Unofficial and Deniable

by John Gordon Davis

  Harker pushed open the bar door shakily. ‘How did it happen?’

  Looksmart Kumalo entered the bar. ‘Do you remember an explosion that occurred eight years ago on Long Island, killing a number of people?’

  Harker walked to the counter, pretending to think. ‘No. What’ll you have?’

  ‘Beer, please.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘Any kind of beer is okay.’

  ‘Two Budweisers please, Lenny,’ Harker said to the barman. ‘No,’ he turned back to Kumalo, ‘I don’t remember.’

  Looksmart frowned, then smiled. ‘I think you do. Josephine said she had discussed the case with you quite often – she was convinced it was the work of this CCB we’ve heard about.’ He added, ‘And so am I.’

  Harker felt sick. He knows … ‘Oh, that case? So you’re the guy who survived? But the FBI proved it was the work of the Cuban exile community in Miami.’

  ‘That was a cover-up.’

  Harker feigned further return of memory. ‘Oh yes, Josie mentioned something about you hiring a firm of private detectives. Which ones?’

  Looksmart smiled wider. ‘I’ve got friends in the United Nations who advise me, they put me on to a firm. In fact I believe you know some of my friends, Mr Harker. For example, Alfonso Santos, from the Angolan delegation?’

  Harker’s heart was racing. Alfonso Santos’ codename in CCB files was Deep Throat, he had been one of their major informers in the old days, a big black man with a penchant for white womanflesh which Clements and Spicer had satisfied in exchange for information. Harker shook his head. ‘I don’t think I know anybody in the United Nations.’

  Looksmart smiled widely. ‘How about Joshua Malungu, in the Zambia delegation?’

  Harker took a gulp of his beer to conceal the lurch in his guts. Okay, now he knew the bastard knew. Joshua Malungu’s codename had been Falsetto. He also had a large appetite for good booze and white women and he too had given Clements and Spicer a host of information over the years about the ANC’s plans, military movements, who was back-stabbing who in the hierarchy, who was screwing whose wife or mistress.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Harker said. Okay, you bastard, what other surprises have you got for me?

  ‘Really?’ Looksmart said conversationally. ‘But you must know the guy who both Alfonso and Joshua speak of, an American called …’ Looksmart frowned, as if trying to remember the name. ‘Called Ferdi Spicer, I think – yes, that’s it, Ferdi. He runs a very popular brothel – the Best Little Whorehouse in Manhattan, they call it.’

  Harker’s face felt drained. He took a slug of tasteless beer.

  ‘No, I don’t know any Ferdi Spicer ‘ He added, ‘I don’t frequent whorehouses.’

  Looksmart Kumalo smiled. ‘No?’ he said softly. ‘Now that’s strange. Because these two UN guys, Joshua and Alfonso, directed my private detective to Cleopatra’s Retreat last night to meet Ferdi Spicer, who they said might be able to assist me in my enquiries, as the saying is. When my detective got there Ferdi refused to talk, and he immediately disappeared. But his girlfriend, the madam, Stella, she finally agreed to talk to my detective. Because he made her an offer that was hard to refuse.’ Looksmart paused, smiling. ‘And Stella directed me and my detective to you, except she called you Jack Hogan. She gave me your telephone number and I noticed it was the same number that Josephine had given me for you.’

  Harker’s heart was pounding. He tried to sound astonished. ‘Why did she direct you to me?’

  Looksmart smiled. ‘And we would like to make you the same offer we made to Stella, Mr Harker.’

  Harker tried to look puzzled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Looksmart smiled again. ‘I’m talking about murder,’ he said. ‘And money.’

  Harker stared at him, and suddenly, through his fear, his adrenaline saved him as it had many a time in battle: there was still the fear but now there was the courage of a cornered soldier. ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea of what you’re talking about, Looksmart.’ He waved a hand. ‘Murder? Money?’

  Looksmart said: ‘I’m suing the South African Defence Force for ten million dollars for these injuries. My detectives’ enquiries led them to believe that Ferdi Spicer was involved, or knew who was involved. But when we approached Ferdi he promptly disappeared. So we figured his girlfriend, Stella, might know and we made her an offer of ten per cent of my claim if I am successful. One million dollars is a lot of money, and Stella said that Ferdi had hinted that you and he were involved, with others.’

