Treasonous

by David Hickson

  “She told you that? That she’d started the fire?”

  Du Toit nodded and stuck his lower lip out. “That same night. I said if we got our hands on the cocksucker who’d done it we’d throttle him and shove his balls down his throat, and she said she didn’t have any balls. And maybe her boyfriend didn’t anymore because they’d been burned off.”

  “She and her boyfriend? They did it together?”

  Du Toit repeated the painstaking process with his rum.

  “Their ground contact cooked the whole thing up. That’s what she said. Orders from above. She and the boyfriend didn’t object. Had a big grudge against the brother. I told her they had duped her. She was a murderer, not a political activist. Told Breytenbach to haul the ground contact in, get him to explain himself.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Said he couldn’t do that. Ground contact had disappeared. Said she made it all up. Said she was unstable. But by then they were covering their arses. Put me in a back room and told me they’d call me when they needed me. Four days I sat there getting myself pneumonia from all that sea air, while they drank tea and made up their bullshit stories.”

  “They didn’t bring the contact in?”

  “He went AWOL. No contact. Puff of smoke.”

  “But you thought she was telling you the truth?”

  “Listen, sonny boy,” said Du Toit with a return of the bitterness the rum had only temporarily assuaged. “I might be getting on, but I’m not losing my mind. They’ve filled you with their lies. But I know what happened. As soon as they figured out which Zulu was lying in that hospital bed they decided to help him deal with her. Kill two birds with one stone. Make a new friend, and get rid of the woman. He did her in as soon as his tongue could get itself around all those clicks. You can be sure he put the finger on her, and his compatriots went out and dealt with her. I told them that night: she’s a marked woman. Doesn’t stand a chance. They’ll be putting a tyre around her shoulders and lighting the night up with it. You see if I’m not right.”

  “But why send her to Robben Island to speak to him?”

  Du Toit uttered a cackling laugh which became a hacking cough.

  “They didn’t send her to Robben Island,” he said, and did the chameleon eyes again.

  “She went to the island,” I said.

  “Of course she did,” said Du Toit. “I sent her there.”

  He wheezed and coughed again at my surprise, then tipped another few drops of rum into his mouth.

  “Weeks after the bonfire, she called me. Head office in Pretoria. She called from a phone box, remember those? No security, nothing. But she’d given up on it all, lost her heart, hadn’t she? We all knew that. I said you’re lucky to be alive, that Zulu is going to get his buddies to give you what’s coming to you. And she agreed. Said she wanted to talk to him. I laughed, but she begged me.” He gave a wheezing cough that might have been intended as a laugh. “She knew she was good as dead, said they were already after her. Wanted to go and see him. Beg him to spare her. Went on and on. I put the phone down on her.”

  “But she called back?”

  “Every day. Started making threats. I don’t think she had anything that hadn’t been blown already, but still she made them.” Du Toit’s tongue emerged for more rum.

  “You took pity on her?”

  “Wasn’t difficult. Said we needed direct contact with the Zulu. They’d just about finished putting his face back on, and he was in isolation anyway. No harm in it. We owed her that much, at least.”

  “But it didn’t work?”

  Du Toit shrugged. “Doesn’t look that way, does it? I guess she didn’t plead hard enough, wasn’t as convincing as she hoped to be. She was a looker she was, tight little body, had all the right tools, but that was not enough.”

  “What did she say about it?”

  “Say? She said nothing. I called that priest of yours a couple weeks later: Fehrson, I said, what’s become of your girl? Put me on hold. That baby-faced homo came on the line. Said the file had been closed, like it was something that had happened accidentally. Like they’d dropped it by mistake, and it was out of their hands. My help wasn’t needed he said. I hadn’t been intending to help. Told him that, little homo.”

  “You never heard from her?”

  “My next trip down to the Cape I asked around. She was gone, presumed dead. Told me to keep my nose out of their business. Suited me. That sea air did it for my lungs.” He gave a wheezing cough to prove it. “I got the hell out of there, never went back.”

