They brought him into the prison through an underground tunnel left over from the Apartheid era. Klay had not been arrested or charged. He was simply caged.
Botha withdrew a second orange from his briefcase. He raised the fruit to his mouth and bit its skin. He worked his lower lip in and out, nodding as he peeled the fruit. “Wild Dogs dead. Advocate Hungry Khoza ruined. Ncube investigation terminated. My case dismissed . . .”
“Ras,” Klay said, “what can you tell me about Hungry?”
“Oh, she’s royally sorted. A masterful fucking you gave that one. She’s a CIA operative helping the Americans oust our legitimate president. Bring back white rule. Don’t you read the papers? Well, you couldn’t, could you?”
“Which is all bullshit,” Klay countered. “I did some interviews with her for The Sovereign working on a story . . .”
“You did.” Botha shook his head and laughed. “Yes, you did.” He laughed some more as he laid newspapers on the table. “Ncube called in your ambassador for a full dressing-down. Fucking international incident you’ve caused.”
It was all a game for Botha.
“What do you want?” Klay asked.
Botha pointed at the newspapers. “Take a look.”
It had been ten days. Klay skimmed the articles, all front page. Hungry had issued a press release before disappearing: “Intruders as yet unidentified raided the field office of the Wild Dogs Anti-Corruption Task Force, Office of the Special Prosecutor, Office of the Public Protector, killing Advocates Edna Sebati and Minenhle Mthembu and Chief Investigator Mr. Julius Sehlalo, formerly of the Hawks. A visiting American journalist, David Tenchant of The Sovereign magazine, was also killed during the raid. The Wild Dogs Task Force was formed under a mandate by . . .”
“Then there’s these . . .” Botha withdrew more newspapers and web page printouts. These were pro-government tabloids with racy headlines: “I, Spy!” . . . “Hungry’s Last Supper!” . . . “A Very Spe-CIA-l Prosecutor.”
An op-ed in one of them began, “Advocate Hungry Khoza, a pawn of White Monopoly Capital, has been doing the bidding of her CIA masters, attempting to undermine the office of the presidency and incite unlawful regime change . . .”
None of the stories mentioned Tom Klay. Someone had fed the tabloids their CIA angle. He went through the papers again to be sure. “She did you a favor,” Botha confirmed. “Lord knows why, but she kept your name out.”
Klay looked more closely at the printouts of the online stories, focusing on publication dates and times. A Perseus Group tabloid in Johannesburg had been first out with the story. PGM coverage then spread around the world, mutually triggering news and social media algorithms, feeding the beast.
* * *
• • •
Klay was confident he had pieced together most of the puzzle. He had been the CIA’s Trojan horse, sent to carry Tenchant into Hungry’s office to destroy her files, not copy them. The Agency, Krieger, and Ncube had all won.
The puzzle piece that didn’t fit was sitting across the table from him. Ras Botha seemed to know everything. But he didn’t seem to want anything. And Klay needed Botha to want something from him because Klay very much needed something from Botha. Botha was his only way out.
Desire is opportunity. It creates leverage. It was a basic rule of tradecraft. But Botha didn’t seem in need of anything at all now. A man without desire was invisible. Botha was a ghost.
There are no truly invisible men, Klay reminded himself. Every person wants something. He inventoried what he knew. Botha was here, so that meant: ego. He’d brought a stack of media reports: authority. And an orange: power. Botha hated anyone with leverage over him. And that translated into a single word. Botha’s abiding desire was for respect. Hunger for validation fueled his outbursts at trial, his refusal to wear a prison uniform, all of the special accommodations he demanded here. It was in every one of his stories. His tales of conquests over women, grand money-making schemes, and powerful friends all added up to a lifelong search for respect.
Klay looked at the orange in front of him. Terry Krieger had stolen the Kimber from Botha. To take a Boer’s land was just short of taking his life. It was humiliation.
Klay picked up the orange and bit into its skin. “Last time we did this,” he said, slowly peeling the fruit, “you told me, ‘I’m in here because of you.’ What did you mean by that?”
