Killer Country

by Mike Nicol

  ‘Maybe he did win the Lotto.’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe it’s something else, captain. You know, like a retainer. Cousin’s maybe an impimpi. Hotline to the fathers. I get that feeling sometimes on a job that the cops’re waiting.’ Manga leaned forward. ‘Passing first left.’

  ‘There are people like those,’ said Spitz.

  ‘Other thing. You got money you don’t show it. No fancy stuff. Cars, houses, jewellery. No, no no no, no. No, captain, you keep a low profile.

  ‘The turn is coming,’ said Spitz. On his lap he had an envelope and under it the Ruger, the can screwed on. The iPod in his pocket, the earphones round his neck. Wearing his brogues, black chinos, green golf shirt. ‘Go to the bottom, turn round and pull up so I am next to the curb.’ He worked his fingers into black leather gloves.

  Manga saluted. ‘Yes, captain.’

  ‘And switch off the car.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Off,’ said Spitz. He saw the house, number twenty-five, set back about twenty metres from the street. No fencing, low shrubs either side the path to the entrance porch. Open shutters at the windows, the curtains drawn. Lights at two windows and a light in the porch.

  Manga said, ‘Not a good idea, captain. Having the engine off.’

  ‘Off,’ said Spitz. ‘If you keep on the engine there will be faces at every window in the street.’ He racked the pistol. ‘Only when I tell you, must you switch on.’

  Manga made the turn in the close and came back to twenty-five, killed the engine. As far as he could tell, no one in the street. All the houses fronted onto it. Which was useful. ‘Feel free, captain,’ he said.

  Spitz got out. Scanned the street up and down, walked to the front door. He pressed the intercom, heard a bell chime. A woman opened the door. Not a detail he was expecting.

  ‘A delivery,’ he said. ‘For Mr Dlamini.’

  ‘I’ll give it to him.’ The woman held out her right hand for the envelope. In her left a glass of wine.

  ‘He must sign for it. That is my instruction.’

  The woman frowned. ‘That’s bullshit. I’ll give it to him. I’ll sign.’

  ‘Sorry ma’am.’ Spitz kept hold of the envelope with both hands.

  The woman swore. Shouted out, ‘Popo. Popo. You need to get this.’

  Popo called back that he was coming.

  The woman moved away from the door and Spitz stepped into the house, with his elbow pushing the door closed behind him. He followed her into the lounge. She stood there beside a coffee table, watching him, about two metres away, sipping at her wine. He could see the room opened onto a patio, and a man out there grilling meat over charcoal. The man flipped two steaks, took a drink from a bottle of beer. He came into the lounge carrying the meat tongs. Relaxed in shorts, bare feet.

  Spitz said, ‘Mr Dlamini?’

  Popo Dlamini said, ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Please to sign on the paper, sir.’

  Spitz fired as the man moved towards him. Brought his arm up to shoulder height, popped Popo Dlamini between the eyes. Popo Dlamini dropping backwards against a couch. Spitz swung left to shoot the woman and caught a glass of wine in his face. The woman jumping him. He kneed her crotch and pulled away, shot her once in the chest. Again in the face. Too close for comfort. He had blood on his golf shirt and splashes of wine. The stains looked the same.

  Spitz left the house, closing the front door with his hand bunched in his T-shirt. Lights had come on in one of the houses, a curtain shifted and a man looked out. Spitz got into the car. Manga had the engine on idle.

  ‘The engine is running,’ said Spitz.

  ‘For sure, captain. After three bloody shots.’ Manga eased off sedately from the curb, the man at the window still peering out.

  ‘You could not hear the shots.’

  ‘If you were listening for them, you could hear them. Pop. Pop pop.’

  Spitz hauled off his T-shirt, reached for another on the backseat.

  ‘I was contracted for one,’ he said. ‘Nobody told me about two.’

  ‘Two what?’

  ‘One, two.’

  ‘Right.’ Manga caught the drift. ‘Collateral. Shit happens.’

  ‘Shit does not happen,’ said Spitz. ‘My fee is for the hit. Anybody can add up: one and one is two: double fees. Obed Chocho owes me for another one.’

  Manga slowed down at the security gate. ‘You dressed for this?’

  Spitz adjusted the collar on the clean golf shirt. ‘No problem.’

