Spy Games

by Adam Brookes

  Rocky raised his eyebrows, shook his head and sighed.

  Two SUVs waited outside the club. Mangan was escorted to one, Rocky to the other.

  Mangan began the standard remonstration.

  “Please show me some identification.”

  Spectacles said nothing, just gestured to the car. A knot of curious boys watched from beneath a street lamp furred with insects.

  “I am an accredited journalist here. You have no right to… where are you taking me?”

  But there were more of them now and Spectacles just nodded with his chin and Mangan found himself held by the arms, given a gratuitous shove into the side of the car and then rammed into the back seat. Spectacles got in with Mangan, sat in the front, gestured silently to the driver. The cars pulled away in the cool night, bumping onto Jomo Kenyatta Street and then on to the northeast, to the outskirts of Addis.

  Mangan watched the city lights fall away to darkness, felt the shimmer of fear in his stomach and tried to plan what he’d say. They drove for forty minutes, through a district of new, scattershot construction, lamps burning on the building sites amid the wooden scaffolding, mud as far as he could see.

  Occasionally Spectacles muttered to the driver and they sped up, or slowed down. Once they stopped by the side of the road and turned the lights off, waited for three or four minutes, before proceeding. Spectacles murmured into his phone. He wasn’t speaking Amharic, Mangan noticed.

  The car pulled off the highway at nearly two in the morning, into a gated community of villas, great yellow monstrosities arrayed along broad avenues, home to politicians, businessmen, athletes. The driver craned his neck, searched for the right gate, then turned into a curved driveway and parked. Spectacles climbed from the front seat, walked around and opened Mangan’s door, gesturing for him to step out. Mangan smelled rain and eucalyptus. Spectacles took his arm, walked him to the villa’s front door, where Blue Suit waited. They went inside.

  Mangan was ushered into a brightly lit living room with a faux chandelier, tiled floor, beige leather sofas, glass tables with elaborately carved legs, and ornate heavy curtains, pink, with swags and tails. Rocky was already there, sitting on one of the vast sofas, his fingers tapping lightly on a cushion, composed, alert. Mangan caught his eye and Rocky blinked slowly as if to acknowledge and reassure him.

  Mangan felt his mouth thick, pasty; a weakness, featheriness to his hands, legs.

  This is how it works.

  Silent men in hideous rooms, waiting for it all to start.

  Blue Suit made a patting gesture with his hand in the air, indicating Mangan should sit. The four of them, Rocky, Mangan, Spectacles, Blue Suit, faced each other over the glass coffee tables. The other one, the older grizzled one, stood by the door, still, watchful.

  Blue Suit raised his hands then let them fall onto his lap, as if to say, Well, here we all are then, at last. He cleared his throat, spoke in English, a mid-range rasp.

  “So. Mr. Mangan. Mr. Shi. We have things to talk about.”

  Silence. He spoke again.

  “Mr. Shi. Perhaps you can tell us what brings you to Ethiopia?”

  Rocky was sitting forward on the sofa, eager to oblige, his most ingratiating smile ramped up to high.

  “Of course, yes. I can tell all about it. But, please, perhaps you can tell us first who you are and why you bring us here?” He nodded, a vision of expectation. Mangan sat very still.

  Blue Suit waited for a moment.

  “Mr. Shi, we are just old revolutionaries from Tigray. You know Tigray? That is where we are from.”

  He made a circle in the air with his forefinger to indicate himself and his comrades. “All of us from Tigray.”

  He stopped, sighed.

  “And we fought in our revolution, just like in China. We fought our way down from the mountains of Tigray. Years, it took us. Years. And we took Addis in our sandals and shorts! And we threw out the Dergue, the military dictator. We try to build a new Ethiopia. An open, stable Ethiopia. Maybe an Ethiopia where people don’t starve, leave their children by the road for the hyena. Maybe we even try for a slice of prosperity. Who knows, maybe Africans can have a little slice. The right Africans. Maybe we allow ourselves to expect it a little.”

  He stopped.

