Agents of the State

by Mike Nicol

  But this guy was smart. Small car, kept himself to himself, way back. He’d absorbed the lessons. Vicki wondered how he’d handle her ducking and diving.

  Took the Trekkersburg turn-off, stopped at the first picnic lay-by. The place a mess. Like people came out here specially to throw away their rubbish. Beer tins, Coke tins, plastic bags, fast-food wrappers littered in the veld grass. Wet-wipes thrown down beside turd piles. Vicki shuddered. Two pied crows hopped off the concrete table onto the fence. Perched there, looking at her.

  Talk about being followed by crows.

  Vicki kept the engine running, waited. One minute, a bit longer, the Fiat buzzed past. The driver wearing shades, eyes on the road. Must have pissed him off that she’d pulled this move. Vicki grinned. Followed him into Trekkersburg, wondering, who jerked his strings? Someone at the Aviary? Someone close to Zama? Irritated her, this constant watching.

  Saw the Fiat man stop at a petrol station at the town entrance, drove on with a flick of her hair. As Henry said, better to let them do their job.

  29

  Prosper Mtethu had to get loud entering the palace precinct. Parked among a dozen delivery vehicles, approached security, briefcase in hand. Flashed his Agency credentials at the service entrance, said he needed to inspect access and exits. The guards nodded, glanced at papers in his briefcase, shrugged, went back to their conversations. One waved a magic wand over him, it screeched going down his back.

  ‘My weapon,’ said Prosper. Took it out of his belt, placed it on the table.

  The guard wanted his id again, the other guards clustering round. The men hesitant, the corporal telling him he should go in the main gate. Be properly registered.

  When Prosper got loud. Swore in Zulu. Told them, look, they had his name, Wiseman Dlamini, his number, his contact details. He was SSA. What more? Brought out his cellphone, wanted the number of their sergeant.

  The men stared at him, at the gun he now stuck in his belt behind his back. Movie-style.

  Prosper Mtethu, hands on hips, stared them out. Challenging: your move, soldier. Watched the corporal’s dilemma. Knew how this would pan out; in the end the click of the tongue, the dismissive wave. Kept his smile to himself when it did.

  Prosper walked through storerooms, kitchens, cloakrooms, left the briefcase with a receptionist.

  ‘It will be safe here, sir. You can fetch it any time.’ The receptionist giving a numbered receipt. Showed him a plan of the lounges, the banquet hall. Refreshments at the poolside bars. ‘Enjoy your afternoon, sir.’

  Prosper said he would, stepped out of reception onto a wide patio beside the swimming pool. Scattered groups chatting beside the bars. Swimmers in the pool. Loungers asleep in the sun. A band making music.

  He circulated. Got people used to seeing him so that they wouldn’t notice him later. Seeing him and not seeing him. A man in beige. A quiet man. Always on the side of the groups, wary of the long shadow of Major Kaiser Vula. Needed to stay hidden from Major Kaiser Vula. His time would come.

  What he needed first was a quiet place to pass the afternoon hours. Somewhere he could sleep, make up for the time on the road. Found it among the servants’ quarters: a room empty, bar a bed, behind the guest cottages. Prosper Mtethu lay down, thought of Nolitha alone at home. She’d manage. She was a good girl. He was doing this for her, so she had a future. Had to keep reminding himself of that. ‘Khulu, when’ll you be home?’ she’d asked in that larney accent of hers. He’d not answered. Didn’t trust that his voice wouldn’t seize up. ‘I don’t know, I’ll see you when I see you.’ Her hamba kahle, take care, Khulu, in his head long after they’d disconnected. Could hear her voice now, see her, smell the lavender scent of her soap that drifted through the room after she’d showered. Prosper Mtethu wiped the wet blur from his eyes, slept to the distant beat of marimba with an ache in his chest.

  30

  Linda Nchaba lay on the floor, dress hiked over her waist, white panties exposed. Curled on herself, gasping. One shoe off. His sudden violence astounding. The punch to her stomach.

  Zama stood over her. ‘I have asked you nicely, sisi.’ His voice coming softly behind the hollow pain. ‘For all this time I’ve asked you nicely. You sit here, all you tell me is she is a friend.’

  Zama crouched, patted her thigh. ‘Talk. I want to know.’

  Linda felt the burn of his hand on her skin. ‘Leave me. Don’t touch me.’ Hit out, struck at his arm.

