, ‘Confirm positions.’
Heard the roster of confirmations. A tight band across the crowd. Which left him little room to manoeuvre. He’d realised it would be a close shot. Escape would be difficult. But Prosper Mtethu did not think of escape. He thought of the job. Of moving in close. Drawing the gun, lifting it to fire. Once, twice. Easing onto Kaiser Vula. Firing: once, twice. He would have to be quick. No shifting of his feet. Nothing to disturb his balance. Merely a slight pivoting of his torso. A short realignment of the gun.
Bam, bam. Refocus. Bam, bam.
There’d be security around him. He’d have to trigger the bomb before they took him down. He could do that, there was an outside chance he could escape. Slip away in the turmoil. He had the phone in his hand. The number ready.
Prosper Mtethu took up a position facing the doors the president would come through. People in front of him laughing, joking, waiting for their leader. Their president.
Major Vula said, ‘Hold positions. Coming out in fifteen minutes.’
39
Fish’d gone upstairs, headed down the passageway towards the room where he’d seen Vicki and the man. Not intending to bust in on them. Not sure of his intentions. Just wanting to be there, in case she needed help. Have her back. Be the cavalry, the white knight, the prince.
At each door he listened. Every room quiet, most doors locked. Those rooms he could peer into seemed offices, the only lights the red glow of computers on standby.
As he neared the last room, heard the man’s voice, ‘It’s an old story, Agent Kahn.’
Heard, too, a moan, ‘Help me. Help me.’
Fish paused.
Again, a groan.
Opened a door onto a dark room. Gagged at the stench of vomit, blood. Could make out the shape of a body on the floor. A woman’s hand raised towards him. Fish entered quickly, closed the door. Shone the light from his cellphone on the woman’s face. Bloodied, gashed. Her eyes swollen closed. Something familiar about her all the same. Not someone he’d met. Someone he knew from photographs. Shone the light over her body: her clothing stained, torn. Bruises on her limbs, open wounds. Her feet bare.
‘Help me.’ The plea weak. The woman’s lips a mash of flesh. Her hand wavering.
He crouched, gently took her hand, felt its stickiness. Said, ‘You’re going to be alright. I’ll get medics.’
‘Zama,’ she said.
‘Zama?’ Fish frowned. ‘The president’s son, what’s he …?’ Left the question unfinished.
The woman’s grip on his fingers tightened. Tried to pull him closer. He bent in near enough to smell stomach acid on her breath. She moaned with pain. The sound becoming a rattle in her throat.
Her ribs, thought Fish. Might be broken ribs, a punctured lung. A helluva beating she’d taken. He shone his light around the room. Everything neat, orderly. No sign of a fight. She’d been dumped here.
‘Zama,’ the woman said again.
‘I’ll get help.’ Fish prised loose her grip of his hand. ‘You’re going to be okay.’ Made to stand up. She grabbed at him.
‘Vicki.’
He heard that clearly.
‘Vicki. What’s …?’ Realising this had to be Linda Nchaba. The model he’d researched. The woman he’d overheard Vicki talking to. ‘We’re watching. We’ve got this covered.’ What a joke. What’d they got covered? Hadn’t helped Linda here. Seemed the agents had cocked up big time. What’d Mart Velaze warned about serious shit? Serious shit in the country’s number-one national keypoint: Bambatha.
Christ! The guy Prosper down there aiming to shoot the president. Up here the president’s son beating women: right now across the passageway with Vicki.
The woman Linda pointing behind him. ‘Go.’
Not without you, Fish thought. He walked in on Vicki without obvious reason wouldn’t be a good thing. Especially as she didn’t know he was here.
‘Can you stand?’
The woman nodded.
‘You’re Linda?’ he said. ‘Linda Nchaba?’
A faint yes. The woman squinting at him through her swollen eyes. ‘Who’re …? Who’re you?’
‘Fish,’ he said. ‘I’m Fish. With Vicki.’ Was as good as, for the purposes of the moment. ‘Can you walk?’
