Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

  ‘Can’t you persuade her to come home?’

  ‘I tried to stop her going, believe me.’

  ‘And these former subordinates of yours, Clements and – Spicer, is it? When did you last have any contact with them?’

  Harker briefly told the lawyer about seeing Spicer at Cleopatra’s Retreat, his recent visit from Dupont and his CIA companion, his meeting with Clements several years ago in Union Square.

  ‘Well,’ Redfern said, ‘obviously these guys are as keen as you are on keeping quiet. That’s good. But we must be careful about this guy Dupont passing the buck to you, he sounds like trouble.’

  ‘He is. A snake-in-the-grass.’

  ‘And you’ve had no recent contact with this CIA guy you call Froggy Fred? Or Beauregard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well,’ Redfern said, ‘don’t contact any of them but if they contact you just act dumb, deny everything, you don’t know what they’re talking about. And if possible tape-record the meeting. And report everything to me.’

  ‘Okay.’ Harker sighed tensely.

  ‘Well,’ Redfern said thoughtfully, ‘let’s prepare this confession. But think seriously about disappearing, about going on a long cruise.’

  ‘It’s a pretty thought, believe me.’

  29

  It was over three years since Harker had seen Ferdi Spicer. Spicer had only been a ‘salesman’ in the old CCB whereas Clements was a ‘senior salesman’: therefore Spicer reported to Clements who reported to Harker. Spicer was a ‘conscious salesman’ in that he was aware he worked for the CCB but he was not supposed to know the identity of his ‘Regional Manager’, Harker, nor his ‘Regional Director’, Dupont; however, Spicer knew both identities because somewhere along the line somebody had slipped up. Technically Spicer should therefore have been redeployed on pain of death if he blew anybody’s cover but a compromise was found because he was so successful in running that little whorehouse in Manhattan where so many United Nations delegates liked to relax.

  It was popular for many reasons: its convenient location, its decor, and its very reasonable prices. Indeed, for delegates of African extraction and those from former communist countries there was often no charge at all because they were either the guests of other clients in the United Nations who were in the CCB’s pay or Ferdi Spicer said, ‘What the hell, just do me a favour one day.’ Despite all this haphazard generosity and the enormous monthly booze bill, Spicer’s whorehouse made a good deal of money and produced many other dividends of espionage value. In short, Cleopatra’s Retreat was a roaring success, both financially and in espionage terms, and General Tanner had refused to tinker with a winning combination just because Ferdi had discovered Harker’s identity. Ferdi Spicer might not be the brightest of soldiers in the Intelligence business but his loyalty was not questioned.

  ‘Good evening, sir!’ Spicer exclaimed when he opened his door and recognized Harker under the false moustache and spectacles. His pleasure was genuine.

  ‘How’s business, Ferdi?’

  ‘Good, sir! Monday is a quiet night, of course, our lunchtime trade has left, you’re our only visitor at the moment but generally, yeah, it’s good, sir. And how’re things with you, sir?’ Harker walked into the scent of women.

  The ornate mahogany bar had been extended. Chandeliers now twinkled from the ceiling, there was a lounge area festooned in fragrant flowers. Steam rose silkily from the large Roman-style whirlpool bath and two pretty girls languished in it. Half a dozen others lounged on stools around the bar: they were all dressed in satin corsets of different colours, stockings and stiletto heels.

  ‘What’ll you have to drink, sir?’ Spicer asked.

  ‘Nothing, thanks. Why did you enlarge the bar? It was plenty big enough.’

  ‘Clements suggested it, you get more talk around a bigger bar. Sit down, sir.’

  ‘Can we go through to your apartment?’

  ‘Sure.’ Spicer led the way down the corridor to the rear. On the way they passed a good-looking woman on her way to the reception area in her underwear, Spicer’s girlfriend Stella.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Hogan!’ she beamed at Harker.

  ‘Good evening, Stella, nice to see you again.’

  They entered the rear apartment. Harker glanced into Spicer’s office: he saw the bank of small television screens, showing every bedroom. ‘Are you still recording people on video?’

  ‘Yes, sir, the important ones Clements tells me to.’