  They are NISS, thought Mangan. They are intelligence officers hardened in war and insurrection and feared across East Africa. He tried to steady his breathing, to calm himself.

  A door had opened at the far end of the room and a girl entered carrying a tray, glasses, a bottle of something that could be cognac. She walked across to the coffee tables and set the tray down. She was slender, wore tight white jeans, a halter top, dark circles around her eyes. Blue Suit looked at the bottle but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Dangerous, such expectations, for Africans. Prosperity, stability. But then we look at China and we think, see what these fellows have done!”

  Rocky, on cue, nodded appreciatively.

  In Mangan’s mind, fear gave way to anger for a split second. What is this fucking charade? But flickering on the edge of his consciousness was the knowledge that they might kill him.

  “Yes!” said Blue Suit. “You understand, Mr. Shi! Your country and mine are so much the same. China was never colonized. Not completely. Nor was Ethiopia. You brought down an emperor. So did we. You had your revolution, your terror. So did we. Now China is prosperous, powerful. And we think… well, maybe. So, you understand.”

  Blue Suit now turned to Mangan and his look was of utter contempt.

  “But you, Mr. Mangan. Maybe you do not understand so much.”

  He sat back, laced his fingers on his stomach, as if his point had been made.

  Now Spectacles spoke, blunt, humorless.

  “Please tell us, Mr. Shi, what brings you to Ethiopia.”

  Rocky held his hand in front of his mouth for a second, then spoke as if from a prospectus.

  “I represent a small investment fund, located in the Chinese city of Kunming. We are looking for opportunities. Opportunities that can bring great benefit to our partners. We believe that Ethiopia is a country full of opportunity and that Chinese capital investment, conducted wisely, can help Ethiopia down the path to the prosperity—”

  Spectacles, bored, cut him off.

  “What sort of opportunities are you pursuing?”

  “We look at real estate, and infrastructure, and perhaps ventures in the leather and garment industries.”

  “Tell us, please, the extent of the assets at your disposal.”

  “I am authorized to consider and submit proposals for investments up to and including twelve million dollars.”

  Spectacles did not respond, looked over at Blue Suit.

  “And Mr. Mangan here,” said Blue Suit, waving idly in Mangan’s direction. “Is he a partner, or adviser in your enterprise? What is he?”

  Rocky affected surprise.

  “Mr. Mangan is a journalist who shows great interest in China’s new partnerships in Ethiopia. Very smart reporter.”

  “You spend a lot of time together.”

  Rocky spoke slowly now, carefully.

  “We talk a lot about China’s interests in Ethiopia.”

  Blue Suit turned to Mangan.

  “Is this correct, Mr. Mangan? You are reporting on Mr. Shi’s enterprise here? You are just a reporter.”

  “Yes,” said Mangan, but the word caught as it came out, and he had to clear his throat and try again. “Yes, that’s right. I am very interested in the way Mr. Shi is going to make his investment decisions, and I intend to write about it.”

  Blue Suit regarded him.

  “Yes, I see. And is that all you intend? You have never considered going into a partnership of some sort with Mr. Shi? The two of you together?”

  “No.” Mangan swallowed. “Though I must admit, sometimes the prospect of leaving journalism and trying something new is tempting.” Rocky was looking at him hard.

  Blue Suit raised his hands in accla
mation.

  “Of course. And you could bring all your expertise to such an enterprise. Have you told Mr. Shi how unpredictable Ethiopia can be, Mr. Mangan? That we are not a country with a mature, well-developed legal system? That sometimes problems can arise, things can… go astray, here. People, too.”

  Christ. Sack the scriptwriter, thought Mangan, absurdly.

  Spectacles was nodding gravely. The door across the room opened again and the girl walked in. She held a small clay brazier, gingerly, by its edges. She stopped and looked questioningly at Blue Suit, who waved her over. They all watched as she laid the brazier down on the floor. Embers glowed within it. She left the room again, and then was back with a coffee jug and coffee beans on a skillet.

  “Some coffee,” said Blue Suit.

