by Mike Nicol
Pylon sucked in his breath. ‘Save me Jesus.’
‘That’s your man,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘Top-class citizen.’
‘He shot them. While they were filming him he shot them.’
‘How it would seem.’
‘No. No. It’s bullshit. You’re setting something up.’
Mart Velaze looked hurt. ‘Cross my heart ’n hope to die. This’s on the straight and level. What you see is what you get. That’s your man. Now here’s the story.’
Mart took the DVD out of the player, slipped it back into its cover, telling Pylon that Vasa Babic was a clever guy, a linguist, spoke five languages, could read another three. Professionally an engineering type at the University of Belgrade. Uber-smart with computers. ‘Come that messy business we call the Kosovo War, Mr Babic decides he wants an adventure. Joins the paramilitaries fighting the Albanians.’
Mart Velaze handed Pylon the DVD.
‘That building in the first clip, the farmhouse, that was found. A mass grave too. Well, hardly a grave, more a pile of burnt bodies. The farmhouse’d been torched. Shit happens, hey. A lotta shit happens.’
Pylon took the DVD. ‘Where’d this come from?’
‘Mr Babic’s personal collection. Few years ago things started getting hot for him he went on the run. For an IT guy he left a lotta stuff behind. You’d have thought he’d be more careful, more thorough, but maybe not hey when someone’s got your name on a piece of paper. Actually Vasa’s got his name on a couple of pieces of paper. Some Albanian boykies wanting to cut his dick off, give him the slow burn, the revenge thing. They’re the guys made him run. They’re the guys he’s shit scared of. Actually, they caught him. But Vasa’s a clever bugger, what you call resourceful. He got away from the careless bastards. Then there’s two others, bounty hunters, a German and a Swede, want to take him to the war crimes people.’
‘Bounty hunters?’
Mart Velaze grinned. ‘See a financial opportunity there, Mr Buso? You’n old Mace woulda been good bounty hunters. Like in the cowboys, tracking down outlaws. Bastards with money on their heads. Wanted dead or alive. In this case alive. Nothing’s changed, you just don’t see the posters tacked to lamp posts any more. But there’s people still put up money, call it commissions, contract fees, whatever so that other people find it worth their while to bring in the evil ones.’
Mart Velaze gave a mock salute. ‘So there you go, I’m done. Au revoir, Mr Buso. Thanks for your time. Thanks for listening.’
Pylon shook his head. ‘No, no, no, no. Slowly, my friend.’ Put his good hand on Velaze’s sleeve.
‘Ah, a change in the wind.’
Pylon let go of Mart Velaze. ‘That’s it? That’s all you’re going to tell me?’
‘What more can there be? I gave you a bunch of dots. Join them.’
‘I need more.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like how do I know he’s up for war crimes? Like how’d he get to South Africa? How’d he meet Oosthuizen? And most essentially how d’you know this crap? And why’re you interested?’
Mart Velaze rubbed his chin, mock-seriously. Pylon could hear the bristle-scrape.
‘Easy answers first. How’d he get to South Africa, why’d he come to South Africa? I don’t know. Ask your mate Magnus Oosthuizen. How’d they meet? Rumour only, that it was in the bad old days. Eastern Europe then you could get any shit. And they’d sell it to anybody, didn’t matter about your politics. In the woods they’re training black guys to be MK guerrillas. Like I was. In the office they’re selling SADF generals a rocket system. Who cares? War is money.’
‘The war crimes?’
‘On the table in your breakfast nook. That’s what you call it in clusterland, a breakfast nook? I left the papers there. All yours. Have a read. A bit like the vid, only matter-of-fact. Dispassionate. Gruesome all the same.’ He gave a mock bow. ‘Gotta dash. Things to do, people to meet.’
‘Why?’ said Pylon. ‘Why’d you tell me?’
Velaze shrugged. ‘Like I said, background. And the other thing: shit stinks. Sticks to you ’n stinks. I’m being considerate, buta. I’m the heart-guy reaching out to my comrades, my heroes.’
‘Spooks don’t do that.’
‘Some spooks do.’
‘There’re questions still, Mart. Like how do you know this about the bounty hunters? Why do you know it? What’s the angle here?’
Mart Velaze clapped his hand over his mouth. Whispered, ‘State secrets.’