Helped the woman onto all fours. On his haunches in front of her, slid his arms beneath her armpits, clasped her. Said, ‘On three I’ll straighten up.’ Counted. On three raised her. She fell against him, breathing hard, moaning.
‘You okay?’ Her head against his face. Fish let her rest there, gather her strength. Could smell a linger of perfume on her skin. Felt her body tensing against his, taking its own weight. The woman had guts.
‘I’m going to move,’ he said. ‘Take your weight on my left side.’ Wanted a free right hand to pull the RAP, if necessary. Felt her head nod.
They shifted through a slow shuffle until she stood beside him, leaning heavily. Her breath still coming in a loud hiss.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Here’s how it goes: we walk to the door, cross the passage, go into where Vicki’s with this Zama dude. That sound okay?’
A low yes.
‘Anything you can tell me about him? Like is he armed?’
A nod.
‘A gun?’
A nod.
‘Fair enough.’ Fish reached round, whipped out the pistol, chambered a round. Vicki’d be packing too, some SSA issue plus her little .32. Two against one was fair odds. Would suit a gambler like Vicki. Stuck the pistol in his belt. No need to cause chaos and mayhem. Said to Linda Nchaba, ‘Should we do this?’ Felt the tightening of her fist in his jacket.
They hobbled to the door, Fish reaching out to open it. His movement hampered by the injured woman. A swell of music coming at them, people calling for their leader. Arselickers, thought Fish, they’d tear Prosper apart. Adjusted his grip on Linda.
Said, ‘If I have to drop you, I’m going to. If things get rough. No offence, hey.’
Linda Nchaba didn’t respond. Except to say, ‘Shoot him.’ The words a whisper, soft as the brush of clothes against skin. Fish unsure he’d heard right.
‘Say again?’
‘Shoot him.’
‘Yeah, well, let’s see how the wave builds.’
They crossed the passage slowly, Linda favouring her left leg. At the door Fish paused. Could hear Vicki say: ‘We can talk about the girls you traffic at the same time. Let Linda Nchaba tell him about his son.’
‘You ready?’ Fish said, felt her lurch forward as an answer. ‘Here we go’ – opened the door, hustled them inside.
40
Mart Velaze didn’t like Trekkersburg. One of those old-style white dorps that’d gone to ruin with democracy. More Nigerian hairdo joints than food stores. The must-have Chinese junk shop among them. Funny how the locals never shot up the Chinese. Shoot the Somali traders for selling single cigarettes, airtime, cans of Fanta Grape but never the Chinese with their plastic crap.
Trekkersburg desperate enough to darken your soul.
Mart Velaze didn’t want to contemplate spending too many hours there.
Thought he’d take a ride out to the palace anyhow, escape the depressing town. No reason why he shouldn’t. Came under the tradecraft rubric of scoping the terrain. Also wanted to see what it looked like. Given all the money the president had spent, had to be quite something.
He did. At sundown pulled over on the approach hill, sat in the little Fiat marvelling. Some spread the president had put together.
Phoned the Voice. Her first words, ‘It’s going down, Chief, at his party. Our Prosper’s in the lead role.’
Could have told her that. Mentioned the two calls he’d listened in on: Cynthia Kolingba; an unknown male.
‘That’d be Henry Davidson,’ said the Voice. ‘Told you he was the postman. Seems he’s also the bagman. Where’re you, Chief, as of now?’
‘Outside Trekkersburg,’ said Mart Velaze. Not exactly a lie.
‘You keep away from the palace. We’re letting whatever happens happen. No interference. If our Prosper gets lucky, so be it. Seems to me he’s on a suicide mission, like those jihadi types. Except Prosper doesn’t profile as the bomb sort. Doesn’t have the cowardly streak. Not given what he’s been through. Makes you feel sorry for the granddaughter, though. But then as they say, we are but players, strutting and fretting.’ Paused. ‘There is another insert, I’ve gathered, another one of our own.’
This was new to Mart Velaze. Waited for the revelation.
