Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘Darling, this represents the culmination of all my years of photo-journalism in Africa. I’m going to come back covered in glory and write a wonderful book which is going to make us both rich …’

  In her last few days he wanted to follow her around, to be in her presence all the time as if afraid she would never come back to him. The night before she left he took her to a bistro in their neighbourhood and, looking at her healthy loveliness sitting opposite him in the candlelight, he had suddenly had enough of all the tension and demons. All he wanted to do was get out of this lie he was living, get out of this treacherous CCB, out of the grasp of Felix Dupont, even out of Harvest House, right clean out of America.

  ‘Josie? Don’t go to South Africa. Let’s get married instead. Tomorrow.’

  She stared at him, her fork poised.

  He continued earnestly, ‘You’re chasing a story that won’t come to anything because this whole enquiry is going to be a sham. So don’t waste your time – let’s just get married, say to hell with everything else.’

  Josephine was still staring at him. ‘And do what?’

  ‘Live happily ever after, like they do in the movies. And –’ he took her hand across the table – ‘when your book’s published in September, after you’ve finished your publicity razzmatazz, let’s just disappear for a while. Buy a couple of round-the-world air-tickets and take off.’

  ‘But what about Harvest House?’

  ‘The place can run without me – I’m due lots of vacation anyway. Or let’s just swan around the Caribbean for a while – buy that boat we’ve been talking about.’

  ‘But,’ Josephine said, ‘why can’t we do all that after I come back from Africa?’

  ‘No,’ Harker said, ‘I love you, goddammit, and I don’t want you to go away! Especially on a wild-goose chase in dangerous South Africa.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘South Africa’s not that dangerous.’

  ‘It’s never been so fucking dangerous. The Zulus and the ANC are kicking the shit out of each other, there’s complete lawlessness in Johannesburg, Natal is burning. For Christ’s sake, South Africa’s one of the most dangerous places on earth right now.’

  ‘But how can we get married tomorrow? New York State requires us to publish banns, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Then we’ll fly to Las Vegas tonight.’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Why not – the wedding chapels are open twenty-four hours a day.’

  ‘For the romantic gamblers, huh?’

  ‘There’s no gamble in our romance, baby.’

  ‘Oh yes there is.’

  ‘Oh no there isn’t. So let’s get our asses out to the airport! Before I change my mind.’

  ‘Before you change your mind, huh?’

  ‘Or you.’

  ‘Me? I haven’t yet made up my mind!’

  ‘Yes you have. You love me.’

  ‘No – I adore you. But what about my dress?’

  ‘Fuck your dress. I’ll buy you one in sunny Las Vegas but you won’t be wearing it long!’

  It was fun all the way: they cracked a bottle of champagne in the taxi on the way to the airport and as soon as they boarded the first-class cabin of the shuttle to Las Vegas the flight attendant cracked another. The excellent dinner was served with fine wine and when they were requested to fasten their seatbelts for landing they were feeling no pain whatsoever. Harker carried their unfinished bottle of Dom Pérignon into the terminal.

  ‘Where to, sir?’ the taxi driver said.

  ‘The best damn wedding chapel in town!’

  It was called Famous Blessed Unions Inc, and the charges were very reasonable: $249.99 for the minimum service, $9.99 for the music, $4.99 for the ring cushion, $4.99 for a framed copy of the Holy Vows, $3.99 for the candles, $2.99 for a framed copy of the Marriage Certificate, while a full colour video of the whole shooting-match was thrown in for FREE FREE FREE. Outside the lights of Las Vegas pulsated like a galactic orgasm. The Gothic archway of Famous Blessed Unions Inc glowed like a portal to heaven, celestial music wafting out, the altar awash with cherubs flitting in subdued lights against a background of placid clouds tinged in glorious sunrise, the whole ensemble dominated by an iridescent crucifix. And standing before this altar, hands clasped in eager piety, was Pastor Oswald C. McDougal III, proprietor. ‘Good evening,’ went his sepulchral voice, ‘or should I say good morning?’

  ‘Good morning,’ Harker said. ‘We would like to get married, please.’

