by Mike Nicol
‘Isn’t there somewhere else?’
‘Haibo, there speaks my expensive Linda Nchaba.’ A pause. ‘We have many things to talk about. Not only about you and me, there is also the auction on Sunday. You must be ready for this.’
‘This Sunday?’
‘We have waited too long already. This weekend we must be finished. Everyone is prepared. We can do it, then you can leave that hotel. I’m sure you won’t be sad to go.’
Linda looked down on the car stopped opposite her window. Needed to talk to Vicki, to tell her.
‘Tomorrow, baby, we have a lunch date.’ The Fortuner accelerating away, the hand withdrawn. ‘Somewhere to please you, I can promise.’
End of conversation. Linda keyed him off, put down the phone on the coffee table, her hands trembling, a pain in her stomach. She finished the tea. Too milky now.
Paced the room, keeping an eye on the street. The moment she’d wanted, the moment she’d dreaded. Dreaded more than wanted. Picked up her phone, keyed through to Vicki Kahn.
Said, ‘He’s phoned.’
‘The Walrus?’
Such a childish codename. ‘Yes, the big man himself. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? It’s why you made me come here.’ The anxiety rising fast.
‘We, Linda. We. It’s what we agreed. Remember. It’s what you wanted to do.’
‘To get my grandmother released.’
‘To stop Zama. We’ve been over this.’
‘I’m frightened.’
‘I know.’
Heard Vicki Kahn telling her to stop, breathe deeply, asking what happened. Told her. ‘He phoned just now, ten minutes ago.’ Gave her the gist. Adding, ‘He’s going to get rid of the girls.’
Heard Vicki Kahn say, ‘When?’
‘On the weekend. Sunday.’
‘Good. Okay. Good.’
‘Good? It’s not good Vicki. They’re girls, little girls.’
‘It’s good that things’re moving, Linda. That’s what I meant. We can get this over with. Look, you did the right thing, stringing him along. Phone him tomorrow, confirm the lunch, find out where he’s taking you. You’ll do that? You’ll phone him?’
‘I can’t do this.’
‘It’s just a phone call, Linda. Just a lunch.’
Just a lunch! ‘Nothing is just a lunch with him.’ Down in the street, the man with the donkey cart returning. The woman and child behind. The child limping. ‘Can’t you come here?’
‘You know I can’t.’
Operational reasons.
The rules of that prick Henry Davidson with the funny hair. ‘Look at it this way, Linda,’ he’d said to her, ‘if something goes wrong, you need a handler who has the whole picture. How can you have the whole picture if you’re sitting in the middle of a mess? As the queen said, “Jam tomorrow and jam yesterday – but never jam today.”’ Whatever that meant.
‘Look, Linda,’ said Vicki now, ‘it’ll be alright. Confirm the lunch date. Don’t let him pick you up. Go in your own car, come back in your own car. Don’t go anywhere with him afterwards. Keep your phone on. We’ll be watching.’
Yes, like that was comforting. Watching from sixteen hundred kilometres away.
‘I’m going now,’ she said to Vicki. ‘I want to be sick.’ Didn’t hear Vicki’s last words as she headed for the toilet.
9
There’d been a time, in the early days debriefing Linda, Vicki’d said to her, ‘Why? I just don’t get it. Why’d you do it?’
Vicki was just off the ‘termination’, as the white-coats phrased it. A bit raw emotionally, a bit all over the place, trying to keep it together. Trying to keep it hidden from Fish.
Aware she was the last person who could ask the question of Linda. Asking it anyhow.
The two of them at a pavement café away from the centre of the city. At the other tables three office workers peering at a laptop, a couple of kids tapping at their phones.
One of those warm days without humidity. Still put a sheen of perspiration on your face. Vicki could see it on Linda, a dampness to her skin. They sat in a tree’s shade, the sun sliding towards noon, the shadow disappearing beneath their feet.
‘I don’t know,’ Linda said. ‘He asked me to go there, I went. The money was a lot more than any modelling job I’d ever had.’
‘You did it for money?’
A nod. Her face turned away. A soft, ‘Yes.’
