by Mike Nicol
Vicki looked round, recognised the champagne bar, Bubbles.
‘In the shopping mall.’
‘Dreadful place.’
‘My phone …’
‘Don’t worry about the listeners. bnd types. Our business does not interest them. Just did not want their stopping by for a chat with you in Berlin. Oh dear, oh dear. No time for that.’ Heard Henry snort. ‘Right, now. Time for our chat. Find somewhere comfy, Vicki. Funny thing, you know, Detlef loved Schiphol. Said it was designed by spies. All those little snuggeries where you can have a quiet chat. Find a little snuggery, Vicki, so we can have a quiet chat. That was the thing about Detlef, never got past the secret agent phase. Never outgrew it. Guy gets to be seventy-something and keeps on playing spy vs spy. Loved the cloak and dagger, he did. Not my forte. But Detlef mainlined adrenalin. Could not get enough of sneaking around, felt right at home in the shadows. What I would not want to know about Detlef is how many people he killed. A fair number, I would wager. Even some children among them. And one or two elderly citizens. Bad as those CIA tourists. The black book missionaries. How are you doing there, Vicki, settled yet?’
Vicki slipping onto a three-seater couch. A businessman up the other end, tapping away at his iPad. Said, ‘I’m sitting.’
‘Good, good. Take the weight off your feet. Poor old Detlef. Always thought it might come to this. What goes around comes around, does it not? Just thought it would happen a lot earlier. Trust he refrained from touching you up? Women colleagues were always on about dirty Detlef. Cannot imagine how your aunt managed. So,
Vicki. How are you? Not too flustered by this little inconvenience?’ Vicki wanted to tell him corpses didn’t turn her on. Corpses made her really nervous. So did getting out of cities with the hounds at her heels. Wanted to say, I’m tired, Henry, can you let me get to a hotel? Instead said, ‘What’s happening?’ A resignation in her question.
Which Henry Davidson picked up. ‘Now, now Vicki, no flagging. Got to keep up with this. Cannot have you fading on us. Eat some chocolate. Lindt. The one with orange or ginger. Good for a boost. That and a strong black coffee. Double espresso. Macchiato. Whatever your poison. In no time have you twinkling in our firmament. Work to be done, Vicki. Need to be on point, on message, sharp-sharp as they say in the streets of Soweto. Alright, Vicki. A for away are we?’
Vicki thinking, get on with it. Henry always exhaling words like smoke. Could imagine him in his flat wherever it was, somewhere under Devil’s Peak. One of those old blocks: parquet floors, pressed-metal ceilings, teak windows. Faint smell of drain cleaner. Dust motes in the sunlight. Henry in his faux-leather recliner. Big-band swing twitching his foot. Newspapers on the floor. Schooner of sherry to hand.
‘What’s happening is this. Our friend Linda Nchaba …’ Henry paused.
Last seen drugged, being wheeled away by medics, Vicki filled in silently. Right here. Right over there next to the tie shop. At the time Henry Davidson’s voice in her head telling her, move on, don’t get involved.
‘Well, she is in our care. A tad obstreperous. Your job to bring her home.’
Vicki stared out the window, the dark closing in. Snow still in mounds on the aprons, piled against the terminal buildings. Remembered a frightened Linda Nchaba sitting right here on these couches. Scared shitless.
‘You told me she was on another flight to Paris.’
‘Admittedly.’
‘Now you’re telling me we’ve got her?’
‘Yes.’
Realising, this was an Agency operation. What Henry Davidson had in mind all along. Said, ‘You planned this?’
‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’
‘Jesus, Henry, thanks for letting me know.’ Vicki thinking maybe this wasn’t her scene, this shadow work. At least the law was codes, procedures, protocols. This was duplicity. Everybody running hidden agendas. Maybe she should go back. Law had a kind of honesty.
Recalled Henry Davidson saying once in another world: ‘Out there in the field, you are down a rabbit hole, you do not want to know everything, you do not want to know what is going on. Better you do not. Better you let your handler work the bigger picture.’
Heard Henry Davidson, ‘Vicki, listen. Listen to me.’
Broke in, ‘She’s okay?’
‘Fine. Fine. She’s fine. Been a rough couple of days for her but she’s fine. As I said, as I was told, quite lippy.’