Botha didn’t respond. He chewed his own orange and watched Klay’s fingers. Klay kept peeling, slowly, as if he didn’t care. As if he didn’t have any desire of his own. When he had the fruit peeled, he looked across the table for Botha’s answer. Botha raised his eyebrows and indicated Klay’s orange with his eyes.
Klay put an orange wedge into his mouth and began to chew.
Botha cleared his throat. “Now do you hear me, counselor?”
“I’m listening,” Klay said.
“You’re listening. I need you to hear me. Do you hear me?”
Klay swallowed the slice. He looked directly into Botha’s eyes. “You haven’t said anything.”
Botha smiled. “You are Agency property. Sum and total, that’s all you are and all they want. You”—he stabbed a finger hard into Klay’s chest—“don’t exist for them.”
Play along, Klay told himself. Go with the flow until you see it. “That’s right,” Klay said. “What they want is my shadow.”
“Your shadow?”
Klay watched Botha roll the word around in his mind.
“Okay,” Botha said. “Yeah, that’s good. Your shadow is what they want. They’ll cut your throat to keep your shadow alive. And you don’t mind because you’re looking the other way, happy to be rid of what’s behind you. You don’t want to be you. That’s what makes you useful. Makes you a good asset. Do you hear what I’m telling you?”
“I hear you,” Klay said in a tone suggesting he was still waiting for Botha to say something meaningful.
Botha nodded. “When they told me the plan, I said yes just to fucking meet you again. I said yes just to lock eyes with the fucking guy that could be so fucking good and still fall for it.”
“Well,” Klay said, “I hope you’re duly disappointed.”
“Oh. I would have to say, overall, yes, counselor, I am heavily fucking disappointed.” Botha sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “You’re a writer, but you couldn’t see the plot. You’re their agent, but you couldn’t figure out your mission. And you still don’t realize who you’re working for. So, now do you know yet what cage you’re in?”
“Who am I working for?”
Botha raised a finger and made a few circles with it pointed at the ceiling. “The fucking lord and master of us all.”
Klay could feel Botha’s rage. But there was something else. Botha didn’t just hate Terry Krieger. He feared him. Hate and fear, those fraternal twins, showed themselves bloodthirsty in Botha’s face. A man consumed by hate and fear lost his invisibility. For the first time, Klay could see Botha.
“Krieger put you up to all this, right?” Klay said.
Botha’s eyes darkened. Then, suddenly, he smiled. He wagged a finger at Klay. “You—” He grinned. “You might learn something useful yet.” He leaned forward and spoke slowly and quietly. “Remember I told you how Krieger killed that boy on the buffalo hunt. And that boy never knew he was fair game? What if that boy had known? Isaac was strong, quick. What if he had even fucking suspected? The old man Njovu carried a good knife. What if he had known what Terry had in mind for his son? Things might have gone differently, don’t you think?”
Botha sat back to let his lesson sink in, enjoying himself. This wasn’t merely a game for Botha. This was a big game hunt. Botha, the professional, tracking spoor, planning a kill. He was baiting Klay and exhausting him at the same time. To what end? Good tracking follows a trail. Great tracking leads it. Get in front of him, Klay told hi
mself.
Klay moved his orange peels aside, drew three letters on the table with his finger. C. I. A. Pointed at Botha.
Botha smirked. “You Yanks are all the same. You think because it’s your eyes seeing it, it must be what it is.”
“What should I have seen, Botha?”
“I don’t know. You went to Kenya. What did you see?”
“My friend killed.”
“What else?”
“A politician killed.”
“And?”
“No elephant. Faulty technology. Perseus technology . . .”
“Then you go to the Philippines. Why?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You think those stories were random? He weaponized you. That’s what Tots does. You’re the pigeon in that diamond mine. The one who flew through the window for me. Little packet tied to your foot. They built the coop for you.” Botha looked around the warden’s office. “Fed you. Gave you water. Trained you up, eight kilometers a week, see how you’d fly.”
A guard knocked on the door, then opened it. “Five minutes, Ras.” The guard was enormous with a shaved head and huge arms.