  Jesus. Harker thought about how to put the next question. ‘So you see a lot of Clements?’

  Spicer started to answer, then hesitated. ‘Only when he brings customers, sir.’

  ‘You hesitated, Ferdi. Why?’

  Spicer looked uncomfortable. ‘Did I, sir? Didn’t notice.’

  ‘You hesitated because you realized you’d slipped up by admitting to me that you see still take orders from Clements.’

  Spicer shifted. ‘I don’t take no orders from him, sir.’

  ‘You said he tells you which important customers to video – and he told you to enlarge the bar. Look at me, Ferdi.’ Ferdi looked at him unhappily. ‘What do you do with those videos? Give ’em to Clements, don’t you? And what does he do with them?’

  ‘Dunno, sir.’

  ‘Like hell you don’t know, Ferdi!’ Harker said. ‘Clements blackmails the customers with them, doesn’t he? Either for money or for information. Or he intends to do so when the time is ripe. Which is it, Ferdi – money or information?’

  Ferdi shifted again. ‘Dunno, sir.’

  ‘Like hell! Well, let me point a few things out to you, Ferdi – if it’s money, you’re playing with fire. Your victim may run to the police, or to the Mafia, or he may have to steal to pay you – either way you run a huge risk of going to jail for a long, long time! And all your CCB activities will be exposed and you’ll drop us all in the shit.’ He glared at Spicer, who was staring at the floor. ‘Or is it political information you guys are after – political leverage? And if so, for what purpose?’

  Spicer looked down. ‘Dunno, sir.’

  ‘Of course you fucking know, Spicer!’

  Spicer shuffled. ‘Not permitted to say, sir.’ He added, ‘You know how this business works, sir.’

  Harker glared furiously. He whispered: ‘What business, Ferdi? The CCB is fucking disbanded, remember?’

  Spicer looked at his former commander, and suddenly his eyes had the steel Harker remembered.

  ‘You know I’m a dead man if I tell you, sir. And so will you be if they find out. Sorry I slipped up, sir. So, please, no more questions. Let’s just have a nice drink for old time’s sake.’

  Harker glared at him. ‘Ferdi, if you and Clements are working for a right-wing political organization like the Afrikaner Resistance Movement – forget it. None of those outfits have a hope in hell of getting an independent homeland, let alone recapturing South Africa. Do you hear me, Ferdi?’

  Spicer shifted his feet. ‘Yes, sir. Shall we go back to the bar, sir?’

  Oh Jesus, the implications of this were enormous. Who was he working for – the Department of Covert Collection or whatever they had renamed it now? Or was he only working for Clements’ blackmail ring? But Spicer was on his guard now and Harker would find out nothing more tonight. Maybe he should try to talk to Stella. He said: ‘What I really wanted to see you about was this Truth Commission that began in South Africa recently. You know about it?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Clements told me.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He told me to deny everything, keep my mouth shut. If any cops come around just say I don’t know what they’re talking about.’

  ‘Don’t know anything about what, exactly?’

  ‘About the CCB, sir, that job we did on Long Island, the Anti-Apartheid League office, that sort of thing. Just act dumb.’

  Harker took a tense breath. At least they were all in agreement on this. ‘You understand that even if you were granted amnesty in South Africa you wo
uld be prosecuted here?’

  ‘But,’ Spicer said, ‘supposing somebody splits on us to this Truth Commission, sir? Supposing somebody in the CIA talks or tries to blackmail us?’

  ‘Nobody in the CIA could do that without dropping himself in big trouble.’

  ‘But somebody else in the CIA,’ Spicer insisted, ‘who never actually worked with us may find out about us.’

  ‘I doubt that will ever happen.’

  Spicer cracked his knuckles. Then he said unhappily, ‘It’s already happened, sir.’

  Harker’s mind seemed to lurch. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Spicer said miserably: ‘Swear to God you won’t tell Clements I told you?’

  ‘Of course! Spit it out, Ferdi!’

  Spicer gave a troubled sigh. ‘I’m only telling you because I trust you, sir, and I want to ask what I should do, sir. Well, last week, Clements tells me somebody in the CIA is trying to blackmail us. He didn’t say who, except it wasn’t either of the two guys I know. Clements says I must go with him to Central Park to meet this guy and we’re going to jump on him and find out how much he knows, then bump him off. So we go to Central Park last Monday night, and I hide in the bushes. This guy arrives – he’s only known to Clements as Jeff.’