Vicki didn’t respond. Thought, okay, at least that was honest. Across the street, a woman parked her car on the slope, came over to the café, took an inside table. A young woman, pretty, her face familiar.
‘And after the first trip?’
‘There’s no way out. Not from him.’
A silence between them. The murmur of the laptop trio.
‘You think I’m awful.’
Still no eye contact. Both of them looking up at the mountain behind the roofs. Its solidity in the air.
‘It’s awful what you did. I can’t say anything else. Truth: I don’t know how you could’ve done that.’
Linda finished her latte. Glanced at Vicki. ‘I don’t either.’
A face in a magazine. Heat magazine. There’d been photographs of a party at the president’s palace. Had to be she was one of the trendoids about town. Her name on the tip of Vicki’s tongue.
‘Zama helped me, you know. I got modelling jobs I wouldn’t have got without him. Big contracts. Brand signings. He makes things happen. Zama takes you up, you fly. Parties, cruises, he’s the scene.’ She paused. Played with her empty mug. ‘He asks you to do something, you do it. Once he’s got you, he doesn’t have to threaten. You know there’s no out.’
‘But you got out. You left.’ Vicki coming in quickly, seeing Linda raise her face again, this time her gaze steady. Something like anger in those eyes.
‘And what happened?’
Vicki nodded. ‘There’re always consequences.’
‘But that’s my problem, right?’
‘No one’s judging you, Linda.’
‘You just did.’
‘Look, you had your reasons. That’s history. The thing is now you want to stop it. That’s why I’m here. We’re helping you.’
Nandi something. That was her name. Had to be a hot spot if she was here.
‘I’ll be there alone. By myself. That’s not help.’
Vicki wanted to shake her head. Sit back. Marvel at this woman playing the victim. A money-grubbing child-trafficker, she wants you to pity her! See her as the victim here. Empathise. Even like her. Vicki kept poker-faced. Heard the diatribe coming.
‘Why should I trust you people? I hardly know you. I don’t know you. You could be going to drop me, use me as your bait, throw me away afterwards. Hamba wena, Linda, piss off, goodbye. Enjoy your life. That’s what you people do. That’s all you think about. Not me. Not the children.’
No tears. A flash in her eyes but no tears.
‘You’re doing this for some political game. I don’t know. Some bigshot politician’s pulling these strings.’ The pitch of her voice raised. Linda pushing her chair back, standing up.
Vicki saw the laptop group had looked up. Nandi in the window of the café watching. Said, ‘Sit down, Linda.’
Linda glaring at her.
‘Sit down.’
The Noon Gun on Signal Hill going off then, loudly. Louder than Vicki could remember hearing it. A boom. Linda jumped. Sat down. From the tree, the clap of pigeons beating up. Vicki watched them turn in the light, glide towards the rooftops.
‘That bloody gun.’
‘You get used to it.’
‘I’m not going to be here long enough, am I?’
Vicki let it go. Noticed Nandi on her cellphone, talking, staring at them. Disinterested. The gaze of the distracted. ‘We should go.’ Drained the dregs from her cup.
‘You satisfied? Now you know I’m a bitch.’ Linda challenging her with hard eyes. ‘The evil queen.’
‘Don’t push it,’ said Vicki,
standing. Paid the waiter, hurried to catch up with Linda striding down the street.
Now, in her office, Vicki put down the phone, thought, you brought it on yourself, Linda Nchaba. No one else to blame. Then again, she was making good, that took guts. No question about it. Going through what Linda Nchaba was living ranked high up the courage charts. You had to give her that.
10
On his way home Fish stopped at the professor’s.
‘What’re you doing here, Fish?’ The man looking out of it, dishevelled, like he’d just smoked a large doobie. Rheumy-eyed, a smear of food on his upper lip. That cat-piss smell oozing from the house. ‘It’s not delivery day. I’ve still got what you’d call a stash. You can’t come pushing your drugs, Sugarman. I’m not some street-corner punter.’
‘Whoa, Prof. Chill, my china, chill.’ Fish took a step back.
Professor Summers glaring at him. ‘Mr Pescado, what the hell d’you want? I’m busy. I have students.’
Fish thinking, here? A student’s come here? Brave person. Or desperate. Said, ‘Okay, okay, I just want to ask you something, okay. Then I’m outta here.’