  Harker was ashen but his fighting blood was up.

  ‘Whoever this Stella is, she’s a liar. She’s a whore, she’ll say anything for a million dollars.’

  Looksmart said: ‘I would like to offer you the same deal as Stella – ten per cent, a million dollars, if my claim is successful, for telling the court how and why you did it – who with, on whose orders and so on. Because I am sure you didn’t commit the murders on your own initiative.’

  Harker was grinning but his heart was pounding. ‘I’d love a million dollars, Mr Kumalo, but unfortunately I don’t know what you’re talking about. And now, excuse me!’

  He banged down his glass and turned, but Looksmart laid his claw on his wrist.

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Jack. If Ferdi Spicer hadn’t taken fright and disappeared he would be getting the million dollars and you would be paying not only with money but with your life in prison.’

  Harker glared. ‘Is that so?’ He wrenched his wrist free.

  ‘But this way you earn a million dollars and your life. Because my attorney has approached the DA here, who has agreed that if you give evidence in my case you will be granted immunity from prosecution provided you give evidence for the state in the trial of your accomplices who were with you when the murders were committed.’

  Harker stared. ‘Are you telling me that you have discussed me with the District Attorney?’

  ‘My attorney has, yes.’

  ‘On the word of a fucking whore you accuse me of murder! I’ll sue you for defamation of character!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Looksmart smiled. ‘I’m making you an offer you shouldn’t refuse, Jack.’

  Harker’s mind was in disarray. Then he rasped furiously, ‘I repeat, I don’t know what you’re talking about. So stay out of my life, Mr Kumalo!’

  Harker turned and strode towards the door. As he approached it he was astonished to lock eyes with Derek Clements: the man was sitting in a booth in the corner, watching him, eyes steady, ice-blue. Harker felt his step falter. This is no coincidence, the bastard’s following Looksmart Kumalo and seeing us together doesn’t look healthy. Harker made a snap decision and gave a small jerk of his head to tell Clements to meet him outside. He pushed the bar door and strode out into the lamplit street.

  Over the road was the corner of little Gramercy Park. Harker crossed to the entrance. Ten paces within was a bench. He looked back and confirmed he could see the doorway to the bar: then he slumped down on the bench, leant his elbows on his knees and held his face.

  Oh Jesus Jesus …

  He sat there collecting his wits; then he lifted his head and looked for Clements. It was important that he reassure Clements – and Dupont – that he had no intention of accepting Looksmart’s deal. But Clements had not emerged. Harker looked at his watch. Must be three minutes since he had walked out. Okay, so Clements was following Mr Looksmart Kumalo. Harker got to his feet and strode away into the darkness of the little park, trying to think.

  Think …

  He had to report this to Redfern. Harker stopped in the park, pulled out his cellphone, dialled Redfern’s home number. No reply. He dialled his office and left a message on his answering machine asking him to phone urgently.

  He had to speak to Stella, find out how much she knew, how much she had said, he had to find out what had happened to Ferdi … Jesus, if what Looksmart had said was true Stella had the power to get Ferdi convicted of ma
ss murder, and Ferdi had the power to turn prosecution witness and throw Harker, Dupont and General Tanner into an American jail and toss away the key – and that was only because New York State had done away with the death penalty, otherwise it would be the electric chair! He feverishly dialled the number of Cleopatra’s Retreat.

  ‘Stella’s gone out, sir, any message?’

  ‘When’s she coming back?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir, she only went out for a walk, maybe a drink. Want to leave a message or make an appointment?’

  He didn’t like leaving his name and number – and was it safe to trust the telephone? ‘When can I have an appointment?’

  ‘Say in an hour, sir, eight o’clock.’

  Could he bear to wait? ‘All right.’

  ‘What name, sir?’

  ‘Hogan.’

  Harker went to his apartment. He had a large whisky to steady his nerves, then another. An hour later he telephoned for a taxi.

  ‘Uptown, please, West 57th Street.’