  Manga said to the security guard, ‘We came in at the top. One Time Delivery.’

  The guard didn’t leave the security kiosk, waved them through.

  Manga took the forest road, playing cool, wishing Boom Shaka was booming through the sound system. Wishing too for a brandy and Coke, chased with a Black Label. Sitting in the dimness of the bar at the City Lodge, sport on the TV, men and women getting pissed left and right. Talking Kaizer Chiefs or Mamelodi Sundown, keeping an eye open for the good-time sisters, the young ones. He could do with that: a young one without tits. No fuzz. Smooth. Like after a job you get a virgin. Good for HIV. That gasp they make when you go in. Oh wena, baby. This wasn’t gonna happen here. One thing he knew: driving Spitz didn’t add up to the best time of his life.

  Spitz on the cell to Sheemina February said, ‘There was not enough detail that you gave me.’

  ‘How’s that?’ she said, not asking anything about the job.

  ‘I am charging my rates for the head. Not for the job.’

  ‘I’m not with you, Spitz. What’re you on about?’

  ‘The woman.’

  ‘There was a woman?’

  Spitz thought, you are lying to me. Said, ‘Yes. A surprise for me and for her. But maybe it wasn’t a surprise for you.’

  A pause. Sheemina February coming in with, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow we can talk about it. Nothing to get steamed about, Spitz.’

  Before Spitz could reply, she disconnected.

  Manga said, ‘Not good.’

  ‘The problem in this business,’ said Spitz, ‘is you never know what is the true story. For most of the time I do not care. I do not care now. Only I get angry when someone wants a job done without paying.’

  He searched in his pocket for his iPod. Felt round his neck for his headphones, the wires dangling. Spitz thought, Nein, donner! Said, ‘I have lost my music.’

  ‘Oh shit, captain,’ said Manga.

  ‘All that music.’

  Manga glanced at Spitz, shook his head. ‘No, captain, don’t even think it. You’n me, neither one’s going back.’

  Sunday

  19

  Lufthansa 301 came out of dense cloud at one thousand feet, lined up with Frankfurt’s north runway. Pitch black at six ten in the a.m., five minutes ahead of schedule. Rain sluicing down. Wonderful, Mace thought. An hour later he was in the air again on the Berlin connection, a Turkish Mädchen offering rolls and coffee. Which he accepted, his stomach gurgling. One thing: the coffee was as good as airlines could get it; the rolls fresh.

  This early on a Sunday morning only a few dozen people scattered around the cabin. Mace in a row to himself, grateful for the space after the cramp of the overnight long haul, shifted to the window seat, looked down on grey cloud that broke once revealing rectangles of brown farmland furrowed with snow.

  By seven forty-five he’d cleared Tegel and was in a taxi on the Stadtring, listening to tyres hiss against the wet road, thinking, the last time he’d met Isabella in Berlin was January 1989. Same sort of conditions only colder. Dirty snow then stamped on the pavements and lumpy under hedges.

  She’d turned a gun deal around for him. Afterwards, in the Kempinski, they’d screwed in the shower because the shower had black marble tiles that she found sexy. He hadn’t thought about Isabella for weeks, maybe a month. Her memory a sudden ache in his chest.

  He wondered if there’d be a time he’d no longer think of Isabella. He couldn’t imagine this would be. Only had to hear R
EM singing about the end of the world as they knew it, to see Isabella at the Café Adler coming in with the chorus. Her playful voice: and I feel fine. Isabella, sitting other side of the table, two empty espresso cups between them, saying, ‘Maybe I can oblige. Once again.’ And getting him the hardware just like that after a couple of phone calls. Talk about feeling fine. Across the road Check Point Charlie grim as it ever was. The two of them randy with triumph and laughter.

  He had to smile. Made the heartache of missing her even worse in a way. Maybe later he’d find a record shop, listen to the song again.

  At ten, after he’d showered in a shower with cream tiles, changed into a black polo neck and black jeans, Mace met Rudi Klett downstairs in the Kempinski’s breakfast room. Rudi Klett with the sleeves of his jacket hitched up to expose his forearms. A black Armani jacket, wool. Even in the desert Rudi Klett had worn jackets with the sleeves hiked to his elbow. Linen jackets in acknowledgement of the heat. Rudi Klett without a jacket was not a Rudi Klett Mace had ever seen.