‘I believe her name is Nandi. Know anything of her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘So. You see, there are still surprises in the world.’
The Voice went quiet. Mart Velaze looked at the palace: all the cars parked at the entrance gates. Two ten-seater minibuses among them. Still the odd partygoer zipping past him. You sat there looking at it, you got the sense that you were missing out. This major situation going to occur, you were on the outside, missing all the action.
Weighed up if this was the time to drop the Zama trafficking gig. Cleared his throat. Did so.
Silence, like he’d been talking to dead air.
Then: ‘Wondered when you were going to tell me, Chief.’
Mart Velaze stayed shut up. Should’ve known she’d be on it. Not much she didn’t know about.
‘Here we need your intervention,’ said the Voice. ‘Give you something to do in Trekkersburg. Attractive dorpie, I’m told. Has an interesting history of murders, if you like that sort of thing. Probably you’re not going to have the time for sightseeing. Because as of now, I’m designating you the cleaner, Chief. See what you can do to get that all sorted.’
‘Any pointers?’ Mart Velaze bringing the Fiat to life. Did a U-turn, headed back to Trekkersburg.
‘Sorry, Chief. Can only wish you the help of the ancestors. Except you might start looking in the industrial area. Can’t be very big, can it? A small town like that. That’s probably where they’ve got the girls.’
41
Major Vula went ahead of the presidential party onto the patio. As the expectant faces turned towards him, eager to greet their leader, he scoped the buildings to his left. The lighted reception hall, the upstairs in darkness except the room where Zama was holding his tête-à-tête. Damn Zama, the problems he brought.
Raised his gaze to the roof line. Any assassin would be up there, take a sniper’s long shot. No movement he could discern. Got the all-clear from his roof detail.
Looked again at the crowd: such happy smiling people, jiving to the music, bubbling with champagne. Waiting to adore their president. The most important person in their country. Who made everything possible. Gave them wealth beyond dreams. Big houses, new cars, the five-star lifestyle.
A chant going up: Mr President, Mr President, Mr President. The band joining the rhythm. Women ululating.
‘Coming out,’ he sai
d into his radio, held open the door for the president.
Saw clearly how ill the man was. His pallor grey, his face tight against the pain. So slowly he moved, kept his arms rigid at his sides. This wasn’t the striding president, the athletic figure.
You are a dying man, Kaiser Vula thought. The communists had no need of hitmen or sniper assassins. In a few months the vultures would be tapping on the balcony windows.
What then for Nandi? All smiles now, arm in arm before the adoring hordes. Radiant. Young. Healthy. How she had changed. From hate to love. Could someone go from hate to love? From love to hate was all too easy. Once he’d loved his wife. Still loved Nandi. Or lusted for her. Her smooth skin, her firm body, the dirty phone talk. Did she talk dirty to the president? An image of her floated up, Nandi with the phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear telling the president where she had her hands. Sending a photo. Asking for intimate shots. She’d done that. He’d done that. What Nandi must have in her phone beyond troubling. Kaiser Vula shook away the thought. Refocused. Moved into the press of people, opening a path for the president.
Hands reached out to touch the leader, women showering petals, their ululation shrill in his ears.
And the president responding. Even raising his hands, smiling. The strong head of state in charge. Whistles, shrieks as he stood before them; Nandi at his side with her soft body shimmer. The beloved hosts, the adoring guests.
When Major Kaiser Vula saw Prosper Mtethu.
Glimpsed his face, lost it in the swaying mass.
Wasn’t even sure he could trust his eyes. No ways Prosper Mtethu could be here, could even enter the palace grounds.
Then saw him again. Moving closer to the president. No doubt this time. No doubt in the mind of Major Kaiser Vula what Prosper Mtethu intended.
Yelled the man’s name. Shoved to get through the dense throng. Screamed into his radio: Bambatha, the lockdown code.
When he heard the first retort. To his left, dull, too dull for an outside firing. Glanced at the palace, saw a blue flash in the lighted window, the second shot.