  I poured Du Toit a third rum with not too much Coke. The nurse returned to move me along and threatened to confiscate Du Toit’s glass because she suspected that he had already had enough. Du Toit faced this threat by downing the drink and handing her the glass. As I made to leave, he grabbed the sleeve of my jacket and held me back.

  “You young upstarts,” he said, breathing rotten teeth and rum all over me. “You think we did it all wrong, don’t you? Think we should all be locked away or put out of our misery.”

  I started to deny it, but Du Toit would not be stopped. “We were fighting a war, that’s what none of you cock-suckers gets,” he spat angrily. “Yes, we killed a lot of gooks. Others died too, like that girl. But it was a war. The ANC was a terrorist organisation. And not just because we said so. They were declared terrorists by the United fucking Nations. Amnesty wouldn’t step up for that darkie in prison, you know that?”

  “Darkie in prison?”

  “Mandela.”

  “Mandela?” I tried to hide my surprise. There weren’t many people who would have described Nelson Mandela in those terms. Du Toit spat as if to rid his mouth of a foul taste.

  “When that darkie came out he became an instant saint, and now that he’s dead he’s sitting up there with the Holy Trinity. But he was a terrorist before he became a saint. He killed people. Not with his bare hands, but with his bombs. Amnesty wouldn’t fight for his release. You go check your facts, you little upstart. And when you go back to your new Zulu leader, you remember that. He killed that woman because she fought on the other side. On our side. That was her right, but he killed her for it. And that’s war crimes. Hell, not just war crimes, that’s murder. You tell him that.” His claw-like hand clutched at my sleeve and his eyes swam in a sea of rum and bitter memories. “So don’t you come snooping round here thinking you’ll find someone else to pin that one on. Her blood’s on his hands. Get the file with my report, it’s all in there. But you’ll need to get yourself a crowbar and maybe a gun. ‘Cos they’re not going to show you the files. ‘Cos they helped him do it. And while you’re at it, go back to your priest, Father Don fucking Fehrson, and ask him why he was kept at a distance. That’s a question worth asking. But watch your step, sonny. They’ll not think twice about smoking anyone who starts stirring this shit up. So worry about that before you come back here throwing the shit at me.”

  Du Toit’s anger culminated in a wrenching coughing fit. I extracted my arm from his grasp and wiped the spittle from it.

  I thanked Major Du Toit for his time. The nurse helped him get the oxygen mask in place, and I wished her luck as I made my way out.

  I sat in the hired car and looked out over the purple carpet of fallen petals beneath the jacaranda trees while the half tot of rum I’d consumed chased some confused thoughts round my mind. Behind all the brittle anger and spite that came from Du Toit, his story was the only one that had the slightest ring of truth to it. I thought about his suggestion that I get myself a gun and take the file with his report in it for myself. Sometimes the only path to the truth was a little crooked. I knew that.

  Khanyi answered her phone with a sigh.

  “Tell me you’re not calling about that dead woman,” she said. “Father’s been quite upset about the whole thing.”

  “Could you tell me which of those files includes a report by Du Toit?”

  “I would imagine all of them. You heard what Father said: Du Toit had h
is fingers all over it.”

  “It should say on the summary sheet,” I said. “The night of the fire.”

  Khanyi sighed again, and I heard the shuffling of papers.

  “I thought you were going to drop this whole thing, Gabriel. Mister Breytenbach complained that we sent you snooping around there. Father said that if I heard from you, I should remind you that you are no longer employed by the Department. And that claiming you are is illegal. He said it amounts to a criminal action.”

  “Do you know what his personal reasons were? The reasons Fehrson was kept away from the operation?”

  “Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

  “Criminal actions, yes. You can tell him I will do my best to keep it legal.”

  “You should do your best not to do anything,” said Khanyi and sighed once again for good measure. “Here we are. Du Toit’s name comes up twice. Two of the files reference him.”

  “Is either of them a report by him?”

  Khanyi gave me the number of the file that included mention of a report by Du Toit.