Pylon at his upstairs bedroom window watched Mart Velaze drive off in the smart X5, thinking, all the years in the security business he couldn’t remember it being worse. Too much going on. Too much sliding around. Like you’re in a car and the road’s wet and you’re skidding into a highway pile-up at one-twenty and you can’t do sweet blow-all to stop. He put through a call to Mace.
34
The Swede called Kalle shot back the cuff of his raincoat, looked at his watch: 9:30. He stared out the plate-glass frontage of the departure hall at the line-up of aircraft below. On the tarmac four turboprops winding up, behind them maintenance hangars. Overhead the burnt white of a winter sky. Better than snow.
The last time he’d stopped in the country had been to collect war spoils. About the same time of year: hazy sunlight and stiletto winds. What was it with war treasures and war crims? South Africa and Brazil, the fences’ auction grounds. And the crims, they loved these places to hide away, the vicious ones, the ones with blood on their teeth.
9:35. This wasn’t going right. They should have been here already. Take off for the Cape Town flight was at 10:00. He glanced across the passengers gathered at the departure gate, caught his colleague’s eye. His colleague Jakob, also wearing a beige raincoat, shook his head, gave a Germanic shrug. The two men sat it out another fifteen minutes until the flight was called, each watching the people hurrying to queue. No Max Roland and his bodyguard, Mace Bishop.
The plan was that Max Roland should recognise them at this point. Let him know that he was a wanted man. He hadn’t noticed Jakob in the international arrivals hall because he hadn’t been meant to. But here they wanted to surprise him. Remind him it was time for justice.
When most of the passengers had boarded, Kalle and Jakob checked in.
‘They were booked on this flight,’ said Jakob, ‘definitely.’ He and Kalle started down the walkway to the plane. ‘Perhaps he has taken an earlier flight. Or he will take a later one. But this is no worry, no. Max Roland cannot disappear.’
The cabin attendants welcomed them, directed the two men to their separate seats towards the back of the aircraft.
‘This would have been better,’ said Jakob as they negotiated the aisle, bumping against people trying to squash major luggage into the overhead lockers. ‘Let him know we are not far away.’
Kalle’s seat was in the last row. He took off his raincoat, folded it inside out, stowed it. Dropped a book onto his seat. Jakob was a good man to work with. Only problem he talked too much. With relief Kalle picked up his book, sat and buckled up. Leaned his head back, closed his eyes. Heard a voice say in Swedish that he was from Malmo. What a coincidence to have a fellow citizen next to him. Kalle said, ‘Hej,’ but didn’t open his eyes.
35
Magnus Oosthuizen read the piece on the Dinsmor kidnapping in the newspaper, thought having Max Roland in the hands of Mace Bishop did not seem a good idea. He called out to Priscilla in the kitchen for more coffee. ‘Strong, hey. Three spoons.’ Then he reached for his phone. Before he could key in Sheemina February’s number it rang, the name Sheemina February displayed.
‘Think of the devil,’ he said. ‘And there she is.’
‘How very biblical, Magnus. And why were you thinking of me?’
‘Because I am reading the newspaper. Reading about your man Mace Bishop. A walking disaster it appears. I cannot believe you recommended him.’
Sheemina February laughed. ‘He has a little problem but nothing to worry you.’<
br />
‘It worries me that he is looking after my very important colleague. It should worry you as well.’
‘It doesn’t, Magnus. Your colleague is in good hands. Really. Now. I have news for you.’
Oosthuizen sat back while Priscilla placed a mug of coffee on his desk blotter. ‘Two sugars?’ he said to her. She nodded. To Sheemina February he said, ‘I am not appeased.’ He lifted the mug of coffee, blew at the surface. Let a silence develop.
‘Magnus.’
He didn’t respond.
‘Magnus.’
Oosthuizen sipped at the coffee, the heat scorching his tongue.
‘Magnus. Listen to me.’
‘I’m listening,’ he said.
‘Good. Now.’
Oosthuizen called out. ‘Priscilla, more sugar, man.’ He could hear Chin-chin yapping somewhere. ‘And let the dog in, asseblief.’ To Sheemina February said, ‘What is the matter?’