  ‘You have a gun?’ Rudi Klett said when they’d greeted and done the hug and the backslap and Mace sat opposite him while a waiter spread a napkin across his lap.

  ‘How am I supposed to have a gun, Rudi?’ said Mace. ‘I’ve flown across the world. You can’t carry a gun on an aeroplane.’

  ‘Bah,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘that is nonsense. I have special permission for my fellows to do this. In the security business you must have such allowances too. Not so? There is no way to protect anybody otherwise.’

  ‘We manage. Nobody’s been shot yet.’

  ‘Yes of course but there is always a first time. Therefore as a precaution I have a present for you.’ Mace felt a package pushed against his shoe. ‘Bring it to the airport tomorrow. I promise there will be no problem at the check-in. In South Africa we walk straight through customs because who is going to have a gun coming off a plane? Obviously no one. Also it is a present you will want to keep. A P8. The army’s choice. An example of the excellence of German manufacture. We thank you Herr Heckler and Herr Koch. Regrettably I have to say it is second-hand but never fired out of anger. Or with fear. Something a connoisseur will appreciate, am I not correct?’

  ‘The gun or the sentiment?’

  Rudi Klett smiled. ‘Ah, my old friend Mace Bishop does not change.’

  The waiter shuffled to gain their attention. Mace glanced up at him, but the waiter’s face was bland as if he’d not heard a word they’d said. They both ordered continental breakfasts; Mace anticipating a fine array of hams and cheese.

  At the buffet bar, Rudi Klett said, ‘In South Africa there might be some interest in my name with the authorities. Which would be an inconvenience, you would agree? So I shall be travelling as Herr Wolfgang Schneider, a businessman from Siemens head office, Berlin. This is no problem, only a precaution.’

  Mace didn’t respond, from the old days used to Rudi Klett’s anonymous way of flitting about the world. In the old days he’d never travelled on the same passport twice. And clearly Klett enjoyed the thrill. Still, you had to believe the money was big for Klett to put himself on the line if it involved so much cloak and dagger.

  ‘The last time I was in your country,’ said Rudi Klett, his plate stacked with meat, cheese, a melon slice, a bunch of grapes, ‘was some years ago to facilitate the business with the frigates and the submarines. You should have stayed in the business, Mace. Not the small arms. That is pocket money. The big deals. You could have been useful, you and Pylon. We trusted you in the olden days. With these others we had to talk to we did not know them, we could not trust them.’

  ‘We were small fry,’ said Mace.

  ‘So what do small fry do, you have to lick the right backsides, and then you are not small fry anymore. But no, this is not the way of Mace Bishop and Pylon Buso. You had no ambition, Mace. Look at what you do now? Bodyguards. Instead of sitting at home with lots of money in the Cayman, you are here in Berlin to look after me. With this arms deal you could have made life easy for me, for your government, for yourself. No more worries for the rest of your life.’

  ‘But you’re worried,’ said Mace, lining a roll with parma ham and smearing a film of honey over the meat.

  ‘Cautious, my friend. Cautious.’ Rudi Klett cut his melon into cubes and sank his fork into the flesh. ‘Because I have to sign the documents personally for the development with Pylon, I have to come to South Africa. It is not a good time for me to come to South Africa. You know there is a presidential enquiry into the arms deal about the frigates and they want to talk to me. If they know I am in the country they will stop me from leaving. But.’ Delicately, unhurried, he lifted the fork and closed his mouth about the cube of melon. Dabbed at the corners of his lips with a serviette. ‘But I like to live dangerously.

  ‘My problem,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘is that I know everything about that arms deal. I watched the money. I know where it went. Who has got it. Sometimes this is an asset. Sometimes this is a liability. In your country it is a liability. In your country if I am killed I am just another victim of crime. A poor tourist, shot for his euros in the street. Anywhere I can be killed and it is just your crime problem. Something random. Something most unfortunate. This is so convenient a cover-up, you would agree?