‘And she wants to go home? She has changed her mind?’
‘Ummm. Now this is the crux, you see.’
Vicki waited. Sitting there on the couch next to the guy poking at his iPad. Beyond them the world and their business rushing from terminal to terminal. At Bubbles people drinking champagne. Lovers waiting for connections to sea and sun. To the promise of paradise.
‘We need you to convince her coming home is the right way to handle this. Get her on board. On side. That kind of thing.’
‘She’s not going to do that. She’s frightened.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘You drugged her. Kidnapped her.’
‘We. I prefer the first-person plural. More precise, more inclusive, would you not agree? Allows us to include the help. And no need to get all uppity, Vicki. The world is what it is.’
‘So what do I give her?’
‘Protection. Promises. Possibilities.’
‘Oh, that’ll do it. She’ll love that. Protection from what? From who? What promises? What possibilities?’
‘That pigs have wings. I cannot say, Vicki. Let us talk when you get there. More I cannot say. Don’t need to bore our listeners with domestic matters.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yes, yes, I think so. Word of advice: sell yourself, Vicki. Sell yourself. Convince her. She comes home with you, her whole world changes. For the better. Now. Quick Skype so I can give you an address. Then it’s up to you. All in your hands. No pressure of course.’
Vicki getting his snicker, snicker. Disconnected. Gave a long sigh.
The iPad tapper glanced over, smiled. ‘You are waiting for a connection?’
‘Always,’ said Vicki, opening her netbook. Thought, if she was a gambling girl, how much’d she wager on Linda Nchaba going home? Not a helluva lot.
‘We could have a drink while we wait, perhaps?’
Vicki glanced from the address Henry had sent, to the man in transit. ‘Love to. Next time.’
Decided two to one against.
52
Fish was thinking, amazing things, bullets. Tapped one on his kitchen table: 9×19mm parabellum, size of his first thumb joint. Life-changers, these little bits of lead.
He’d seen people shot. And die. People he didn’t know. People he did. His one-time partner Mullet Mendes, for instance, shot in a car park at night. He’d been made to watch from a distance. Some gangster bastard sitting beside him with a gun in his ear. Titus somebody. The anger of just sitting there. The helplessness. Seeing the muzzle flashes.
Then there’d been Vicki’s shooting. He hadn’t seen that. Had heard when she’d opened the front door, the retort, her scream. The after silence.
Now Joey Curtains. The shooters waiting for him to pitch. Fully in the know about where Joey Curtains was going to be when. Riding up to him. Pop. Pop, pop. Riding off.
Shootings didn’t distress Fish. They upset him. Riled him. Especially when they came with a message. As Mullet’s had done.
As did the killing of Joey Curtains.
If Joey Curtains knew about the Kolingba hit, maybe was involved in the Kolingba hit, then …
Either a retaliation.
Or a silencing.
Maybe something Cynthia Kolingba wasn’t telling him. Maybe why she wasn’t returning his calls.
Fish at his kitchen table with a bullet and a cold Butcher Block tried her cell again, got voicemail. Stared through the open door at the Maryjane. His yard in shadow, the sun on the rim of the mountain. Could drive to the hospital, wait for her there. But why? She’d have
got his messages. Her problem if she didn’t get back to him. Wasn’t his job to chase clients. They didn’t want his info, that was their problem. Better to sit here. Chill. Crack some more ales. Have a toke. Listen to Shawn Colvin. Skype Vicki.
He did. Nada. Vicki still offline. Tried her cellphone, also went to voicemail.
Wasn’t anybody out there?
Except Estelle. His mother. Came through on the landline from whatever Beijing hotel she was holed up in. He pressed her on. Held the phone away from his ear.
‘Bartolomeu, I expected to have heard from you already. I expected an email. What have you got? Bartolomeu, tell me you’ve been on the case, as they say.’
‘Yeah,’ said Fish, ‘sort of. Watched my contact get gunned down earlier in a drive-by.’
Heard his mother snort. ‘Oh, please. Where do you get that stuff? Where do you think you’re living? In some cheap thriller? Get real with me, Barto.’
Not entirely untrue about Joey Curtains being his contact. He’d thought if Joey Curtains was Agency, he’d probably have something on the politician, Rings Saturen. Some information he could feed his mother. Keep her smiling.
