The officers who had been on the veranda had followed them in. Two more were behind the counter. Yudel, with Helena following, was forcing his way between two officers.
The young officer was reading the court order, doing his best to look and sound like a man in authority. “Who says these people are here?” Around him his juniors frowned, their jaws clamped tight. They were, after all, the law in Plumtree.
Abigail did not seem to have noticed them. “I say so, Judge Mujuru says so, and Director Jonas Chunga of the CIO says so. By the way, are you Inspector Marenji?”
His retreat was sudden and complete. “Yes, I’m Marenji. I’ll have to call the sergeant.”
Abigail adopted her surprised look. “You said you were in charge here.”
“I am, but the sergeant…”
Having seen the first signs of weakness, Abigail instinctively went on the attack. She pointed a finger at the officer. “Do you know what you’re holding?”
“Yes, I understand…”
“Then deliver my clients to me immediately. This court order does not leave any room for you or your sergeant to make decisions on the matter.” Yudel was close behind her now, trying to look as angry and determined as Abigail sounded.
“Yes, I know, but my sergeant is the one who must decide.”
“There’s a telephone number on that document. Call it and speak to Judge Mujuru.”
The inspector had probably never in his life addressed even a single word to a judge of the High Court. “My sergeant…” he said and let the thought trail away. To one of the officers behind the counter, he said, “Get Sergeant Mafuta on the line and tell him to come.”
The man started dialing the number. But Abigail was not yet through with the men of Plumtree police station. She waved a hand in a circular motion intended to take in all the men around her. “Do we need all these people in the room? Don’t these officers have anything to do with their time?”
The number of officers in the room started to thin out immediately, apparently having decided that they did indeed have other things to do with their time. The officer at the counter succeeded in making contact with the sergeant. The young inspector took the phone from him. “She’s got a court order, signed by Judge Mujuru, saying those prisoners must be released.”
Thank you, Abigail thought. At least you seem to understand.
Inspector Marenji hung up and looked worriedly at Abigail. “He’s coming.”
“I hope this is not going to take too long,” she said.
The inspector’s chin lifted noticeably. He looked straight into Abigail’s eyes. “Look, ma’am. I’ve done my best. I’ve treated you with respect, and my sergeant is coming. I’ve done everything in my power. I can’t do more.”
Having taken her authority act as far as it would go, Abigail turned to her other major weapon. She smiled and took a step closer to the inspector. “I know you have. Thank you for your efforts.”
“The sergeant lives close by, very close. He won’t be long.”
From a corner of the room a radio crackled into life. “Plumtree. Come in, Plumtree.”
The sound of the voice was overlain with static and there was too much treble in the sound, but Abigail recognized Jonas Chunga’s voice immediately. She tried to distract the young inspector. “Yes, I do appreciate what you’re…”
But this time her intervention was not effective. “Excuse me,” the inspector said. “I have to get this.”
“Come in, please, Plumtree,” Chunga called again, the noise level rising around his voice.
“Plumtree here. Over.”
“Who’s that? Who’m I speaking to?”
“Inspector Marenji here. Over.”
“Listen, inspector, this is Director Jonas Chunga of the CIO. I am well-known to your sergeant. You have…” The noise level rose again and engulfed what remained of the sentence.
“Bad reception?” Abigail suggested.
“It often happens. It just depends where you are. If you’re in a dip, you sometimes lose contact.”
Out of the corners of her eyes Abigail saw Yudel moving forward. “What’s its range?” The question sounded innocent, even to Abigail.
“Thirty, forty k’s—no more than that.”
Twenty minutes, Abigail thought. Half an hour if we’re lucky. The crackling from the radio started again. Maybe not as long as that, she thought.
“Plumtree, damn you…” And then Chunga’s voice was gone again.
The inspector looked at the offending radio as if it were responsible for the problem. When he turned back to Abigail, his eyes widened. “Here’s Sergeant Mafuta.”
The sergeant, a broad-shouldered man carrying far more weight than he should have been, was coming laboriously up the veranda steps. He paused to catch his breath. By now, the only other officers in the charge office, apart from the young inspector, were the two behind the counter. He went past Abigail to his inspector, and took Judge Mujuru’s order from him.
Abigail could not know about his talking to Tony during the night, or how well he knew Tony. She saw him as the kind of African man she had known all her life, taking charge, sensitive about others invading their territory, wanting recognition, but equally ready to give it. She said nothing. It was just possible that this man might be an ally. But it was only a possibility. It would be a rare police sergeant who dared stand up to a CIO director.
Sergeant Mafuta read the court order. He spoke to the inspector. “Have you established the authenticity of this?”
“No, sir, I have not…”
“Phone the number of the judge’s office and do it immediately.”
And how long will this take? Abigail wondered. Silence was now not possible. “Sergeant, my name is Abigail Bukula. I am an advocate of the South African High Court and a barrister of the Zimbabwean High Court. I…”
The sergeant looked sternly at her and held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “If this document is genuine, you may have your clients. This will not take long.”