  Harker collapsed back on the seat, desperately trying to think what he was going to say to Stella, how he was going to make her tell him everything she knew about Ferdi and the CCB and Jack Harker and Felix Dupont and all the other secret operatives Ferdi had bragged to her about. And where the hell had Ferdi fucking disappeared to?

  ‘What number in West 57th Street?’ the taxi-driver said.

  Harker was peering ahead. ‘Slow down …’ A hundred yards down the road, outside Cleopatra’s Retreat, stood a big knot of people, two police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing. ‘Keep going,’ Harker said, ‘slowly.’

  The taxi cruised past the people. Harker peered. He recognized nobody.

  ‘Drop me off at the next block.’

  As he got out, Harker pulled out his cellphone and dialled Cleopatra’s Retreat. It rang a long time before a woman answered. ‘Cleopatra’s.’ She sounded strained.

  ‘Let me speak to Stella, please.’

  The woman’s voice caught. ‘Stella’s dead.’

  Harker’s guts lurched. ‘Dead? How?’

  ‘Murdered,’ the girl said. She sniffed. ‘Strangled. In her apartment.’

  Harker was staring, mind trying to function. ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Nobody saw anybody come or go.’ The girl sobbed.

  ‘What time did it happen?’

  ‘About half an hour ago the police say. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘My name’s Peter. What’s your name?’

  ‘Irene.’

  ‘Is Ferdi there, Irene?’

  ‘No, Ferdi’s gone to South Africa.’

  ‘South Africa? How do you know that?’

  ‘Stella told me.’

  Oh Jesus, there was only one reason why Ferdi would run to South Africa. ‘Did she say why he went there?’

  ‘Trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘Yesterday, Stella said.’

  Harker took a deep anguished breath. ‘Okay, thank you. I’m very sorry. Goodbye.’

  He hung up, turned and hurried away down the street, frantically looking for another taxi.

  Who would murder Stella? Looksmart Kumalo? No, he would want Stella as a witness to what Ferdi had said. Would Ferdi do it? Possibly, if Stella had threatened to give evidence against him concerning the Long Island massacre – maybe they had had a row, maybe Ferdi had killed her in hot blood. Irene had said Ferdi had left for South Africa yesterday, but perhaps Ferdi had not left for South Africa, maybe he was lurking around town right now with blood on his hands. Would the CCB have murdered Stella? Somebody like Clements, or Dupont? Why would they? Because they had heard that Looksmart Kumalo had hit town breathing fire, had found the UN’s favourite whorehouse where Stella had opened her big mouth causing Ferdi to flee in terror back to South Africa to claim amnesty so Looksmart Kumalo could not sue him for ten million dollars or send him to Sing-Sing for the rest of his life? But Ferdi knew that amnesty would not protect him against Looksmart Kumalo in an American court – Harker had explained it to him in words of one syllable. If Ferdi had gone running to the Truth Commission it was to claim amnesty for some other CCB murders committed in Africa, about which Harker knew nothing. Or had Ferdi made a deal with the DA whereby he would get both amnesty from the Truth Commission and indemnity from prosecution in America in exchange for testifying about the Long Island murders?

  A yellow taxi appeared in the lamplight around the corner; Harker flagged it down, scrambled in and gave the driver his address.

  One thing was for sure – it was time to get out of this town. High time to go down to Fort Lauderdale, buy that yacht and disappear on the high seas before Mr Looksmart fucking Kumalo slapped a writ on him for ten million dollars before throwing him to the DA. And doing that disappearing trick effectively meant selling up Harvest House fast so that it could not be seized by the court to satisfy Looksmart’s writ. And marrying Josephine fast too. Because apart from the fact that he had to get her right out of earshot of all this drama before she found out about his past, he was going to need her money until he had sold Harvest.

  In fact he would telephone her right now and goddam tell her they were getting married! He looked at his watch: nine p.m. in New York, three a.m. tomorrow morning in Johannesburg. He pulled out his cellphone and punched in her numbers: It rang twice before the operator’s recorded voice advised him that the subscriber he had dialled was not available.