  ‘I do not want to talk to your president’s commission. There are many other people in your country who do not want me to talk to your president’s commission. Especially the president. They know how I feel about keeping everything kosher but they cannot take the risk. At home I have a request I received for an interview. This is a letter from a judge, the chairman of the president’s commission. They will send someone here to Berlin to have a little discussion with me. If I would oblige. You have heard of this person, Judge Telman Visser?’

  Mace nodded, swallowed the food in his mouth. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘Ah so. Tell me?’ Rudi Klett wrapped a strip of gruyere in ham and bit off half of it.

  ‘I don’t know much. I only met him yesterday. Briefly.’

  Through the mouthful Rudi Klett said, ‘Is he government?’

  ‘Difficult to say.’ Mace shrugged. ‘He gave a big government man six years for corruption, so maybe not.’

  Rudi Klett looked up from his food. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He came to us because he’s spooked about the farm murders. He wants security for his parents.’

  ‘This is natural.’

  ‘Of course, they’re old. He’s worried. The way things are there’re fifteen, twenty, farm murders a month. You’re living with that sort of statistic you’re going to have someone calling sometime.’

  ‘The South African civil war.’

  ‘It’s good for the security business.’

  Rudi Klett laughed his hard Machiavellian laugh, reached out and clapped Mace on the shoulder. ‘Only arms traders can be so cynical.’ He broke a roll. Lifted a curl of butter from a silver dish and dabbed it on a piece. ‘So, then, your friend the judge is a good man to head a commission, you would agree?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Rudi Klett popped the piece of roll into his mouth. ‘With all these names and numbers in my head and many people that want this information to disappear forever, your judge is a good man for me to stay away from.’ He chewed and swallowed.

  ‘Not difficult,’ said Mace, ‘he’s in a wheelchair.’

  Rudi Klett raised his eyebrows but made no comment.

  When they’d finished eating and the waiter had brought them second espressos, Rudi Klett told Mace that he’d been sorry to hear about Isabella. In turn, Mace briefly told him the story, leaving out the drug deal and the gun deal, keeping it simple to a love triangle. Hubby shoots wife to get out of the marriage so he can marry his squeeze, hopes the murder will be lost in the general mayhem.

  ‘My point,’ said Rudi Klett. ‘You want to kill anybody you take them to South Africa. Bam. Sounds like it’s part of the background noise.’

  ‘Except
not this time,’ said Mace. ‘The guy’s sitting. Life. Which means what, ten, fifteen years? When he comes out the brother, Isabella’s brother’s, got a contract on him. Wants him whacked as part of the background noise.’

  ‘That is what I like, a little bit of revenge.’ Rudi Klett stood, pointed at the package underneath the table. ‘Don’t forget the present.’

  Mace retrieved it and the two men shook hands.

  ‘Tonight,’ said Rudi Klett, ‘do not make arrangements. I will show you something that will interest you. Shall we say eight o’clock? Yes? Until then enjoy Berlin. You will find the city has put on make-up but underneath we are the same whores.’ He laughed, and Mace watched him walk out, draping his coat around his shoulders in the European way. Always reminded Mace of Count Dracula.

  20

  Fifteen minutes late for his appointment with Popo Dlamini, Pylon drove through the ornate entrance, stopped the Merc at the security gatehouse of the golf estate. He recognised one of the guards on duty. Couldn’t remember his name though.

  ‘Mr Buso,’ the man greeted him. ‘Didn’t know you were a white ball addict?’

  Pylon shook his head. ‘You didn’t know because I’m not.’ He slipped his shades down his nose, looked at the security man over the top. ‘You worked for us, yeah?’

  ‘Couple of years back’

  ‘And this is more exciting?’

  ‘Free golf. Get to see the rich and famous too, and I don’t have to take so much of their crap.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  He handed Pylon a clipboard: name, host, vehicle registration, time in, time out. Said, ‘Who’re you seeing?’

  Pylon told him Popo Dlamini.

  While Pylon filled in the daily sheet, the security man put through a call to Popo Dlamini.

  ‘No answer,’ he said, taking back the clipboard.

  Pylon checked his watch. ‘Must be there. I’m not that late.’

  ‘Probably he’s out, talking to a neighbour,’ the security man said. ‘This is the crap we have to deal with. People know they have an appointment, so they leave the house and sit in the club bar or chat up women on the fairway. Makes them important when we come looking for them. Black guys are the worst.’