‘That’s as real as it gets,’ said Fish.
His mother speaking over him. ‘We’re talking thirty-two hours since I commissioned you. Thirty-two hours. To make a couple of enquiries. One or two phone calls. That’s all it takes. Do I have to teach you to suck eggs?’
‘There’ve been things.’ Fish taking a swallow of pale ale, wondering why he always felt he had to explain himself to his mother.
‘Look, please, Barto, please. Do this for me. It’s urgent. I’m leaving Beijing day after tomorrow. I’d like to give this to them before I go.’
His mother changing tack, become more expansive. Clearly not in the company of Mr Yan and Mr Lijan. Her tone almost wheedling.
‘They’re going to be back there in April on a tight schedule. First the mines on the Reef. Then to Cape Town. To meet again with Mr Rings Saturen. I’m not coming, of course. I’ve got to be in London for a trade fair. But they need to be prepared. It’s my job to keep them fully briefed. I need to know about Mr Saturen. Please, Barto, don’t let me down. These are important clients. I need to stay in their good books. More than that, you could say it’s in the national interest.’
Fish thinking, wow, here’s a different Estelle. Saying, ‘I’ll do what I can, Ma, I told you.’
‘Please, Barto. Please. With some alacrity, given my deadline. I know what you’re thinking, April’s six weeks away, what’s her problem? My problem is that I know you, you procrastinate. And I’m not even going to mention your surfing addiction.’
Thought of his mother in her hotel room, nipping herself. Nipping. The word made him laugh. Vicki would’ve told him very funny except wasn’t a pun. Wrong nation. Vicki not into racial jokes.
Where was Vicki? Should have been footloose in Berlin after her meeting with Detlef. Kicking back with some free time. Except Vicki’d gone off the radar. Again he tried her number. Again got voicemail. Didn’t leave a message. You could only say ‘me again’ so many times.
Fish sat staring at the old boat, the ghost of Mullet Mendes leaning against the gunwale. Time he got rid of it. Maybe sold it to Flip the cop in the house behind. Fish’s thoughts drifting.
Drifted back to Joey Curtains. To Cynthia Kolingba. To Mart Velaze. Maybe he’d be worth another contact. Despite the guy’s attitude.
‘You’re the PI. I’ve given you the client. I’ve told you there’s shit happening. I’ve given you a name and number. As of now I’m out of this. No more phone calls. No more contact. Think of your Vicki Kahn.’
There it was, the threat. Enough to get you riled.
Fish rolled a joint. A little early in the evening but what the hell. Chill, dude, chill. Rocked back on the chair, feet on the table edge. Put fire to the carrot, took a long, slow inhale. Decided the problem was Cynthia Kolingba, why she wasn’t getting back to him. Held his breath. Feeling the smoke rub around his lungs. Maybe the colonel had died, maybe she was in mourning. Exhaled. Pictured Joey Curtains sprawled on the pavement. Lifeless Joey Curtains. Tapped the bullet. Amazing things, bullets. Could take you where you didn’t want to go.
53
Late afternoon Mart Velaze pressed the buzzer on the bookshop grille. Lights off inside. Could see someone moving about. Kept pressing. A short man wearing a bow tie came from behind the counter, stepping briskly towards the door.
Said, ‘We’re closed. Can’t you read the sign?’ His lips purple beneath a pencil moustache.
‘I’ve got to pick something up,’ said Mart Velaze. ‘A birthday present.’ Half-turned, gestured at his car ramped on the kerb with a pretty young woman in the passenger seat. ‘It’s for my girlfriend.’
The man pointed at the sign. Mouthed: ‘Closed.’
Mart Velaze stuck his finger on the buzzer. Kept it there till the man opened the door.
‘You’re being very rude,’ said Mr Bow Tie, pursed his lips. ‘I’ve told you we’re closed, I can’t help you today.’
‘You the manager?’ said Mart Velaze.
‘You could call me that. You could also call me the owner.’ The neat little man folded his arms across his chest. ‘This is my bookshop.’
‘Nice bookshop.’ Mart Velaze kept his grip on the metal security gate. ‘You can let me in. I’ve bought books here before.’