  ‘How wonderful!’ Pastor Oswald G. McDougal III sang. ‘How absolutely wonderful, and may the Lord bless your joyful union. And it will be the full marriage service you’ll be requiring, will it?’

  ‘No,’ Josephine said.

  ‘Oh, I understand,’ the Pastor cooed. ‘The quicker the better, eh, and the extra fifty dollars might be better spent on the wedding breakfast or on the down-payment for the baby-carriage, aha-ha-ha. And how about the ring, have you got one or would you like to see our lovely selection?’

  ‘No,’ Josephine said. ‘Excuse me.’ She turned, took Harker’s hand and walked rapidly down the aisle. She stepped out into the neon lights, slumped back against the chapel wall and hung her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘What?’ Harker said. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  Josephine tossed back her head and looked at him. ‘I’m sorry. Not like this.’

  Harker squeezed her shoulder. ‘Okay, we can go to a regular Catholic church right here in town tomorrow.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s not this chapel – though God knows it’s ghastly. Jack?’ She looked at him. ‘I can’t go through with it. Sorry. Can’t.’

  Harker stared at her. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. No – I mean no, I do love you, but I don’t want to get married. Not now. And not like this. Oh God, it’s got nothing to do with religion or anything like that, I mean –’ her eyes were bleak – ‘I’ve simply got too much to do, too much work ahead of me to get married. Too many places to see, and to photograph and you know – experience.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, but I’ve got to go to South Africa tomorrow and do my work.’

  Harker stepped back. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Harker turned and walked away. ‘I said Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To get drunk.’

  ‘Wait for me …’

  The day after she left for South Africa, Derek Clements demanded a meeting. They rendezvoused in Union Square in the evening rush hour.

  Clements said: ‘I went to see the Director in Washington yesterday.’

  Harker was taken aback. ‘You know you’re not allowed to do that. If you’ve got any problems you come to me first!’

  Clements’ hard face was grim. ‘I’ve known Dupont longer than you, he’s the guy who recruited me before you arrived on the scene, sir. And as you can’t tell me what’s happening at Head Office I went to see him. ‘Cause I’m getting worried about this enquiry that’s starting in Pretoria.’ You and me both.

  ‘So what happened with Dupont?’

  Clements said grimly: ‘He was furious with me for walking in, but I expected that. What I didn’t expect was what he said when I told him I was worried about the Long Island job.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Clements stopped walking and turned to Harker, his blue eyes piercing. ‘Said he didn’t know what I was talking about, sir. Said he’d never even heard of the incident. Then denied he knew anything about the Anti-Apartheid League burglary.’

  Harker stared at him. A coldness in his gut. People hurried past in both directions.

  ‘Jesus. What else?’

  Clements said slowly: ‘He said that my job was intelligence-gathering, pure and simple, that anything I had done beyond that was my lookout. He asked me if you had ordered the Long Island job, sir.’

  Harker stared. Oh God.

  Clements continued, ‘I told him yes you
had. He was furious – or pretended to be. Said you must be a madman, acting on your own initiative, beyond the scope of your orders.’

  Jesus. Harker looked the man in his icy eye. ‘Bastard. What else?’

  ‘That’s it. Ordered me out of the hotel. Told me to get my ass back to Manhattan, do nothing until I received orders from him.’

  ‘From him? Not from me?’

  ‘No,’ Clements said carefully. ‘Direct from him.’ His eyes were unwavering. ‘You weren’t acting on your own initiative, were you, sir? About the Long Island job?’

  For a perverse moment Harker almost wanted to laugh – This is what happens when thieves fall out? ‘Of course not!’

  Clements nodded slowly. ‘You were acting on orders from the Director?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Clements seemed to relax somewhat. A thin smile appeared. ‘Fine, sir. So I’ll keep my head down. Until I receive orders.’ He frowned. ‘But from you or the Director?’

  ‘From me!’ Harker snapped. ‘Standard procedures. And if the Director speaks to you direct, I expect you to tell me.’ Then he realized that was a hopeless order: Felix fucking Dupont could go right over his head and order Clements to keep his mouth shut about anything. ‘Look, Derek, tough times could be ahead. And it’s quite clear from your visit to Washington that you and I need to stick together. So you report all developments to me.’ He tried to make it sound like an order, not a conspiracy.