  The girl squatted, awkward in her tight jeans and heels. She placed the skillet on the brazier and let the beans start to roast. She moved them around with the little rake. She reached in a pocket and brought out a twist of paper, opened it and allowed flakes of incense to fall into the brazier. The room filled with the smell of roasting coffee beans and gray flecks of incense that the girl idly wafted toward the watching men.

  Blue Suit shifted in his seat, impatient.

  “So, do you not feel, Mr. Mangan, Mr. Shi, that any bold person who seeks opportunity in Ethiopia would benefit from the partnership of local people? A guiding hand, a friend to advise, to warn. Do you not think?”

  Rocky appeared to be pondering the question.

  “Maybe I can see that. Yes, maybe I can.”

  “Yes, why not?” said Blue Suit. He had raised his voice and was looking at Spectacles, who nodded. “What do you think, Mr. Mangan? Do you agree?”

  “Well, I am just a journalist and I am not experienced in these matters.”

  Blue Suit responded with animation and a rigid smile, which seemed to Mangan to have, churning just below its surface, cold fury. The girl was grinding the coffee beans now, in a mortar and pestle, keeping her eyes down, working with a tension and rigidity to her movement that spoke of fright.

  “Certainly not!” yelled Blue Suit. “Surely there must be a role for you!”

  Mangan felt the atmosphere in the room as balanced on the point of a knife, teetering just above violence. Rocky stepped in.

  “Perhaps you can suggest who is suitable local partner for investment enterprise such as mine,” he said.

  “Well, we know many people,” said Blue Suit. “Trustworthy people. People we are tied to.”

  Spectacles spoke.

  “Your wife. Why not?”

  Blue Suit feigned astonishment.

  “My wife?” He turned to Rocky. “Very able woman. She does business in Dubai. Buys and sells, currency and gold. She charters aeroplanes to bring in the chat. She is there now, doing business. Very capable.”

  “I’m sure she can bring much to the table,” said Rocky.

  “Oh, yes, she would. Most certainly.”

  The girl was standing, pouring coffee into tiny cups. When she offered one to Blue Suit, her hand shook. Blue Suit took the coffee, then sat up suddenly, as if another thought had occurred to him. He spoke fast and Mangan heard nothing but threat.

  “And of course, I, we, can guide you as well. Ensure you are properly protected from the problems that can arise in an immature market. We can give you guarantees. Who would not want such guarantees, Mr. Shi? Who?”

  “Such guarantees sound attractive from risk mitigation standpoint,” said Rocky.

  “Yes, yes. Risk mitigation.” Blue Suit turned to Mangan. “Think of the benefits, Mr. Mangan. For everybody. Even you. We can get some benefits for you.”

  The girl was offering Mangan a cup of coffee, and Blue Suit leaned forward and put his hand on her flank, ran it up and down the inside of her thigh. She stood still.

  “What about her? You have her as a benefit. Yes? Want a taste?”

  Mangan tried to appease him, holding up his hands.

  “Thank you. Perhaps another time,” he said.

  “She doesn’t mind.” Blue Suit put his hand on the girl’s buttock and shoved her and she staggered toward Mangan, began to topple into his lap, then caught herself, spilling the coffee down his front. Mangan felt her hair against his face, smelled the sweat from her underarms. Blue Suit began shouting.

  “Go. The bedroom is there. Go, go.”

  Mangan said nothing, put a hand on the girl’s arm to help her stand upright. She looked at him, tried to smile an inviting smile, reached for his hand.

  This is how it works. The ambiguous threat, the humiliation. In the vile room, by the men who’ve done it a thousand times before.

  “What is his name, Mr. Mangan?” said Spectacles.

  Mangan didn’t understand, the girl pulling at his hand.

  “What is his name?” Spectacles repeated.

  “I… whose name?”

  “His.” Blue Suit was pointing at Rocky.

  “Shi. You know his name. You used it.”

  “If,” said Blue Suit, his voice raised again, urgent, “if we are to go into business with someone, we must be confident of their identity. What is his name?”

  Rocky sat mute, blinking. Mangan struggled for an answer.

  “Shi. Shi is his surname and I know him by his English name, Rocky.”