‘We’re closed. We’ve been open all day and now we’re closed. I’ve got another life, you know.’
Mart Velaze put his hands together, beseeching. ‘Look, please. Do me a favour, please, man. I’ve just got to collect it. Help me out here. I’m not going to browse or anything. I’m in and outta here in thirty seconds.’ Wondering why the Voice thought this funny little mlungu was a good cut-out. Her sense of humour kicking in. The poor man had no clue what his shop was used for. Would snap a wrist if told. ‘It’s paid for, and the gift wrap. In the name of Izwi. Mrs Izwi.’
‘Oh, why didn’t you say so?’ Mr Bow Tie shaking his head. ‘In that case, wait there I’ll get it.’ Disappeared into the dim depths, returned with the present. Asked: ‘What is it? If you don’t mind my enquiring?’
‘A book,’ said Mart Velaze.
In the car tore off the wrapping, took out an envelope stuck between the opening pages, handed the book to his companion. Said, ‘You’re a reader, it’s all yours.’
‘Oh wow,’ said the woman, mock serious. Read the title: ‘The Hidden Hand. Intriguing. You trying to tell me something, Martie?’
54
‘You?’ said Linda Nchaba.
The man with glasses had opened the door. Said, ‘Welcome. We were waiting since yesterday.’
‘Good,’ said Vicki, stepping into the apartment, trailing her suitcase. Glad of the warmth, the prospect of tea and biscuits to settle the insistence at the back of her throat. To Linda Nchaba, ‘Me, indeed. We meet again, I’m pleased to say.’
The two men greeted her, didn’t introduce themselves.
‘All very cosy.’ Vicki glanced round the room. ‘Nice place.’ Saw relief on Linda Nchaba’s face. Linda looking elegant but uptight, her hands knitted, her mouth slightly open. Sitting on the edge of her seat.
‘Some tea, please, gents?’ Vicki rubbed her gloved hands, slipped out of her coat. ‘This’s a cold place, this Europe. No wonder they all want to live somewhere else.’
The man with the glasses took her coat, hung it on a rack beside the door. ‘You said it, sisi. Me, myself, I need to go home. I’m—’
She held up a hand, smiled at him, said, ‘No names. Don’t want to know your names, okay? Best we keep it like that.’ Dug in her travel bag. Came out with a handful of chamomile teabags, a packet of Maria biscuits. ‘All I can bring to the tea party, and you can’t eat my biscuits.’
The men grinned at her. Linda Nchaba on the couch tight-faced, not giving anything away. Going to be a hard one, Vicki thought. Hours before she’d get some sleep. Hours and hours.<
br />
Worked off her gloves. ‘You alright, Linda?’
The woman nodding at her. Except there’d been a hesitation. A hooding of the eyes. Quick. Brief. Then a quiet, ‘I’m good.’ And the nodding.
Two days back she’d been fraught enough. Haunted. Whatever’d happened since, she was holding in.
Vicki turned to the men. ‘So, guys, I need to make a phone call. Which of you is going to lend me his cell?’
The short one in the galley held up his phone. Likewise the one with glasses. His was closest. Some whizgig Samsung she had to ask how to dial. In the end let the man tap in the number. Flicked back her hair, raised it to her ear. Felt like holding a calculator.
Heard Henry Davidson answer, ‘I would imagine this is Vicki Kahn?’
Always the funny man. Vicki didn’t rise to it. ‘You imagine right, Henry. Good guess.’
‘Sixth sense. Never fails. It didn’t take you long to get there. Such are the marvels of transport in the European city.’
‘I took a taxi, Henry. Last I looked, we’ve got them too.’
‘Oh dear, a little testy are we? Never mind, as the White Queen said to Alice, “First the fish must be caught.”’
‘What?’ said Vicki.
‘Never mind. Everyone there present and correct, I assume? Yes.’ Not waiting for an answer. ‘Now just listen. You do not have to say anything, just listen to me.’
Vicki listened through a five-minute biog spiel about the dubious life and times of Linda Nchaba. Said, ‘You could have told me this before I left.’
‘Need-to-know, Vicki. Need-to-know. No forecasting how the world is going to work, is there? Best-laid plans and all that.’ He sniffed. ‘Up to speed?’