  Clements smiled. ‘Right, sir. We’re a team.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Right. So now business is over can I buy you a drink, sir?’

  Harker shook his head. ‘Thank you, but I’m expecting a phone call from my girlfriend.’

  ‘Of course,’ Clements said. ‘Is that still Miss Valentine, sir? The anti-apartheid lady?’ Harker was taken aback. He knew all about Clements’ girlfriends because it was all on file, but he had never mentioned his own love-life to Clements. Coming from a junior officer the question was almost an impertinence. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  Clements held out his hand. ‘Okay, goodnight, sir.’ Then he added, as if an afterthought, ‘By the way, are you wired? Have you been tape-recording this conversation, sir?’

  Harker glared. ‘I know what “wired” means, for Christ’s sake. The answer is no. Why?’

  Clements smirked. ‘Well, I have. After my little experience with the Director I thought it wise – wish I’d been wired when I saw him.’ He smiled. ‘Nothing to worry about, sir. I won’t drop you in the shit if you don’t drop me. Goodnight, sir.’

  He turned and walked away into the rush-hour crowds.

  22

  Ferdi Spicer’s CCB front company, Cleopatra’s Retreat, an upmarket whorehouse on West 57th Street near the river, was a converted warehouse. It had three floors, each bigger than a tennis court. The ground floor was mostly a reception area where the girls lounged around while the client took his pick: there was a king-size Jacuzzi beside a big mahogany bar, and a small fast-food restaurant. There was a small dance floor for people who wanted to smooch with or without their clothes on: if you wanted to copulate right there, or in the Jacuzzi, or up at the bar, it was okay at Cleopatra’s Retreat. Beyond the bar was the Swing Room, all sides mirrored, with wall-to-wall mattresses: here anything went, group sex abounded. Beyond were smaller rooms, also for swingers but for those who preferred more privacy, fewer participants. At weekends, Cleopatra’s swing rooms were jumping, but during the week most of the fornication was done upstairs in the twenty well-appointed suites which had all the whorehouse accoutrements: pornographic videos, mirrored ceilings, sadomasochism equipment, vibrators, dildoes, perfumes, unctions.

  Harker rang the front door bell. The spy glass darkened and Stella, Ferdi’s girlfriend, opened the door. ‘Hi, Mr Hogan, long time no see.’

  ‘Is the boss in, Stella?’

  ‘He’s having his bath. Would you like to wait at the bar?’

  ‘No, I’ll wait in your private sitting room, please.’

  Stella led him down a corridor, past the Jacuzzi, the bar, the swing rooms, to their apartment at the rear of the warehouse. It overlooked a sanitary lane and fire escapes. Stella disappeared through to the bathroom. Harker walked to the booze cabinet and poured himself a whisky. There were numerous photographs of Ferdi in military garb, leaping out of a helicopter, landing by parachute, singing drinking songs in a bush bar – Harker was in that one, with Derek Clements. Stella reappeared, her diaphanous see-through pyjama suit leaving nothing to the imagination. ‘He’s coming now, Mr Hogan.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Stella left the room and a moment later Ferdi came bursting through, dripping, clutching a towelling dressing gown about his big frame. ‘Sir, long time no see!’

  ‘You’ve never seen me before, Ferdi, remember that.’

  ‘Sure, sir, never. But what a pleasure, it would be nice if you’ve come to be sociable, know what I mean, lots of pretty ladies and they’re on the house.’

  ‘Thanks, Ferdi, another time.’ He took a breath. ‘Meanwhile you’ve heard about this commission of enquiry into hit-squads, the police and the CCB?’

  ‘Yes sir, been in the papers, and the Director got hold of me about it. And Clements too.’

  Harker stared. ‘Dupont did? And what did he say?’

  ‘Told me to keep my mouth zipped. About everything, but especially about Long Island. And Mr Beauregard said the same.’