  Spectacles was rubbing his chin.

  “It says on his passport that his name is Shi Haining. Is that his real name?”

  “I must confess, I don’t know his Chinese given name. I just know him as Rocky.”

  Spectacles looked surprised. Blue Suit shook his head.

  “But you are such good friends.”

  The girl had let go of his hand and just stood there, miserable. Mangan started to speak, but Spectacles talked over him.

  “You were in China before you came to Ethiopia, Mr. Mangan. Is that right? You were a reporter there?”

  Mangan swallowed. I was a reporter, until the world split open and I fell through the fissure.

  “Yes. I was based in Beijing.”

  “Did you know Mr. Shi when you were in China?”

  “No. No, I did not.”

  “What other work did you do in China?”

  “None. I was a journalist.”

  “No collaborations there? No business?”

  Mangan thought of a cold, shabby hotel room, the taps in the bathroom turned on to beat the listening devices, a flash drive disguised as a car key, passed from hand to hand. A tingle of alarm. Jesus Christ, what do they know?

  “No, none.”

  “So you met Mr. Shi here in Ethiopia, yes? Where did you meet, please?”

  Rocky spoke.

  “We met in the beautiful city of Harer.”

  “In Harer. Is that right, Mr. Mangan? Please?”

  “Yes, we met in Harer. I was on a trip there.”

  “So you were.” Spectacles shrugged. “But we are puzzled, you see, because we did not ever see you meet with Mr. Shi in Harer. So we were wondering when you did so.”

  Mangan exhaled quietly, tried for calm.

  “You were following my movements in Harer?”

  Blue Suit looked at him.

  “What of it?”

  “Well, I am a reporter. I work openly. There is no need to follow me.”

  Blue Suit was bristling.

  “Tell us when you met Mr. Shi. Please.”

  “I went for a walk. Late at night. I left my guest house and walked through the old city, and I met him then. We got talking.” Rocky was nodding in agreement.

  “I see. And the girl who works in the guest house. Fatima, her name. She will confirm this, will she? If we ask her?”

  Panic, rising, fomenting in the base of his stomach.

  “I’m sure she will,” he said.

  Blue Suit stared. There was silence in the room. Then he stood, put his hands in his pockets.

  “Let us hope so,” he said.

  There was movement in the room now. Spectacles stood and gestured
to Mangan and Rocky. The girl started clearing away the cups. Blue Suit approached Mangan, stood close to him, studied him. Mangan saw the pores in his face, smelled his breath.

  “If you are some sort of amateur, Mr. Mangan, this is not the place for you.”

  “I don’t know what…”

  But he was turning away, making a dismissive gesture. Mangan glimpsed Rocky’s back disappearing into a hallway. Spectacles took Mangan by the arm and walked him from the room, out of the villa, to the car.

  In the silver wash of the screen, Patterson watched the pulsing red orb leave the villa complex and turn onto the road back to Addis Ababa, its progress through the grid squares picking up pace. She reflected on the fact that Mangan’s handheld had not been turned off, but continued to broadcast his position, suggesting that his unscheduled jaunt out of the city in the dead of night aboard an unknown vehicle was voluntary. Or, if it wasn’t, that his unidentified captors were quite happy for the circumstances of his abduction to be visible to whomever might be watching. She had resisted the temptation to call Mangan and ask him what the hell was going on. She had persuaded London to restrain themselves similarly.

  Now she watched the red orb float quickly across the map, heading back to the city.

  But then the orb slowed, and hesitated. Patterson leaned into the screen. The vehicle appeared to be turning off the highway. The little orb pulsed, motionless.

  The car had come to a halt on a building site. Spectacles told Mangan to get out, shoved him in the lower back. He stumbled across clods of earth, through rustling grassy weeds, in a clouded, diffuse moonlight. He was out of breath, panic weakening him, his movements infantile.

  This is how it works.

  “Stop,” said Spectacles.

  He stopped, breathing heavily, his thoughts spiraling out of control. Spectacles was several paces behind him.

  “Kneel down.”

  “Jesus Christ.”