“Thanks, Thabo,” Botha said. “We’re just about finished, if that’s all right.”
“That’s all right.” Thabo closed the door.
Botha was on a roll now, so Klay didn’t interrupt. “I’m out now, and I’m going to stay that way. Ach.” Botha nodded at a portrait of Ncube hanging over the warden’s desk. “I was never a prisoner in here. I’m my own man wherever I am. You, you’re a prisoner wherever you go. Anyone ever tell you that? I saw it the moment you walked in here. Right proper dagga boy, looking for a fight, charge anything that moves. Reminded me of Minotaur. You remember him?”
“The myth?”
“No, my buffalo. The one Krieger missed.” Botha eyed him. “You hearing me now? You were their prisoner before you ever walked through that gate.”
Klay held his tongue. There was plenty of truth in those words.
Botha moved his chair closer. “Tell me what you think is going on,” he said quietly.
“I saw the intel. They were your poachers in Kenya.”
“Ja. And Advocate Khoza saw intel I broke into that police station for rhino horn. Intel is what it needs to be. Somebody opened the police safe, stole that horn? But it wasn’t me. They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Said it would bring you over. You’re obsessed with me, or some fucking shit . . .”
“Who said?”
Botha didn’t respond.
Klay tapped the spot on the table where he’d written the three letters. “You know they sent me . . .”
“Ach,” Botha scoffed.
“Krieger? You’re telling me this has all been Krieger. Terry Krieger’s running CIA?”
“Did I say running? You need it in black and white to see what’s in front of you? Not a lot of zebras in this world for a reason. Leverage, Klay. Leverage is the tail that wags the dog. I’ll ask you again, counselor. Cui bono?”
Klay responded in a low whisper. “They destroy the files, hang me out as Agency, it kills Hungry’s investigation. Ncube benefits.”
“And?”
“And I end up in here, falsely accused.”
“Come on, counselor. You can do better than that. And—”
“All right,” Klay said, his anger rising. “And they get rid of the Dogs, who found a link between intelligence services and Krieger. An investment fund. The South African was—”
“Mo Rademeyer,” Botha said. “Good oke. Greedy. Said goodbye to him personally.”
Klay sat back in his chair. “You did?”
Botha shrugged. “You think you’re not,” Botha said, “but you’re in the life deep as me. Maybe deeper. You were the gun. I told you. You don’t see that?”
“I was the gun? You’re talking about my stories?”
Botha laughed. “No one cares about your fucking stories, counselor.”
The door opened and Thabo stuck his head in. “Time, Ras.”
“Thank you, Thabo. I’ll wrap up. Just one minute, please.”
Thabo nodded.
“Think bigger, Klay. A fucking magazine? An investment fund? That’s nothing. It’s nothing to me, and I’m almost nothing to him. Krieger’s mind works on a global level. You’re in a box, counselor. You want things lined up nice and neat, but the world doesn’t work that way.” He tapped Klay’s forehead. “You’re in Africa now.”
Botha organized his papers and returned them to his briefcase. “Truth is I don’t know the big picture. If I did, I’d have my Kimber back. But I guarantee he’s got one. It’s you that has to figure it out, not me.” Botha knocked his knuckles on the table and smiled. “You got the hunter in you. I do know that. After all, you almost got me, right?”
Botha gathered up their orange peels and wiped the table with a napkin. He dropped the remnants into a wastebasket and clapped his hands clean. “I got you switched to my old cell. Left you a few items. Maybe next time we meet, you can tell me which one you’re going to be.”
“Which one?”
“The hunter, the buffalo, or the boy.” Botha grinned.
UNARMED IN THE COMPANY OF KILLERS
Kgosi Mampuru II Management Area
Pretoria, South Africa
Thabo escorted Klay down a long pale hall to Botha’s former cell, a battleship gray, steel-doored isolation unit in the prison’s C-Max unit. “Used to hang us on the other side there,” Thabo said, nodding toward the cell block’s opposite end. He handed Klay a cloth laundry sack. “From Ras.”