  “It was family reasons,” she said. “He told you, there were family reasons that kept him out of it.”

  “But he didn’t say what family reasons?”

  “It’s none of your business, Gabriel, but it was about that time his marriage fell apart. And his son started with the drugs and killed that person not long after. You know all that.”

  I remembered Fehrson telling me that Lindiwe Dlomo had been about the same age as his son and wondered whether there had been more to the connection than a similarity of age.

  “Mister Breytenbach said those files aren’t available,” said Khanyi. “We’ve already spoken to him about it. Don’t even think of going back to him and asking for that file. Father would lay charges if you did.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it,” I said.

  As I started the car and listened to the gentle popping of the carpet of purple flowers as I rolled over them I wondered how difficult it would be to walk into the archives and see for myself whether the file was missing. And if it wasn’t, on Du Toit’s advice, how difficult would it be to get a crowbar and a gun and take the file for myself?

  Nine

  I found another pack of cigarettes in the kitchen cupboard, and lit myself one that evening, watching the moon meet its grisly end on my small patch of sea. I hadn't liked Johansson, and what did I care if the new president of the country had killed someone thirty years ago? I am sure some people would argue that a murderer should not be allowed to lead a country and would ask why Mbuyo was not paying for his sins. But I was the wrong person to ask that question, let alone answer it. Yet the thought of Johansson's body lying in a fridge lurked at the back of my mind like an insistent regret. And why was everyone going to so much trouble to lie to me? Because despite all the assurances and placatory smiles, I knew that there had been scant truth in anything that either Fehrson or BB had said, and probably little more in what Du Toit had said.

  My thoughts returned to BB. Meeting with him had been a mistake. Memories I had been running from for years were bubbling to the surface again. Inevitable memories. I lit another cigarette.

  I recalled BB at our briefing, wearing his tailored suit in the air-conditioned meeting room at the top of the mine complex, behind him the expansive view over the African bush, his conceited grimace of regret, as he told the lies that condemned so many men to their death.

  We were at the Kigesi Gold Mining complex in northern Uganda, not too far from the border with the Democratic Republic of Congo. Some of the gold from the mine had gone missing. Lord Eversham, BB’s partner and joint investor in the mining operation, had not been pleased to discover that some of their gold bars had been replaced by bars of worthless tungsten with only a thin veneer of gold. Lord Eversham was a member of the British aristocracy. He had political connections in the British government and a hotline to Special Forces. He started asking why it was that not all the gold they pulled from the ground and passed through the refinery was ending up where it should – in a vault in London, where it could line his back pocket.

  It hadn’t taken them long to figure out that there were a few rotten apples among the transport drivers. But BB and Lord Eversham were not content with simply firing them. BB was a man who believed in a more conclusive form of punishment. A more terminal punishment. That was where we came in. Lord Eversham pointed out to BB that his political contacts could arrange for that kind of punishment, but only if there was a bit of a political angle.

  Fortunately for them the ADF, or Allied Democratic Forces, were a terrorist group active in the area, mainly over the border in the Democratic Republic of Congo. The idea that the men BB wanted to punish had a connection to that terrorist group was spurious, if not a downright lie. Their crime was not political, but they had offended BB and Lord Eversham by daring to think that they could steal from them. And that was a crime that carried a more severe punishment than any act of political rebellion.

  So they assigned the blame to the convenient neighbourhood terrorist group. It took only a few phone calls from BB’s noble partner to ensure that the best interests of highly positioned British aristocrats were protected from the criminal activities of the foreign terrorists.

  And they sent our squad.

  We were a special squad. BB had been correct about that. Not a phantom squad by any means, but we had special talents. And we were not known for asking questions, so we should have been the perfect solution. But they had not accounted for the fact that, well trained as we were, we did have a few questions about our posting. We were probably tired; we had just finished a long tour in Afghanistan, and our weariness manifested in some self-doubt. They had also not accounted for our captain, Steven Chandler. He was a leader who listened to his men and took it upon himself to answer some of the more basic questions that we started asking. Such as ‘why are we in Uganda?’ And ‘why are we dealing with terrorists who are in no way endangering the lives of our countrymen?’ And ‘are these people even terrorists?’