‘Magnus,’ she said. ‘Focus. Listen to me. The weapons system committee tell me they can hear your presentation tomorrow morning. They want to move on this matter. They want to make a decision.’
‘So suddenly.’ He spooned sugar into his mug from the bowl Priscilla placed on the desk. ‘The dog,’ he said to her. ‘Please.’ Waving her off with his fingers.
‘I know,’ Sheemina February was saying. ‘After all these months, why the urgency now? I don’t know. I can’t answer that. All I can tell you is that now is the moment.’
‘Alright,’ said Oosthuizen. He stirred his coffee, not speaking while he tinkled the spoon round and round the mug.
‘Magnus,’ said Sheemina February. ‘Can you make that?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘No. But can you make it?’
Oosthuizen slurped at the instant coffee. Swallowed a mouthful, the hot liquid burning his gullet. He sucked air. ‘This is very sudden.’
‘I’m doing my best for you here,’ said Sheemina February.
‘It’s not up to me,’ said Oosthuizen. ‘It depends on Max Roland, if he can finish the programme. And your man, Mace Bishop. If he can keep Max safe.’
Sheemina February sighed. ‘Magnus, Magnus, Magnus. Lean on them, Magnus. Your Max Roland and Mace Bishop. This is your moment.’
Magnus Oosthuizen heard Chin-chin skittering across the wooden floors, yelping. He shouted to the dog in Afrikaans ‘Come here, come here,’ making kissing noises. To Sheemina February he said, ‘You can tell the committee I shall be there.’
He thumbed her off as she was saying, ‘I already have, Magnus. I already have.’
Oosthuizen reached down for the dog, lifted it onto his lap.
So this woman Sheemina February had the right contacts. Impressive. ‘What d’you think, Chin-chin?’ he said. ‘The gods of fortune are smiling.’
36
Veronica Dinsmor woke with a headache vicious enough to make her groan. She swung her legs out of the bed, sat on the edge, peering at the room. Wooden walls, maps and photographs pinned to them. Interior wooden shutters at the window. A shelf of books, a shelf of shells and old bottles. A pedestal with a reading lamp. Nothing fancy. The linen on the bed white, well washed, worn. An en-suite bathroom opposite her.
She dry-retched, wanted to puke and pee, just wasn’t sure in which order.
‘Oh God,’ she said, rushing to the bowl, thrust her head in, kecked, almost peed herself doing it. White strokes of pain slammed against her temples. When they eased she sat on the loo, a taste of metal in her mouth, putting things together.
Enough light to make it morning.
Birdsong. Seagulls.
Waves.
No gag. No ties around her wrists or ankles.
She remembered the balaclavaed man, the shooting of Zuki and Kortboy. Such a casual shooting. Such hopeless young men.
The man tapping the syringe, the needle going in.
Her stomach knotted, heaved, she spat bile between her legs.
Compared with this, Colombia had been a cakewalk.
Veronica kicked away her underwear, wiped, and flushed the toilet. Lent over the basin tap to drink water from the palm of her hand. Mouthful after mouthful until it made her giddy. She straightened, steadied herself against the walls.
Above the basin was a window, drawn across it sun-filter curtains patterned with seabirds. She moved aside the curtain, looked out through gratings on scrub and sand, a flat plain sloping upwards to distant hills. Blue sky behind them. An infinite blue of freedom. It made her heart ache, made her think of Silas. Had they demanded ransom? What was Silas thinking? Doing? Where was he? Made her think of her coming granddaughter. Would she ever see her? She gripped the basin, closed her eyes, tried to clear her head.
Useless thoughts. Tormenting thoughts.
She went back to the bedroom, opened the shutters. Gratings on the window, the same view: not a sign of the human world. Veronica Dinsmor, the optimistic Dancing Rabbit, collapsed groaning on the bed. She stank. She could smell herself. With the fear and the sweat her clothes stank worse than she did. She could have wept with despair.
She didn’t hear the door open, only looked up at the woman’s voice.
‘May I suggest you take a shower, then we can talk.’ An extremely striking, beautiful woman. ‘Oh, yes, there’s a hairdryer in the pedestal drawer. Your suitcase is under the bed.’ The woman smiled with her lips only, closed the door. Veronica heard the key turn.