“Thank you, sergeant.”
Behind the sergeant the two-way radio again burst into life with Chunga’s voice. “Plumtree, come in immediately.”
The inspector started toward it, but the sergeant grabbed hold of an arm, stopping him. “And this?”
“It’s Director Chunga. I think it’s about these people.”
“Plumtree, where the hell are you?”
Sergeant Mafuta went to the radio and turned the volume down to zero. Chunga’s demanding tones faded, then disappeared. He tapped the inspector on the chest with a thick finger. “The judge’s office.”
“Sir.” The word was a verbal salute. The inspector keyed in the number of the judge’s office. The sergeant’s arms were folded across his chest. His face seemed to be puffed up by some inner pressure. “May I speak to Judge Mujuru?” the inspector said into the phone. “It’s Inspector Marenji of Plumtree police station. I need to talk to him about some prisoners we’re holding. He has issued an order for their release.” He turned to the sergeant. “They’re calling him.” The sergeant nodded.
Abigail turned to look through the open double doors of the charge office. It gave them a good view of the police station yard and the dirt road beyond the fence. There was still no sign of the two CIO double-cabs. Could they possibly have been on their way to some other place? But the range of the radio was no more than thirty or forty kilometers, the inspector had said. Bulawayo was the nearest town, and it was over a hundred kilometers away.
“Good morning, sir. Inspector Marenji of Plumtree police station here. We are trying to verify the authenticity of a court order that has your signature on it.”
“Speakerphone,” the sergeant grunted. “I want to hear the old bastard.”
The inspector activated the speaker phone, and the judge’s voice burst into the room. “… court order is this? When was it issued?”
The inspector told him. “Shall I read the names? Joyce Mawere, Petra Jones…�
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“I know the matter,” the judge cut in. He cleared his throat. “This is a particularly delicate matter. I would appreciate you calling the office of Director Jonas Chunga of the Central…”
The pressure inside the sergeant seemed to have increased since he first heard the judge’s voice. “Are you saying this court order is invalid, judge?” he roared.
“Who’s this? Who’s this? This is a different voice.”
“This is Sergeant Mafuta. All I want to know—is this a valid court order? Is this your signature?”
“Yes, yes. But I’m saying all I want you to do is…”
“I want to know if this order is valid, that’s all.” The sergeant’s chest was rising and falling with indignation. To Abigail he was reacting like a man from the Ndebele minority who had put up with too much from senior government people. “Did you issue it?”
“Yes, of course…”
“And have you issued another order countermanding it?”
“But what I’m saying is—this is a delicate matter. You should discuss it first with…”
The sergeant’s voice dropped to a lower level. “I’m not a politician, judge. You’ve given me a court order, and I’m going to act on it.”
“I think it would be wise…”
“Goodbye, judge.”
“You need to consider the repercussions for your career.” The judge was trying without success to hide his anxieties.
The sergeant hung up. It could be that all his life he had considered too many repercussions, and that now it was impossible to consider any more of them. “Release the prisoners,” he said to the inspector.
The inspector took a step toward the entrance to a passage that led deeper into the building. “Shouldn’t we call Director Chunga?”
The sergeant pointed toward the passage. “Get the prisoners.” He waved the court order. “This says they must be released. I’ve got nothing to do with the CIO.”
The inspector’s eyes were wide with alarm, but he did as he had been ordered. The sergeant turned to Abigail. “Wait here, please. Your clients are coming.” He left by the same doorway as the inspector.
“Jesus.” Helena was bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet. “I can’t believe this. Should I get a taxi for them?”
“Perhaps that’s not a bad idea,” Abigail said. She had also noticed the one lone minibus taxi parked just off the highway. The taxis seated at least twelve people. There would be plenty of room for the seven and for the Makwati girl. Helena ran for the door.
“This is so wonderful.” Rosa was standing just inside the door. “Congratulations, Abigail. What an achievement.”
One of the policemen behind the counter crossed to the radio and turned up the volume. Immediately Chunga’s voice was in the room. “Where are these people? Plumtree? Come in, over.” This time there was no static, and the signal was strong.
“Plumtree here. Over,” the officer said.
“Who’s in charge there?” Chunga demanded, adding “over” as an afterthought.
“Sergeant Mafuta. Over.”
“Get him for me. Get him for me now.”
As the officer ran for the passage into which the sergeant had disappeared, the phone on the counter rang and the remaining policeman behind the counter answered. Abigail saw Yudel move quickly to the radio and reach behind it. He jerked hard at something, then stepped away, turning his back on the radio. “What?” she whispered.
“Antenna.” His voice was so low that she could barely hear it.
Now there were voices from the passage, the mumbled sounds of more than one person. A female voice was asking, “Where are we going?” A male voice answered that they were going to the Harare Holiday Inn, at government expense.
The inspector came into the charge office first, followed by the eight activists. Tony Makumbe, who came in last, was the only one Abigail recognized. “Good morning, people,” she said. “I trust you’re ready to travel.”
“Who are you?” a small yellow-skinned woman asked.
