In the Company of Killers

by Bryan Christy

  Klay laughed. “You want to prosecute Gabriel Ncube?”

  “We do,” Eady said.

  “I thought Ncube was your lackey?”

  “Predictability is what we value,” Barrow said, taking over. “Gabriel Ncube has grown less so.”

  “You want regime change?” Klay said.

  “We support the constitution of our long-standing ally,” Barrow replied.

  “By unseating its democratically elected president?”

  “Tom—” Eady interrupted.

  “Vance, nobody fucking likes Ncube. He’s destroyed the country and the ANC. But what’s this got to do with Botha?”

  “Botha’s been arrested again. Rhino horn this time. The same prosecutor has both cases—Ncube and Botha. It’s too much for anyone to handle, and too important to us. We need your help.”

  Klay laughed. “You want to take Botha and Ncube down using South Africa’s courts? Are you out of your minds? The South African judicial system is a joke. Ncube owns it,” Klay said. “You take a solid case to one of their prosecutors, and chances are he’ll sell it to the defendant. Hell, you can hire a prosecutor to bring charges if you want. To take down the president of South Africa, you don’t need a prosecutor, you need a superhe—” Klay felt his pulse accelerate. He sat up and narrowed his eyes. “Who’s the prosecutor?”

  Eady smiled. “Hungry Khoza.”

  “Hungry . . .” Klay let out a breath. “Hungry is going after Ncube?”

  “She’s been appointed special prosecutor in the Office of Public Protector,” Eady said. “She is therefore—”

  “—constitutionally protected,” Klay said.

  “Yes. Fully insulated from politics. Ncube can’t stop her. And as you well know, the NPA can’t corrupt her. If she’s got the goods, she’s untouchable. But she’s also got Botha’s case. Now that she’s got him, she can’t let go of him. Her task force is under tremendous international pressure to prosecute Botha. You haven’t heard of it?”

  Klay shook his head. His mind raced, appreciating the significance of Hungry’s appointment. Constitutionally protected or not, if she was prosecuting the president of South Africa, she was in very real danger.

  “Ncube is using Botha’s case to delay Hungry,” Eady said. “He’s demanding, ‘as a South African rhinoceros lover,’ that she prosecute Botha fully and immediately.”

  The old man patted Klay’s knee. “Help her, Tom. Behind the scenes. Free her up to pursue Ncube full bore.” Eady’s blue eyes twinkled ever so slightly. “Embed with her.”

  Klay glanced at Eady sharply. Just because he was thinking of that possibility didn’t mean Eady could. Barrow remained silent. Barrow knew of his relationship with Hungry, of course. They wouldn’t be bringing this to him otherwise.

  Eady shrugged. “Your goals, ultimately, will be consistent.”

  Klay’s eyes returned to the Monet. The dark rock in the painting was shaped like a beckoning finger.

  “Botha . . .” Klay said, considering Eady’s proposal.

  “This is a real chance to bring him down, Tom. Consider it my last act as your handler.” Eady’s smile closed. “A gift.”

  Klay looked hard, holding Eady’s eyes, seeing before him the mist and the rock. “Cache of secret documents,” he echoed skeptically. He turned to Barrow. “Any chance it was the Agency that happened to leak these secret files to Hungry?”

  Barrow crossed his arms. “In a perfect world, can’t say I wouldn’t mind. But no, sir. I expect if we had those files ourselves, we wouldn’t need you. She got them on her own.”

  “We don’t know what she has, Tom,” Eady said, shifting in his chair and folding his hands. “That’s your second objective. We need to know.”

  “I won’t undermine Hungry.”

  “Wouldn’t ask you to,” Eady said.

  They knew they had him at Botha. But he sensed something else. These two old spies breathing out their pale fog were obscuring something.

  “And Sharon?” he asked. “I don’t work for you anymore, remember?”

  “I’ll have a quiet word,” Eady said.

  “She’s had me on ice.”

  “Of course she has. You were mine. She wants hers. I will take care of it.”

  A harpoon hung lengthwise above the room’s fireplace. The plaque beneath it read, “Whale iron carried on board the Essex, 1820.”

  Man hunting whales—that’s what Eady and Barrow were counting on.