  ‘Hau, sisi. This is how you treat me. You won’t eat with me. You won’t taste my food. What is wrong with my food? This is the food the president eats. It is the meat of our cattle. Every plate the major brings, you push away. I raise my glass, I toast, you won’t drink my wine. You won’t talk to me. You won’t tell me this one small thing: What sort of friend is Vicki Kahn?’

  Linda heard the scrape of a chair pulled close to her. Through blurred eyes, saw him sit, reach out a brogued foot to stroke her shin. ‘I ask you nicely, is she another model? Maybe you were at the same school? Or maybe the same university?’ A pause. The rasp of his shoe against her leg. ‘I tell you about what has happened in my life since you …’ Left it unfinished. ‘About my mine in the CAR, about the people I meet. The princess of Monaco, Beyoncé, the sheik of Qatar, Barack and Michelle. I am open with you. Friendly. But you won’t say anything about your friend Vicki Kahn.’

  Linda thinking of her grandmother, of the girls, the pain subsiding, her breath less ragged.

  Sensed he had turned away from her. Heard the major say, ‘Enough.’

  Zama softly, ‘You should go, Major. This is my business.’

  The major asking, ‘What business?’

  The sharp retort: ‘Personal business.’

  The major asking, ‘Who is this Vicki Kahn?’

  Zama’s irritated, ‘I told you. Yesterday I told you. You should listen to me. She is one of your colleagues, Major Vula. Someone in your office you didn’t even know about. Someone who talks to the lovely Linda. Someone the lovely Linda likes to talk to. About what, Major? About what?’

  The shoe against her ankle.

  Linda pushed herself into a sitting position, gasped at the bruising to her stomach.

  ‘Take me back to the hotel.’

  ‘No, that can’t happen.’ Zama not looking at her, still focused on the major, pointing at the door. ‘Go, Major.’

  ‘I want to leave.’ Her eyes on Major Vula, not pleading, demanding. You got me here. Take me away.

  ‘Out, Major. Out. Lock the door.’

  Heard his disapproving grunt, the whisper of his movement to the door, the wheeze of the door opening, the click as it shut. The finality.

  ‘Now, you can tell me.’ His hand before her face. ‘Come, stand up.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’ Linda stood, bent over with the hurt, breathing loudly. Eased off her other shoe, moved it aside.

  ‘Some water?’ Zama held out a glass. ‘I’m sorry. It is bad to hit a woman. I apologise.’ Linda knowing he wouldn’t leave it there. ‘You make me angry, that is the problem.’

  She took the water, drank some, a cold relief in her stomach. Looked at him then, venom in her eyes, seeing how he knew it, her hate. In a quick movement dashed the remains of the water in his face. ‘I want to go.’

  Zama blinked, wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. Damp patches blossomed on his shirt. ‘You are a woman that likes to fight. The only woman who does this to me. You know that, the only woman.’

  Linda threw the glass, hit him in the face. Watched Zama stagger back, his mouth a grimace, fingers probing at his forehead. This man staring at her, frowning. Staring at her for long minutes. Said, his voice low, ‘Fuck you, Miss Nchaba. Fuck you for that.’

  Linda knowing the rest, the Zama of old. Lifted a knife from the table. A wooden-handled steak knife. The one she should’ve used to cut her beef. Gripped it, ready to lunge.

  Zama snorted. ‘You hold it like a tsotsi. You fight like a tsotsi? Linda Nchaba the gangster.’


  ‘Try me?’

  ‘Of course. Why not? You have the knife. Now we are equal.’ Zama feinted, arms up across his face.

  Linda came forward, slashing down.

  Zama ducked away. ‘You see, you are a tsotsi fighter. Me, I don’t fight like that.’

  ‘Why’d you wait, Zama?’ Linda on the balls of her feet, circling. ‘Why’d you wait so long?’

  ‘To see what you would do. To see if you were a problem. Were you still my Linda? Also you were doing a good job with the girls. I liked that. But then too much yannah-yannah with Vicki Kahn. I didn’t like that.’

  Linda keeping on the move after him, forcing him backwards round the room. Went in again, low. Zama danced away, fast on his feet.

  ‘You must be quicker, Linda Nchaba.’

  She was. Brought the knife up, the blade catching his arm.

  Zama swore. ‘Bitch. Little bitch.’

  Linda saw the blood, jerked at him. Zama turned away, a slice opening across his thigh.

  ‘You have first blood, my sisi. But that is all. Now we are finished with the games.’ Picked up a chair, raised it, his shirt pulling free, his stomach exposed. ‘You want to stick it to me, baby? Come on, stick it to me. Your last chance.’