“My name is Abigail Bukula. I’m your legal representative. This is my colleague, Mr. Gordon.”
“We’re going to court?”
The inspector had stepped between Abigail and her clients. “The court hearing is over. You are all free to go.” He passed a sheet of paper to Abigail. “I need you to sign this, ma’am.”
“Thank you, inspector,” she said.
It had taken a moment for the seven to comprehend the reality of their position. “We’re free,” a voice said. “Is that right? Who hired you?”
“Krisj Patel contacted me, but we have to go.”
“Krisj? When?”
“Krisj did it,” Abigail said. This was no time for explanations.
The yellow-skinned woman was hugging one of the men. Others were shaking hands. One of the women kissed Yudel. But their voices stayed low. The celebration was real, but there was a subdued element to it. Perhaps it was just possible that the reason for the celebration may not be real. Freedom was not yet complete.
Of the seven, only Tony showed no emotion. He was still in the doorway that led to the cells, leaning against the wall. Abigail made her way through the muted happiness. She took one of his hands in both of hers. “Tony, I’m your cousin.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.” She was not sure that what she saw on his face was a smile. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
Abigail moved her grip to his arm. “We must go.” She looked at his face, but could not read the expression. He was looking past her.
With Abigail leading and Yudel coming behind to herd the stragglers, they arrived on the veranda. There was no sight of Helena and the taxi. Abigail looked for Yudel, but her eyes caught the figure of the sergeant. He was at a window, observing the scene, his arms folded across his chest.
54
Abigail was still looking at the sergeant when, at the end of the street, the two double-cabs turned the corner and accelerated toward them. They passed the police station and continued to the next intersection, where they both swung hard to the right, then reversed, blocking off that exit completely. They had barely stopped when two more double-cabs entered the street from the same side. They stopped almost immediately and blocked off the street at that intersection.
No one on the veranda spoke. Down in the street, the four black double-cabs were in position. There was no immediate movement from any of them. Then the front passenger door of the nearest one opened and Jonas Chunga stepped out. Now doors were opening on all of the vehicles, and CIO agents were following the example of their boss. He came as far as the gate before stopping. Four agents fell in behind him. At the other end of the street, six more agents had spread across its width.
Chunga said nothing and showed no sign of coming closer. Yudel looked for Inspector Marenji, but he had retreated into the charge office. Abigail was first to move. In a corner of her vision she saw Yudel step forward. The finger of one hand fluttered. “No,” she said. “I have to go alone.”
Abigail stepped carefully off the cement apron of the veranda and onto the dirt of the yard. Jonas Chunga was no more than fifteen or twenty meters away, surrounded by the evidence of his power, the agents who would follow his orders without question. They may have seen him kill and may have killed for him. She started slowly across the uneven surface, picking her way. To fall, even to stumble, would be a sign of weakness. And weakness was not something she could afford.
Abigail picked a spot that she guessed to be halfway between herself and Chunga, a patch of cement that may have been the remains of a structure that had once stood there. She stopped at her chosen spot and waited for him to come to her.
His face was clearly visible to her now. The determined set to the jaw, the direct gaze, the complete stillness of features and hands: she had seen it all before. But I will come no closer, she thought. You will have to move too, my friend.
And will you move? she wondered, watching his motionless form. My a
unt’s lover, she thought … almost my lover, almost my rapist.
Chunga was coming toward her, moving even more slowly than she had. His arms were partly outstretched, signaling to his men to stay where they were. Neither he nor Abigail dared show any eagerness to get this done. Hurrying was out of the question.
He stopped within arm’s length of her. “Good morning, Jonas,” she said, deliberately keeping her voice low.
“Good morning, Abigail. Every time I run into you lately, you seem to be leaving.” He, too, spoke very softly. It seemed that by mutual agreement this was between just the two of them. But now that he was close to her, she could see the movement of his eyes. He was struggling to give her his full attention. Something on the veranda was drawing him to it.
Tony, she thought. Yudel was right. “Just bad luck, I suppose. I’m told everything in life is about timing.”
“Yes.” His eyes again darted in the direction of the veranda. “Ours does not seem to have been too bad this morning.”
“And what do you intend doing with your good timing?”
“I haven’t yet decided.” He was looking at her, forcing his attention away from the young man behind her. His eyes had narrowed and any playfulness that may have been present in his voice was gone. “You didn’t really think you could get away with this. Or did you?”
“I have a court order. My clients are free.”
“No. You have a piece of paper and your clients are on the veranda of the Plumtree police station.”
“You’re not going to ignore a court order, are you? You were there when the judgment was made.”
“I’m going to do what’s best for my country.” But he was not looking at her. She could see how he was struggling to keep his mind on her.
A cry came from behind her. Abigail recognized neither the voice nor the single word that had been called out. It was only when the cry came a second time that she heard the word “Father!” clearly, and knew the voice was Tony’s.
“Father,” it came again. And for the first time since she had first met him, Jonas Chunga’s composure was shaken. “Father.”
Those Who Love Night Page 32