  We set about our lethal task and started the hunt. Our job did not involve speaking with the enemy, it was a shoot first, ask questions later job. But speak with them we did.

  The first conversation was held in the slovenly mud hut where our victim had taken shelter. Even our translator refused to believe the story he told, which was too incredible to be true. Nothing but a fantasy, our captain declared. Certainly not something that would stand in the way of the fulfilment of our task.

  But it was a fantasy that was repeated by others.

  We started to believe that the men they had sent us to kill were not terrorists. They were simple locals, too weak, too stupid, or just too poor to meet the minimum requirements of employment at the mine. After failing to gain employment, they had each been offered special work. Dangerous work. Work on the mines, shoulder to shoulder with the lucky ones who had been accepted. What made their work dangerous was that they were diverting a tiny proportion of the valuable metal to a different destination.

  It seemed absurd, but the absurdity was repeated over and over. The contact was made after they failed in their application to work at the mine. Just as they were contemplating a bleak future, a member of their community would make an approach. Someone from their village, or the distant cousin of a friend. A different someone each time. Someone who explained the alternate rules, the role they needed to play, each of them a minor piece in a complex game.

  We kept quiet about the fantasy we were glimpsing. Captain Chandler was determined about that, and when he spoke we obeyed. No questions there.

  And besides, the reason for keeping quiet became obvious to us: it had to do with where the stolen gold was taken and why. The missing gold was stored in an underground vault. Nothing unusual about it being underground. But it was an underground vault in South Africa, which seemed a little unusual, given the greater police presence in South Africa. Most unusual of all was the suggestion that the vault belong
ed to a man that our victims knew well. A Mr. Riaan Breytenbach, chairman of the mine.

  We found ourselves in a difficult situation. There was no point in us speaking to our local contact for the operation, who happened to be the same man. Captain Chandler appealed to our masters for a review of our operation. But he made the appeal too late. Too late to start arguing the morality of our orders. We were highly trained men. We had our orders. It was our duty to do what we were told. And so we did.

  Our tour was extended, and still there was no review. And extended again. And still we obeyed. Until the day that a plane carrying tourists was shot down in the nearby region of Kivu and our orders were changed. We were the nearest people capable of parachuting in to see if there were any survivors. There were, and we managed to get some of them out. Not all of them. And not all of us.

  The image of BB’s smug grimace came back to me often, usually in the middle of the night, the darkest hours before dawn. The smirk on his face, the cold eyes that said he didn't care what we knew. His smug confidence that we would do his killing for him, no matter what we knew to be the truth. And there were times that I wondered whether BB would not rather have done the killing himself.

  That smirking man was now one of the people telling me yet again to turn away. That there was no story. That I should not worry about a journalist who fell into the sea. That the president-elect was clean as a whistle.

  I reminded myself that I am not political, that I hadn’t even liked Johansson and that I honestly didn’t care whether Thulani Mbuyo, president-elect of South Africa ever paid for his sins. But as I poured myself a whisky and lit a third cigarette, it occurred to me that I knew just the person who could help me get a crowbar and maybe even a gun.

  Ten

  Captain Steven Chandler stood at the window that stretched the entire width of the house and reached from the floor up to the ceiling two storeys above us. Like a vast screen the window provided me with an intimate close-up of the Atlantic, which was thrashing about under the constant pouring rain. The room had nothing to make it feel homely. It was more an architectural experiment, a large space defined by the sea on the one side, and raw concrete on the other, with wooden detailing to render the stark interior. It was the sort of building that architects are proud to demonstrate developed from a squiggle drawn on a restaurant napkin. It was also about as friendly to live in as a squiggle on a restaurant napkin, although the double glazing and under-floor heating kept us warm. I was sitting on one of the chrome and canvas sculptures that served poorly as chairs. Chandler was taking a while to settle, prowling back and forth like a caged animal.