  “I have a condition,” Klay said.

  “See a doctor,” Barrow grumbled.

  “My condition is, I do this job and I’m out.”

  Files destroyed, he continued. No record of his work with or for the CIA. Tabula rasa.

  Eady turned to Barrow, who shrugged, leaving it to Klay to decide who to trust and what to hope for.

  Klay had a rule about trust and hope. He trusted people to act in their self-interest. It was his responsibility to figure out what that was, not theirs to tell him the truth. Hope did not figure into it because hope was not certainty. Hope was certainty’s flirtatious cousin. Yet here he was, sitting with two men trained to lie, watching one of them study his hand and the other one shrug his shoulders, hoping he could trust them.

  Eady started to wrap up their powwow. “You’ll go in as a knock, of course.” NOC—nonofficial cover—the Agency’s standard disclaimer. “But The Sovereign will support you. As always.”

  Klay laughed. “Terry Krieger’s The Sovereign now, Vance. Are you speaking for him?”

  Eady cleared his throat. “I was assured PGM will continue my policy of protecting any journalist in the field regardless of circumstance.” Eady paused. “Nevertheless, let’s not fuck it up.”

  TWO-MAN TEAM

  Arlington, Virginia

  Klay stood in the kitchen of Tenchant’s home. A black SUV was waiting outside. He rinsed his coffee mug and set it in the sink. Eady had not only cleared the assignment with Sharon; he’d gotten Tenchant approved, too. Tenchant had often asked to work with him in the field, but Klay had always found a way out. He preferred to work alone. But Eady was right. This trip was records-based, and he could use Tenchant’s computer skills. The man had a gift.

  Maggie Tenchant straightened the front of her husband’s new Patagonia windbreaker. “You take care of him.”

  “I will,” Klay said, amused.

  The tags from Tenchant’s jacket had been lying beside the sink in the powder room. It was Andes blue, made of ripstop nylon with a waterproof finish, half-elastic cuffs, and a draw-cord hem. The hood adjusted with one pull and was guaranteed not to block the wearer’s peripheral vision. The whole thing was capable of folding into its own breast pocket. All the protections, Klay thought, as he washed his hands.

  He’d told Tenchant they needed to be inconspicuous in the field—none of his usual biker jewelry, no motorcycle boots—and he guessed the jacket was his effort to comply. Tenchant’s hair was washed, his boots were good for hiking, and his silver skull ring was gone, leaving only a black wedding band and a runner’s wristwatch. Klay was surprised Tenchant had gotten through personnel. Beyond his clothing, Tenchant’s sinewy arms were tattooed shoulder to wrist, each sleeve featuring a Japanese Nio, a wrath-filled, muscular guardian of the Buddha. Tenchant’s guardians were Agyo and Ungyo, protectors of Todai-ji temple.

  “I mean it, Tom,” Maggie continued. “I’ve been reading about the white farm murders. Women set on fire, children decapitated—”

  “Mags—” Tenchant said.

  “Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

  Tenchant cocked his head and looked at Klay as if stupid was what he liked to do.

  “We’re headed out on a paper trail, Maggie, not a jungle trail,” Klay said. “Besides, I thought our man here was taking karate.”

  Tenchant took a piece of cinnamon raisin bag
el with cream cheese from his wife’s plate and popped it into his mouth.

  “Taking it?” Maggie said. “He’s a black belt!”

  Klay was surprised. He’d assumed Tenchant was just a beginner. A blue belt, maybe.

  Tenchant shrugged.

  “Well, maybe it will be Tenchant protecting me,” Klay said.

  “It’s a good sign,” Maggie said. “Isn’t it? Sending him with you. They’ll keep him on, don’t you think?”

  “She’s worried about the acquisition,” Tenchant explained. He picked up a napkin and wiped cream cheese off his fingertips. “Rumor is big layoffs are coming.”

  “It’s a good sign, Mags,” Klay said.

  Outside, their driver honked his horn. Tenchant placed a hand on his wife’s belly. “I’ll be back soon, little fella.”

  “You text me every day,” Maggie said.

  “I’ll text you every day,” Tenchant said.

  They kissed goodbye.