  Harker’s ears felt blocked. ‘Go on.’

  ‘He got away, sir. When Clements pretended to hand over the money I jumped out and tried to give him a karate chop but he was well-trained, and the next thing I knew I was on my back and he was running away through the park, and Clements couldn’t use his gun because of the noise.’

  Harker felt sick. Blackmail. ‘How much was he demanding?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, it was a million dollars, sir,’ Spicer said worriedly. ‘We were supposed to be making the first payment of a hundred thousand.’

  A million dollars! And that was only the start of it – pay the blackmailer once and you’ll be paying for the rest of your life. God, he had to think about this fast. It was terrifying that Clements and probably Dupont too were somehow still in business as the successor to the CCB. Or were they part of a right-wing plot? The implications made the blood run cold. And how long before this CIA guy, Jeff, tried to blackmail him? Harker desperately wanted to dig deeper but he had to think about it first – think, not rush in where angels fear to tread. Spicer was his ally at the moment, as long as he played his cards right.

  ‘Maybe I will have that drink, Ferdi. A Scotch, please. Touch of water.’

  ‘Coming up, sir.’ Spicer was pleased to both change the subject and be of service. ‘Shall we join the ladies, sir?’

  ‘Very well.’

  They walked down the passage back to the reception area. Spicer lumbered to the bar, scattering girls. They looked wildly erotic in their high heels and suspenders but Harker was too distracted to appreciate. He sat on a stool in the corner. Spicer poured a big dash of Chivas Regal whisky into a glass, and opened a beer for himself. Harker tried to weigh his words as he contemplated his drink.

  Ferdi whispered earnestly, ‘So what should I do, sir? Do we bump off this CIA bloke, or what?’

  Harker massaged his eyelids. Oh God, how could he tell Ferdi that, yes, the safest thing was to commit murder?

  ‘Keep well clear, Ferdi. Let Clements do his own thing. Refuse to participate. If Jeff comes to you tell him he’s crazy, you know nothing, tell him to fuck off before you call the police. But before I can advise you properly, you must tell me absolutely everything that’s happened since the CCB was officially disbanded.’

  Ferdi stared at his beer for a long moment, then raised his eyes. ‘Sorry sir, I can’t. You’ll understand, having been in the business.’

  Harker understood perfectly. It was time to get out of this town. He decided to try a more sympathetic tack. ‘But tell me, Ferdi, what are your plans? How do you see your future? Continue working for Clements and company? Or what?’

  ‘I’d like to go back to South Africa, sir. Africa gets in your blood.’

  ‘And do what? There’s no future in Military Intelligence.’

  ‘Clements says we’re going to take back the country from the blacks.’

  Harker snorted. So now it’s treason, is it? ‘So what would you do in South Africa?’

  ‘Farm,’ Spicer said. ‘Always wanted to farm.’ He added, ‘Land’s cheap these days with so many whites leaving the country. Sell this place, take my. dollars to South Africa, buy a good farm cheap.’

  ‘Not another whorehouse?’

  ‘No, hell, only if they insist, I’m sick of being surrounded by pussy.’

  ‘Only if who insists?’

  Spicer glanced around. ‘Clements says I’ve done such a good job here that maybe Military Intelligence will want me to do the same job in Johannesburg or Pretoria, so we can compromise the black politicians with women and so forth. But I’m sick of all that now, sir. What I’d really like to do is go to this Truth Commission and get amnesty, then just raise cattle.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Harker said, ‘even dream of talking to the Truth Commission. The Truth Commission will grant you amnesty but the District Attorney here won’t. He’ll charge you with murder.’

  ‘But I don’t think he’d bother, do you, sir? Why should he go to all that trouble for me?’ He added, ‘And, they’d have to catch me first.’

  ‘But what about the rest of us?’ Harker hissed. ‘The DA will charge me and Clements and Trengrove as well!’

  ‘Yeah,’ Spicer said. ‘I won’t go to the Truth Commission, sir, don’t worry.’