  Linda thinking, stomach, rip the stomach. Throw it at him, dash for the door. Kept her eyes on Zama. The big man standing there, chair above his head. Blood oozing.

  ‘The door is locked. You see, I can read your mind. We are here, you and me, Linda Nchaba, alone. But you can tell me: Who is Vicki Kahn?’

  ‘She knows everything. She will finish you, Zama.’

  ‘You think. I don’t think so. In a short while your Vicki Kahn will be here too. Then we can all talk.’ Threw the chair.

  31

  Trekkersburg. One of those arse-end–of-the-world towns. No wonder Linda was strung out. Men standing around, packs of kids, women resting under trees. A main street of junk dealers, second-hand clothing shops, Ellerines furniture, Protea Electronics, Abdul’s supermarket. Some old, gabled buildings, some art deco, some fascist face brick. A boarded-up Tudor Tavern. You spent too long here, you’d slit your wrists.

  Vicki drove past the Commercial Hotel, turned down Buchan Street, through the taxi rank on Biddulph into the parking lot of a KFC, took out her phone. Linda’s SMS: palace. Jesus, Linda! Why’d you do it? What’d I say, no contact. What d’you do? Fire off an SMS. Handling Linda like coaxing a cat. No telling which way she’d jump. Thank Christ, not the end of the world in the greater scheme, except why let everyone in on the arrangements?

  Vicki put a call through to Linda on a pay-as-you-go. Three o’clock, her lunch should be well over. The call went to voicemail. She left a bright message. ‘Hey, girlfriend, this’s Gita. Where’ve you been forever? Long, long time. We gotta chill again, sister. Catch up. What’s up. You call me, sisi. We can hang whenever.’ Disconnected. Waited a minute. Phoned again. Hoping this time Linda’d pick up. Voicemail. Went with: ‘Meant to ask: where’re you these days? Jozi? Durbs? You outta the country? We gotta do facetime. Call me, hey. Ciaowee.’ Repeated the exercise. Voicemail once more. ‘Forgot to say, I’m in Durbs, homie. Be here three days. Let’s party.’

  Vicki not happy about this. Staring across the lot at the KFC counter, two young men there collecting large tubs. The men pulling out chicken pieces even before they’d got their change. The food people ate! She swallowed hard. Came back to Linda. Linda should be answering. Should be at the hotel. Nothing she could do but wait it out. Head off to the palace, sign herself in. Linda would phone when she could. Except one thing she could do: take a look through Linda’s hotel room. She had the room number, wouldn’t be too difficult getting in.

  The pay-as-you-go rang, Linda’s number on the screen. Vicki connected. Said a bland hello.

  ‘You are Vicki Kahn?’ said the voice.

  Male voice, strong, pleasant. No aggro in the tone. ‘Who’s this?’ she said.

  ‘A friend of Linda’s. My name’s Zama.’ A pause. ‘She’s not well.’

  Vicki played the part. ‘Oh no. What’s wrong? What’s the matter?’

  ‘She asked me to phone you.’

  ‘Where’s she? What’s wrong with her? I want to speak to her. Let me speak to Linda.’

  ‘She’ll be okay,’ said Zama. ‘She’s resting. It was a bit of food poisoning. Vomiting.’

  Zama still reasonable, chatty. Acting his role, too, Vicki realised.

  ‘Please give her the phone. I want to talk to her.’

  ‘No, you can’t right now. She’s resting. Asleep. The doctor gave her something.’

  ‘The doctor? What doctor?’

  ‘She was bad. We had to call a doctor.’

  ‘Where is she, Zama? Where are you? I’ll fetch her.’

  No response. No sound. The call disconnected.

  An SMS pinged: We will meet later. The text from Linda’s phone.

  32

  The force of the chair took Linda down. Caught her head, her shoulders, her arms coming up too late to shield her. She collapsed, hit the floor hard, lost hold of the knife. Sprawled on her back, exposed. Zama at her, kicking. Her thighs, her stomach, the brogue toes unrelenting, battered her kidneys. Electric pain sparking behind her eyes.

  Then an intermission. Far off, her phone ringing.

  She lay expecting more. Could hear his fast panting.

  ‘Get up, bitch.’

  Lay unmoving. Hurting.

  ‘Get up, bitch.’

  Tasted blood in her mouth. Saw the stickiness of it running down her arm.