  “Not one bent hair,” she said, smoothing her husband’s unruly mop. Tenchant rolled his suitcase toward the door.

  Klay put out his hand to say goodbye. Maggie took it and gave Klay a peck on the cheek. “I mean it, Tom,” she whispered. “Please be careful. For my family.”

  Klay picked up his duffel bag. “I’ll have him back in ten days. Promise.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I wonder if you could help us,” Klay said to the woman at Delta’s business-class ticket counter. She was glancing from her screen to Klay’s passport, clicking computer keys. Klay had used his miles to upgrade to business. Tenchant was in economy.

  “My friend has never flown overseas before,” Klay said and began making a case for upgrading Tenchant. Midway through he realized how weak his arguments sounded. “He is an organ donor.” Klay smiled weakly.

  She glanced at Tenchant in his new Patagonia jacket and returned Klay’s passport. “I’m sorry,” she said, in that way.

  “It’s okay,” Tenchant said, handing her his passport. He pushed up his sleeves, flashing his Japanese tattoos, and placed his hand on Klay’s shoulder. “We’re taking my father to the impotency clinic in Johannesburg,” he said. “He doesn’t really like to talk about it.” He turned to Klay, “It’s okay, Dad.”

  She glanced at her screen and then back at Tenchant. The corners of her mouth quivered. Smiling, she clicked more keys and handed over their boarding passes.

  “Thank you,” Klay said.

  “Don’t thank me. He has almost as many miles as you.” She winked at Tenchant. “You should get to know your son better.”

  Klay turned to him, surprised. Tenchant shrugged. “Visiting Maggie’s mom.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Would you care for champagne, sparkling water, juice?” their flight attendant asked.

  “I’ll have a bourbon manhattan on the rocks,” Tenchant said.

  Klay had orange juice. Ever since Jakarta he took care where and when he drank. At home. Eady’s office. The Gray Pigeon. Places where accidents didn’t happen.

  With regard to their assignment, Klay had shared only what Tenchant needed to know: They were embedding with a criminal investigation underway in South Africa. The goal was to tell the story from the inside. The prosecutor’s name was Hungry Khoza. “An old friend,” Klay said. “Her target is Ras Botha.”

  “An old enemy,” Tenchant said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can she get him on the Kenya murders?”

  “Maybe,” Klay said, and closed his eyes.

  Tenchant was on his third manhattan when Klay felt a tug on his sleeve.

  “I never said it, but sorry for that grapefruit thing.”

  “What grapefruit thing?” Klay said.

  “Tanzania.”

  “The albino story?” Klay shook his head. “Wasn’t your fault. That’s just the editing process, Porfle-style,” he added.

  “As it turns out, I do bear some responsibility.”

  “It happens,” Klay said, trying to brush Tenchant off.

  “How’d it start, anyway?” Tenchant asked.

  “What?”

  “The grapefruit thing.”

  “Forget it,” Klay said. Klay caught a flash of disappointment in Tenchant’s eyes, and it occurred to him how little he knew his researcher. They rarely interacted socially, not even for lunch. Tenchant ate with the copy editors and fact checkers. Klay ate at this desk. He didn’t know about Tenchant’s martial arts. Today was the first time he’d been in his home. It had taken years before he and Snaps had found their groove in the field, and Snaps had been an experienced field photographer. Tenchant was a computer nerd.

  “Excuse me?” Klay said to the flight attendant. “Another round for us? Bourbon for me. A phone call,” he said, turning back to Tenchant. “Snaps had taken those incredible pics. Remember?”

  “The albino with her hand cut off.”

  “That one. The dug-up graves. The muti rituals. I called to give Porfle an update, just the usual, I’m about to hang up when this buffalo walks by. Huge animal, balls swinging around his knees. I say, ‘Holy shit, those are some big fucking balls.’ I wasn’t talking to Porfle. I was talking to myself.

  “‘Explain,’ Porfle says. Explain what? Just some bull the family keeps. Balls the size of grapefruit blowing in the wind. Right?”

  “Right,” Tenchant said.

  “So, I’m hanging up and Porfle says, ‘Don’t forget to give me the bull balls.’