Botha’s cell smelled of Pine-Sol. Against one wall was a single bed bolted to the floor. On it was a folded wool blanket, a set of sheets, and a clean pillow. Against the opposite wall was a metal desk with a big screen television on top of it. A cable ran from the TV through a small hole in the concrete wall. The toilet was in the back, blocked from view by a metal dresser.
On the walls hung several Playboy centerfolds and a poster of Sylvester Stallone as Rambo. There were blank spaces and bits of old tape on the walls where someone had recently removed small photographs. On top of the desk was an unopened bottle of Courvoisier XO and a glass.
Klay sat down on the bed and fished through Botha’s gift bag. Some toiletries, a laptop, and a note. Klay set the laptop beside him on the bed and read the note. “Research, counselor. Nobody bothers you less I say. Do what you do. Enjoy the conyac. —Ras.” The note included the warden’s Wi-Fi password.
Klay set the sack on the floor and lay back on the bed. He put his arm over his eyes to block the fluorescent bulb. After a moment the scenes began. Sehlalo’s ankle pistol in his hand, the disbelief on Tenchant’s face. Then Hungry, blood-smeared, kneeling beside her fiancé’s body, folding the blue windbreaker into a pillow and placing it gently under Sehlalo’s head. He watched her wipe the blood from his face, straighten his collar, and adjust his arms and legs. She crawled to Miss Minnie and did the same for her, and then to Miss Edna doing what she could to give the dead their dignity.
He’d watched people tend to corpses thousands of times. They straightened eyeglasses, fixed neckties, picked away bits of makeup, adjusted stray hair. They leaned into caskets and kissed the dead on the forehead, the cheeks, the lips. They spoke to them.
Klay had seen so many dead he couldn’t remember his first, but he didn’t understand it. A corpse was not a person. It was a thing—an abandoned thing, no more worthy of sentiment than was a dead person’s shoes or toothbrush. His view formed on the morning of his mother’s funeral. “This is life, Tom,” his father had explained, standing in the doorway to their funeral home’s main chapel before approaching her. “And this is death.” Jack Klay switched off the light and darkness filled the room. “Death is always present, but death is afraid of the light.” His father switched the li
ght back on. “Your mother was a light.” He squeezed Klay’s hand. “You are a light, Tom. But when a light is switched off, the world is back to its natural state. Do you understand?”
Klay said he did. He took from the lesson a message his father had not intended: if the fundamental state of the world is darkness, it is foolish to grieve. He did not want to be foolish. His mother wouldn’t like that. And so to honor her he swore he would not cry at her funeral. He would not mourn her, or anyone. It wasn’t easy to do. He trembled beside her closed casket, knotting his toes in his shoes and squeezing his stomach muscles. He bit his tongue so hard it bled. From then on he practiced. He said goodbye to his first dog, Shelby, with some tears, but to the next, Brutus, and to two cats without any at all. He was dry-eyed as he pulled socks up over the dead feet of Julie, his motorcycle-riding neighbor, whom he’d had a crush on. He was emotionless holding his grandmother’s fluffy-haired head with one hand while he repositioned her plastic head block with the other. He was steady as he embalmed Little Victor from the neighborhood.
Without realizing it, his definition of darkness expanded over the years so that it wasn’t just grief over a lost life he silenced. He found ways to switch off his feelings for all sorts of things that might end: friendships, loves, dreams. Over time, his idea of what constituted an end expanded, too. He learned to protect himself not just from the prospect of grieving, but from any loss, any pain. He began pulling the plug on possibilities earlier and earlier, shutting himself off from everything he might care deeply about before it had a chance to hurt him by dying in front of him—the way his mother had.
Now, lying in a prison cell, exhausted and alone, an unbearable wave of pain broke over him, and he asked himself for the first time what the opposite of his light-switch philosophy might be. He pressed his fists against his eyes. He could not stop their faces. His mother walking past him, his father on the drive to prison, the boy and his bicycle lying under his car. He saw Bernard jingling up a mountain in front of him, Lekorere lifting his beer bottle in salute, Hungry kneeling in Sehlalo’s blood.
In the Company of Killers Page 21