After her shower, Veronica, in jeans and a roll-neck jersey, sat on the bed wondering, what now? She ran her tongue over her teeth, no fur, the taste of peppermint toothpaste in her mouth. She could smell coffee, toast. Enough to make her mouth juices run.
She tried the door handle. It was unlocked, the door opened into a short passageway cluttered with bicycles, fishing rods, paddles. To the left another bedroom, to the right an open-plan lounge and kitchen. The woman in an apron at the stove talking on her cellphone, saying goodbye.
‘Come through,’ she said, beckoning with a gloved hand waving a spatula, ‘you must be hungry. I’m Sheemina February, by the way. Excuse the mess. All belongs to the previous owners. Not my style at all.’
Sheemina February watched Veronica Dinsmor come hesitantly into the room. Glance around. If the woman wanted a weapon she had her pick: the metal fire poker, the axe next to the pile of logs, the small anchor propped against the wall, even the eland’s jawbone that served as an ornament on the mantelpiece.
‘Come. Take a seat.’ Sheemina February indicating the table laid for two. ‘There’s coffee in the Bialetti. Help yourself.’
‘Where am I?’ said Veronica Dinsmor.
‘On holiday.’ Sheemina February held up a box of eggs. ‘Not far from Cape Town actually. On what we call the west coast. The wild west. From that sand dune’ – she indicated with the spatula through the window to the dunes that rose not far from the house – ‘you can see the city and the mountain. On a bright day like this, something to behold.’ She smiled. ‘How do you like your eggs? Sunny side up? Poached? Scrambled?’
‘Poached,’ said Veronica Dinsmor. ‘If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind. It’s why I asked.’
Sheemina February broke four eggs into poaching cups, turned up the gas ring. ‘Toast?’
‘Thank you.’
Slid two pieces of bread into the electric toaster. The woman sat at the table, taking the place facing the sea. Poured herself a short coffee. No milk. No sugar. A connoisseur, a good sign to Sheemina February. A cool customer.
After she’d swallowed it in an Italian-style single hit Veronica Dinsmor said, ‘What’s going on?’ Like that, as if she hadn’t gone through the rough end, been smacked around, seen men shot dead. Very cool.
‘Money,’ said Sheemina February. ‘That’s what’s going on. It’s all that’s going on. The only game in town, as they say.’
‘How much?’
The toaster popped.
‘Can’t say, exactly. How long’s a piece of stri
ng? Thing is this, Veronica, you and Silas are an interesting couple. Bold. Entrepreneurial. Which is good. Except this is our patch and there are certain protocols. So I thought we could talk about your prospects, your portfolio, see how we might work things out to our mutual benefit.’ She tested the eggs with the flat of a knife blade. ‘Slightly runny or hard?’
‘Not hard.’
‘Then butter up some toast.’
Sheemina February kept on talking while she dished the eggs, telling Veronica how much she knew of the Dinsmors’ American casinos, their plans to invest in the local gaming industry. Help initiate casino developments in the townships, build gambling palaces in the desperate rural areas.
‘All of which is good. Laudable.’ She sat down opposite the American. ‘What I’m not getting is why you thought to cut us out.’
Veronica Dinsmor ate her way through one piece of toast and a poached egg. Saying through a mouthful. ‘Sorry. I’ve got to eat.’
‘Be my guest.’
After dabbing at her lips with a paper serviette, Veronica said, ‘You weren’t cut out. You weren’t in it.’
‘Here’s the problem. We should’ve been. You should’ve found out about us. Talked to us.’
‘Who’re you?’
Sheemina February swallowed a mouthful. Leaned back. Nodding her head, smiling to herself. Who’re you? The woman had balls, as she’d been told. She liked that. She could handle a woman with balls.
‘More coffee?’ Without waiting for an answer emptied the Bialetti into Veronica’s cup. ‘I’ll make another.’ While she did, explained she was a lawyer by profession, a director of companies by inclination, companies with mining interests, property developments, also looking to venture into the gaming business with a consortium of black businesspeople. What was known as a black economic empowerment consortium. BEE, for short. If you wanted to see it from a historical perspective, the rightful owners of the country taking back what the settlers had stolen during three hundred years of blah di blah enslavement, degradation, impoverishment, rape, murder, name any horror you like, even genocide.