‘What?’
Fish pulled out the photographs. Gave a quick explanation of the shooting.
‘Very dramatic.’ Summers handed them back. ‘I’m always intrigued by your interesting life, Fish. And so, what’s your question?’
‘Why’re we protecting this guy, this Colonel Kolingba?’
‘My living Mary!’ Prof Summers hamming it up, smacked his forehead, ‘Don’t you know anything, Fish? Don’t you read the papers? Watch the news? Even Google the news? You’ve got too much water sloshing around in your skull.’
Fish caught a waft of underarm. Maybe deodorant needed more advertising.
‘Firstly, your president has substantial interests in a little gold mine in the car. But you knew that, didn’t you? Tell me you knew that. We all know that. It’s even in the newspapers. Secondly, your president’s looking after his friends because he’s a troubled man. Why else the bunker at his magnificent palace? Why else the underground tunnels? The helipad? The huge goon squad we employ to protect him? The man’s worried he’s going to need them. I can’t believe you didn’t know this, that you hadn’t put two and two together. There’re plots and plans and conspiracies to take him out, Fish. If he doesn’t run away first. Now be a good Capey, go surfing. Let the world proceed with its affairs.’
‘How d’you know this? About wiping him out?’
‘Ah, the surfing metaphor, how it doth colour our speech.’ Professor Summers put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhh. I have my sources.’ Lifted his finger, tapped his nose. ‘We hear things. Even in the Ivory Towers, we hear things. Of course I don’t know for certain. But I’ve heard the whisperings. It’s the communists, Fish, the communists.’ Summers laughing.
Fish thought, yeah, gossip, rumours, theories, wishful thinking. Communist conspiracies. Like the communists in government were going to take out the president. How Cold War. How quaint.
Said, ‘Okay, thanks.’ Walking backwards to the gate. ‘A great help.’
‘Remember my order on Friday, Fish. I’ll need it then. Goodbye, Mr Sugarman.’ The professor tapping a stubby finger against his own nose again.
Later, Fish staked out Vicki’s apartment. Sat in his Perana, in Solan Street, miserable, cold. Life in the apartment block going on all around him. Couples drinking on the balconies. Couples heading for the restaurants, hand in hand. Laughing. Emphasised his aching heart.
Fish stared up at her dark windows, checked the time, half eight. Thought, hell, Vicki, where are you? Tried her cell again, voicemail. Didn’t leave a message this time. Did consider going up, letting himself in, waiting, except that would freak her. Not a good idea.
An hour later Fish decided, to hell with it, he’d come back in the morning, get it sorted with her then.
11
Vicki Kahn got home late. Collapsed on the couch, kicked her shoes off. Realised no ways she could sleep yet. Opened her laptop, powered through to 888poker, got quickly into a game. Hour after hour of it. Finally holding a pair of kings, a pair of aces. Proved a winning combo. The payout brought her loss down by a couple of thousand. Some consolation. A new game on the screen. She hesitated. Rubbed her eyes. Was strung out. Worried. Worried about Linda Nchaba. Also there was this stuff from Fish: the warnings that she was in danger. She couldn’t see it, but not like Fish to be anxious.
Long gone midnight, too late to phone him. She’d delayed it all evening and Fish wasn’t a night man. Any rate, what serious shit could she be in? Wasn’t like she was in the field.
Clicked out of the game, closed the laptop.
Looked across the lighted city, up at Lion’s Head, two cars driving slowly along the rump. At this hour, up there, not a place you’d want to be.
The call came on her cellphone while she was making a mint tea.
Linda Nchaba.
‘I can’t do this. I can’t do this, Vicki. You get me? I can’t do this anymore.’ Linda uncontrolled. Unusual for Linda to drink. Except that’s what it sounded like. ‘Please. Not again. I can’t do it again.’
A new one on Vicki. Earlier she’d been fine. A little nervous, but fine. Although Henry Davidson had warned her. ‘As Alice found out, Vicki, things are not always what they seem. When you’re out there, the world’s a different place. You are alone. You are caught up in what’s happening. You can’t see beyond that.’