  ‘You going to get up?’ The thump, thump, thump of his Monmart shoe against her head. ‘We haven’t started yet, bitch. You want me to be a gentleman, help you?’

  Again her phone’s ringtone. Had to be Vicki. If she could reach her handbag, answer her phone … Looked over at where her bag hung from a chair.

  ‘Don’t even think it at all.’ Zama found her phone, held it up. ‘You want to hear the messages?’ The phone rang in his hand. ‘Popular girl, Ms Nchaba. We better listen to what’s up.’ Played back the messages. ‘Your homie, hey? Gita? I’d say more like Vicki Kahn. What d’you think, we phone her back, tell her where the party is?’

  She had to move. Knew she had to move to distract him. Heard him say, ‘You are Vicki Kahn?’ Tried then to shout. ‘Help. Help me.’ Her voice a whisper. Zama looking at her, shaking his head. Chatted to Vicki, ended with, ‘She was bad. We had to call a doctor.’

  Linda got onto her hands and knees, head hanging down, vision blurred. A dizziness, a loud shrill in her ears. Not knowing if she had the strength to stand. Willing herself, moving like a dog away from him. Slowly on all fours towards the knife. The glint of it on the green carpet.

  Zama kicked her. Kicked hard under her arm, a straight slam to the breast.

  Linda screamed, howled, the agony scything through her. Collapsed again onto the carpet, her fists clenched, the gorge at the back of her throat, choking her. The throb in her chest, sharp, blinding. Behind the sear, Zama’s voice.

  ‘Up. Up, up. Come on, tough Linda Nchaba. On your feet, sisi.’ His fists bunched into her dress, pulling her erect.

  The scald in her breast unbearable. She moaned.

  ‘You think this is sore? Na, no, my honey, we haven’t got there yet.’ Slapped her face lightly, flick-flack, flick-flack. ‘Come. Talk to me. Talk to me.’

  Linda without thoughts, without words, seeing his face melt and shape. His open mouth, the yellowness of his teeth, the threads of saliva between them. Groaned.

  ‘What? You’re saying what? Please, lovely Linda, tell me about Vicki Kahn. What’ve you told her?’

  Linda spat blood, the spray flecking Zama’s shirt. Swayed before him, couldn’t focus through the hurt.

  ‘Ah, fuck you, bitch, fuck you.’ Zama released her. Wiped at his shirt with the back of his hand. ‘This is Saint Laurent. What’d you do that for? You know what this cost? I’ll tell you: seven hundred Brit poun
ds.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ said Linda. Hearing the words in her head. Not knowing if she said them. Repeating them, her tongue thick in her mouth.

  Zama hit her, punched her in the face, broke her nose.

  33

  Fish had come past the filling station, seen the Fiat on the forecourt, a petrol jockey in attendance. The driver on his phone to one side, his face hidden, his shoulders hunched, back to the street. Like he didn’t want his conversation overheard. All Fish could do not to hoot and wave.

  No sign of Vicki’s Cruze. No great matter to Fish. He knew where she was headed, what happened in between not of that much concern.

  Going down the Trekkersburg main street past the Commercial Hotel, the shabby shops, Fish thought, you went into one of these dorps, you went into them all. Came to the end of the town the road forked: one north to Johannesburg, the other west to Bambatha.

  ‘Go west, young man.’ The pop song coming to mind, something about evil going east, except perhaps not this time. Ten minutes down this stretch, his phone had rung: Estelle.

  ‘Bartolomeu, I want to know that you’re here. I don’t need any hassles at security.’

  ‘Almost,’ Fish’d said, cresting the rolling hills, on the farther slope the whole magnificent presidential spread. ‘I see it.’ Whistled. ‘Wowie. This’s some place. Looks like the little hotel guy, what’s his name …’

  ‘Sol Kerzner.’

  ‘Yeah, him, looks like he built it.’

  ‘Yes, well. Extravagant is a word that comes to mind. Still, nothing like you’ll see inside. No expense spared. Just don’t gawp, Barto. Don’t gawp. Show some sophistication. God knows you should be able to manage that.’

  Fish heard the tinkle of glass.

  ‘You’re drinking?’

  ‘Champagne, Barto. The real thing. Why not? Should we expect anything less here?’ A pause. ‘Ummmm, very nice. Lots of tiny bubbles. I’m relieved you’ve made it. And almost on time. Security will tell you where to find me. Mr Yan and Mr Lijan are taking a swim. I’m relaxing under an umbrella. It seems most of the cabinet is here. Hurry along now, Barto, won’t you?’