  Harker dragged his hands down his face. Don’t worry?

  Just then the doorbell chimed. Stella got up and sauntered over to the big door, her high heels clicking, her magnificent breasts wobbling. She applied her eye to the spy-hole, her pantied bottom jutting. ‘Time for work, ladies …’

  Harker got to his feet. ‘Don’t tell Clements or anybody that you’ve spoken to me about this. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If Clements finds out that I’ve been here tell him I just came to knock off one of the girls. We discussed nothing else.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And Ferdi?’ You’ve got to tell me everything that’s going on between you and Clements. I’ll come back in a few days.’

  Ferdi said resolutely: ‘Sir, you’re welcome here anytime, you know that. But I can’t tell you any more, sir.’

  As Stella opened the door, Harker put on his hat. Four men of Latin extraction were standing on the threshold. ‘Buenos tardes!’ Stella exclaimed.

  Harker nodded goodbye to Spicer, stood aside to let the newcomers file in, then stepped out.

  One of Clements’ limousines was parked across the street; a black chauffeur was behind the wheel but did not pay any attention. Harker walked away. At the intersection he flagged a taxi.

  When he entered his apartment the telephone was ringing.

  ‘Hullo, darling!’ Josie cried. ‘Where’ve you been?’

  Harker closed his eyes.

  ‘When are you coming home?’ he said.

  30

  ‘Oh, I’m missing you too.’ she said. ‘But this is one hell of a big story that’s unfolding. The drama. It’s intense. The outpourings of bitterness, the heartbreak, as mothers and wives and lovers queue up to tell their stories about loved ones who just disappeared at the hands of the police, abducted in the middle of the night, never seen again. And then there’re the victims who survived … Darling, are you there?’

  ‘Josie, please come home now.’

  ‘Darling, this is too big a story to walk away from – can you imagine the panic, the terror that’s reigning in the breasts of the apartheid villains now? And not only the bastards who actually carried out these atrocities, I’m talking about the bigwigs, the politicians and generals who gave the orders. From ex-president P.W.Botha downwards. Big heads are going to roll, and I have to chronicle it all.’

  ‘Josie, there’ll be many chroniclers.’

  ‘But I’m
going to be the best! God, Jack, at last apartheid has collapsed like Nazi Germany and the bad bastards are about to be brought to book. Some of the biggest nastiest mysteries are about to be solved, like Steve Biko’s death – and you tell me to come home? The apartheid villains are quaking in their boots – the bullies and shock-troops of apartheid are cowering under their rocks, desperately hatching excuses and perjury – darling, it’s a wonderful comeuppance! Any day now one of their stalwarts is going to lose his nerve and run to the Commission – on his knees – and name all his accomplices and the bigwigs and the dam’s going to burst!’

  Oh God, God, once that dam burst he would be swept away …

  That summer was bad for Harker. Every day he got a summary of the proceedings from the South African broadcasting service, almost every day Josephine telephoned with her gleeful assessments or she faxed newspaper extracts. Day by day, week by week, the horror of the apartheid years came tumbling out to the Commission, day after day the evidence came piling up against the police and army. But the dam did not burst. Constantly, the Commission appealed to perpetrators to take the golden opportunity to make a clean breast. The newspaper editorials urged the same, but nobody was coming forward. And then one day Josephine telephoned him excitedly at Harvest House: ‘Darling, have you heard the dramatic news?!’

  ‘What news?’

  She said gleefully, ‘Today the Attorney General has announced that he’s launching a high-powered prosecution against your old boss, the former Minister of Defence – General Magnus Malan himself! And nineteen other officers, for a massacre of thirteen ANC people eight years ago.’ She paused. ‘Darling, are you there?’

  Harker’s ears were ringing. ‘What massacre?’

  ‘The allegation is that the army – General Malan and his henchmen – sent an impi of Zulu hit-squadders to wipe out a bunch of ANC sympathizers. Anyway, this is the ANC government shaking the big stick, warning all villains that if you don’t want to go to jail for the rest of your life you’d better confess and get amnesty.’

  Harker felt sick. Oh God, he would love to be able to do that.