  “I ask what does he mean. He says, ‘The Sufferin’ needs to grow some of its own.’ Says he wants the ‘balls blowing in the wind,’ just like I said it. Because it’s Porfle, I ask him directly, ‘You want the whole balls as big as grapefruits . . . in the story?’ He starts shouting he’s the goddamned editor, leave it to Tweedledee to take it out. ‘We’ll test their mettle,’ he’s yelling. You know how he is.”

  Tenchant sipped his drink. “Uh-huh.”

  “So, that’s what I did. I wrote it up with balls as big as grapefruit blowing in the wind. It was completely irrelevant to the story. When he got my first draft, he said it’s about time the bloody Sovereign wrote with brio.” Klay shook his head.

  “He hates you,” Tenchant said.

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  Tenchant shrugged.

  “Hates?” Klay asked. “Really?”

  “What did you think?”

  “I don’t know. I figured he was a little hostile. He sits at a desk and I run around the world. I’m no fan of his, but he hates me?”

  “Says you’re an arrogant prick.”

  “Does he?” Klay said, narrowing his eyes. “Okay. Well, then, I’m glad we had this little chat.”

  “Aw, come on. Tell me the rest. I’m the one that ends up paying for this, you know.”

  Klay took a drink. “All right. So the first draft comes back. Porfle writes ‘balls size of grapefruit blowing in wind’ would be better as ‘testicles like grapefruit blowing in the wind.’ I say okay. Then I get another email marked urgent. ‘Urgent! Tom, worried about testicles in wind. Please respond ASAP!’ I write him back. He wants to know was there actually a wind on that day and was it strong enough to move such large balls? Or, ‘more likely, were they not in fact swinging because of the bull’s gait? Possibly there was only a breeze,’ he writes me. ‘So, not blowing.’

  “I turn in my draft, he writes in the margin, ‘Tom, there are several varieties of grapefruit and we don’t know which one you’re referring to.’ He asks me to be more specific, ‘as with navel oranges, for example.’”

  “Yeah,” Tenchant said. “We’d just done that evolution-of-citrus story. I asked him if he wanted a specific variety for your story. I didn’t know it would become a thing. I just—”

  “So, I write back, ‘Readers know grape
fruits vary in size. The point is they were unusually large fucking balls, which “grapefruit” connotes.’ I say navel oranges might be familiar to readers, but the balls on the bull I saw were definitely larger than navel oranges, which is why I called them grapefruits.”

  “That’s probably when he called me to his office,” Tenchant said. “Er, cubicle now.”

  “Cubicle?”

  “Sharon’s moving the magazine staff into cubicles.”

  “That’s going to suck for you,” Klay said.

  “You, too. Don’t you read your emails?”

  “Fuuuck.” Klay sighed. For a moment he’d forgotten this was his last assignment. He wasn’t going back to the magazine. You’re quitting, remember?

  Tenchant said, “So, I walk into Porfle’s office, and he’s on the phone. He points at your manuscript with his pencil. ‘Check into this,’ he mouths to me.”

  “Check into grapefruit?”

  “Yeah,” Tenchant said. “So, I start researching grapefruit. It was pretty interesting. The American grapefruit started out in Malaysia. Spanish missionaries brought pomelos over here, and grapefruits grew out of that. The originals were all white. Then one day this Texas farmer finds a red one. It’s sweeter than the white ones. Americans go crazy for them. All of a sudden, grapefruit farmers start making money—this is the Great Depression. They patent a version and call it Ruby Red. It’s sweet and dark red. They make it the Texas state fruit.”

  “Fascinating.” Klay sighed.

  “Yeah. I thought so. Then one year there’s a huge storm and all the Ruby Reds fade to pink. Taste just as good, but the growers have this big ad campaign going about how delicious an apple-red grapefruit is, and now they’re gone . . .”

  Klay told himself to stay engaged in Tenchant’s story. Teamwork, he reminded himself, might be important on this trip.

  “So, this scientist in Texas named Henks—or Hacks? He packs up three thousand grapefruit buds, flies them to the Brookhaven nuclear lab on Long Island, stuffs the branches into a nuclear reactor, and fucking nukes them with thermal neutrons.”