  ‘Beauregard did?’ Beauregard was the codename for the CIA man who was Froggy Fred’s superior officer. What the fuck was he doing talking direct to salesmen? ‘And what did he have to say?’

  ‘That the CIA would be merciless if I dropped them in the shit over the Long Island job – or if any of us did. And he pointed a gun in my guts.’

  ‘Jesus. Where were you?’

  ‘Right here where you’re standing.’

  ‘Christ. And what happened with Clements?’

  Ferdi said, ‘Clements was just worried about you spilling the beans. Because you’d been to Sandhurst and all that jazz. Said I must report anything fishy directly to him.’

  Harker stared. Jesus … ‘Why should Sandhurst make any difference? Now listen, Ferdi – you report directly to me, not to Clements. If anybody approaches you, no matter who, I want to know about it immediately. Got that?’

  Ferdi Spicer nodded earnestly. ‘Got it, sir. Except under standing orders I’m not supposed to know who you are, sir, I’m only supposed to know Clements.’

  ‘Well, you do fucking know me and I’m your boss! And I’m the guy you report to, okay?’

  ‘Okay, sir,’ Ferdi said. ‘And if Clements asks me?’

  ‘Tell him to ask me. Got that? And tell me – how much does Stella know about us?’

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ Spicer assured him. ‘She knows I was in the US Marines, of course, and that I was a mercenary in the Rhodesian army, but that’s all.’

  ‘And what does she know about me?’

  ‘Nothing, sir, honest! She only knows you’re my friend from way back in the Rhodesian army.’

  ‘Now look here, Ferdi, I must make something abundantly plain to you …’ He paused, then pointed. ‘Next week, when this commission of enquiry starts in Pretoria, if any journalist comes snooping around asking questions – or anybody else – you know nothing, you don’t know what he’s talking about. And that particularly applies to Deep Throat and Falsetto and any other of that United Nations gang – they may get nervous when they hear about this commission. And if Clements or Dupont or Fred or Beauregard speak to you about anything, or try to give you instructions, you report to me immediately, even if it’s the middle of the night. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Because if it is suspected that the CCB has a base in New York, guys like you and me with an African background will be suspect. And if the cops find out we were involved in the Long Island job we’ll go to jail for the rest of our lives.’ Harker glared. ‘Got that, Ferdi?’

  2
3

  The week after Josephine left was a bad time for Harker, waiting for the judicial enquiry to begin, waiting for Josephine to call to give him her address, her cellphone number, her news. He was worried sick. Josephine could ask questions the judge could not, she could listen to hearsay and rumours. On the third day he could bear the suspense no longer and he telephoned Annie, her friend in the anti-apartheid movement in Johannesburg, but he had to leave a message on her answering machine. And then, on Sunday, the day before the commission of enquiry opened, she telephoned.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she said.

  Thank God. ‘For what, exactly?’

  ‘For not calling earlier.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  She sighed. ‘Because I didn’t know what to say. I needed my own space. Because … Oh hell, I felt bad about letting you down in Las Vegas.’

  Harker snorted. ‘What does that mean? That you wish we had got married?’

  Josephine sighed again. ‘I don’t know what it means, except I’m sorry I hurt you. We should not have got as far as Las Vegas, I should have said no in New York.’

  ‘That’s great. Don’t bother saying it again now.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘So don’t let’s talk about it any more. Tell me what’s happening out there.’

  She sighed. ‘Christ, Jack, the violence is appalling. Every day there are pitched battles round Johannesburg between the ANC warriors and Inkatha Zulus. The power-struggle has moved up here in a big way.’

  ‘But that’s been going on for a year.’

  ‘But it’s the government’s strategy of divide and rule, getting the Zulus to do their dirty work for them so that the ANC will be intimidated at the Great Indaba. These Zulus are hit-squads – they’re part of this Third Force.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ Harker said grimly.

  ‘Then why didn’t the police stop those truckloads of Zulu warriors coming up from Natal? For decades the police have been able to enforce apartheid but now they can’t put up a few roadblocks to stop a civil war? Why? Because the government wants the Zulus to do their dirty work. So even when the commission of enquiry into hit-squads is about to start the government is using hit-squads on a massive scale!’