As she’d discovered in Berlin, those many weeks ago. Like another lifetime.
‘Get me out, Vicki. Get me out.’
‘We’re going to. You know that.’
‘Now.’
‘There’s a plan, Linda. Stick to the plan.’
‘I don’t want to go back there, to the warehouse. I can’t lie to those girls anymore.’
Vicki switched off the gas. Mint tea would have to wait. ‘We’re so close to finishing this, Linda. So close. We mustn’t stop now.’ Putting herself into the frame.
‘You’re not here. You haven’t seen them. You don’t know what it’s like to see them every day. I can’t be with them again. I can’t. It tears my heart out.’
‘This’s the last time, Linda. Remember that. If you don’t go, that’s the end of it for them. For lots of other girls. If you don’t go, the whole scene just carries on. Don’t give up now, not so close to the auction. You can stop these traffickers, Linda. For good.’
No response. Vicki went into the obvious one.
‘You had anything to drink, Linda?’
‘No. Yes.’
‘Stop now. It doesn’t help. Just phone the Walrus in the morning, as agreed.’
‘Yes.’
‘Everything’s normal.’
A silence.
‘I’m scared.’
Vicki thinking, okay, this is more like it. Except, how were you supposed to handle someone sixteen hundred kilometres away? ‘Because that’s how we do it, Vicki.’ From the case officer’s book of rules according to Henry Davidson. ‘Look at it this way, if something goes wrong it’s best to be miles from the mess. If an agent is lost, then an agent is lost. Bloody terrible. Might get awkward for the case officer but what’s a case officer? Just a telephone number. Easy to get rid of a telephone number. Like the queen, it can just vanish before Alice’s very eyes.’
The drollery of bloody Henry Davidson.
‘He scares me.’
‘You’ll be alright.’ Vicki not convinced. Keeping her voice strong. She needed to be there. With the Walrus around, she needed to be there. Frowned at her reflection in the window. Her straggly hair. The dark sockets of her eyes. Ran fingers through her hair.
‘He can’t hurt you.’
It’s paranoia. You’ve got to talk them through that, Vicki. It’s what happens out there. You’ve got the full story, you’ve got to keep them calm.
Vicki going over old ground. ‘It’s just a lunch, Linda. You can handle it. You can handle him. String him alon
g. Play Miss Nice. I don’t know. Give him something to hope for. You know … That you’ll think about it, about whatever he wants, maybe. Just keep him relaxed. We don’t want Mr Zama jumpy. We want him thinking life’s sweet as your smile.’ Vicki waited. ‘Alright?’
Heard a whispered alright.
12
The president woke, found his genitals covered in a grey powder. Dusty powder, you rubbed it, it disappeared beneath your fingers. You blew at it, the powder vanished. He sat up, stared at his groin. Not the first time he’d woken like this. After Nandi, there was always this ash across his thighs.
He’d asked her, what’s this?
She’d told him, muti, to make you strong. Would dangle her breasts in his face, make him strong.
‘This is mumbo-jumbo,’ he’d tell her. ‘Superstitious nonsense.’
‘But it works.’ She’d smile at him.
That beguiling, bewitching smile. He’d take her hands. ‘Those sangomas are witchdoctors. They prey on people’s fears, their traditional beliefs.’
Back she’d come without fear or favour. He liked that, her abrupt, sometimes even abrasive retorts. ‘And who is the man with three wives? The traditional man?’
‘I do it to fulfil custom. To uphold my people’s expectations. I am Zulu,’ he would respond.
He lay now thoughtful. Perturbed by Nandi. Puzzled by her dark imaginings. Let his thoughts drift to the talk that came from his advisors. Rumours of discontent. Dissent. Stories of late-night meetings. Secret gatherings of his comrades.
Amid these dark obsessions became aware of Nandi in the bathroom singing softly. She would be soaking in a bath beneath her bubbles. Shaving her legs, her armpits, her pube. Even though he told her not to.
‘You cannot tell me that,’ she’d replied. ‘It is my body.’
Another point he’d had to concede. At heart, pleased by her candidness. This was a woman who knew her mind.
He sat up, reached for his cellphone on the bedside table, dialled Kaiser Vula.