  The taxi pulled up outside Gramercy Mews. He paid and scrambled out. He hurried up to the big iron grille, unlocked it, strode through the archway and across the courtyard. He unlocked his door and snapped on the living room light, went to the corner telephone table, snatched up the directory and leafed through it; then he dialled the after-hours number for Amtrak.

  ‘Do you have a train leaving tonight for Fort Lauderdale, Florida, please?’

  Harker listened to the clerk’s response, thanked him and slammed down the telephone. Okay, so he would have to drive down through the night – maybe that was better, he would not be able to sleep anyway, and he would need a car in Fort Lauderdale while looking at boats. He turned to the bedroom to pack a few clothes. Then:

  ‘Why are you going to Fort Lauderdale, sir?’

  32

  A figure stood in the dark entrance of the stairs leading down to Madam Velvet’s. Harker’s hand flashed to his hip for the pistol he no longer carried.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, Clements?’

  Clements leant against the doorframe. ‘Come to pay you a social visit, sir.’

  Harker was shaking. ‘How the hell did you get in?’

  Clements smiled. ‘Same way I got into Josephine’s apartment the first time you sent me in, sir. Picked the locks.’

  Harker pointed at his telephone. ‘I’ll call the police and have you arrested for housebreaking!’

  Clements shook his head and sauntered into the living room. ‘Don’t think you will, sir. Not when you remember what I can tell the police about you.’

  ‘And remember I can tell them a lot about you!’

  Clements elaborately poured himself a whisky. ‘Indeed, sir? I doubt it, if you don’t mind my saying so. On account of your health, sir.’ He shook his head, took a sip of whisky. ‘Wouldn’t be healthy, sir. Not at all.’

  Harker closed his eyes. ‘Derek, what the hell do you want here? Kindly spit it out and fuck off.’

  Clements smiled. ‘Such language is unlike you, sir. This Truth and Reconciliation business getting on your nerves too, is it? It’s certainly getting on ours.’

  ‘Who is “ours”?’

  ‘The old gang here in the US. What were you talking to Looksmart Kumalo about?’

  Harker had managed to prepare himself for the question. ‘Looksmart Kumalo is here to find the CCB operatives responsible for the Long Island job. He’s hired private detectives to help him. And a lawyer.’ Harker glared. ‘Let me
put the old gang’s collective mind at rest. Kindly tell Dupont that Looksmart Kumalo looked me up today not because he suspects me but simply because Josephine, who is in South Africa following the Truth Commission, met him after he’d testified, and told him to look me up when he went to America. Socially. That’s it.’

  Clements said grimly: ‘Didn’t he offer to make a deal with you to testify on his behalf, to blow the whistle on the rest of us?’

  Harker looked Clements in the eye. ‘He certainly did not. Why would he? He has no idea I was involved.’

  Clements raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, sir, he suspected that Ferdi Spicer may know something because either Deep Throat or Falsetto directed him to Cleopatra’s Retreat, to talk to Ferdi. And I know he went there because I was hired to drive him there. So, Looksmart didn’t tell you he had been to see Ferdi?’

  Jesus, he had to be careful. ‘No.’

  ‘Or that he’d seen Stella? He didn’t say anything about Cleopatra’s?’

  Harker forced a frown. ‘Stella? No.’

  ‘So your meeting with him was perfectly friendly was it?’

  Harker was ready for this one. ‘Except at the end. He suggested I was a racist because I fought in the Rhodesian and South African armies. I walked out on him.’ He added, ‘Damn cheek of the man.’

  Clements was watching him closely. ‘When you walked out you looked more shaken than indignant, sir. Frightened, not angry.’

  Harker glared at him, then walked to the booze cabinet and poured a whisky, trying not to let the bottle shake. ‘Is that so?’ He added a dash of water. ‘Anything else, before you go?’

  Clements smiled. ‘Yes, Major. What did you do after you left the bar?’

  Harker forced another frown. His mind fumbling for a credible answer. He said quietly: ‘I resent your tone, Clements. You sound like a bad imitation of a DA. Cut it out.’

  Clements smiled. ‘Where did you go, sir?’

  ‘I went uptown to the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th Street to meet a literary agent to discuss a possible book deal. Okay?’