Agents of the State

PART ONE

A NECESSARY KILL

1

They met on the parking deck of the tampon towers. As ordered. Out in the open. Late afternoon. Cape Town city sweating below in heat and humidity. Heat coming off the mountain as from a furnace, pulsing.

Three men told the western tower’s parking lot, top floor, third bay. Told, today, Sunday, 18:30. Told the car: a Honda Civic. Keys on the visor. Guns in the boot. Told the target. Told wear beach clothes,

T

-shirts, shorts, nothing fancy. Told the target’s locus.

All this conveyed individually in the morning by phone. Told don’t introduce yourselves. No names, no recoil. Told afterwards bring the car back. Keys on the visor. Guns in the boot. Go home separately.

Joey Curtains got there first. Joey Curtains was cautious. Being cautious kept you alive.

Had a friend drop him off in the street below, strolled up casually through the complex, went behind the apartment blocks to approach off the mountain in case there was surveillance. Found a place in shade where he could check out the scene. The car was there. Couple of other cars on the deck. During the hours he watched, people coming and going from their apartments in the towers, no one noticing him. People with beach towels, squash rackets, gym bags, shopping carriers. An ordinary Sunday afternoon.

Took him an hour before he noticed another watcher: five floors up at an open window, someone with binoculars. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The surveillance though, very thorough.

Except from where he sat he reckoned the watcher hadn’t spotted him.

Joey Curtains smiled. ‘Ja, my bru,’ he said to himself, ‘you is on the nail without fail.’

Quarter past six a short man arrived, dressed to order. Went straight to the car, checked for the keys, looked in the boot. Went over to the parapet, stood smoking, gazing down on the city. A perspiration sheen to his shaved head. An older man, thick set, maybe in his early fifties, probably a war veteran in the eyes of Joey Curtains.

Joey Curtains watched the watcher. The person up there on the fifth floor taking it all in, the binocs focused on the short man.

Couple of minutes later another man popped out of the stairwell. Jaunty. Springy. This one about Joey’s height, tallish, same wiry build. Same age, late twenties. Sort of guy looked like he could run a long way. Joey Curtains could run a long way. This one also dressed to order, sporting a peak cap.

The two men greeted one another, stood now beside the car waiting. Joey Curtains let the clock tick to five minutes after six thirty, watching the watcher at the window, scanning everywhere. Probably starting to worry, probably poeping himself. The men at the car now antsy, the short one checking the time on his cellphone. The two of them deciding, let’s go.

Joey Curtains sauntered out.

‘My champs,’ he said in Xhosa, going through the whole how are you, I am well greeting. Switched to English, ‘Sorry for the time, my brothers, Sunday slowness.’ He patted the car. ‘Nice car. Fast car, hey? Reliable. Not like those Golfs they usually got for us. At last they give us proper tools.’ The men grunted at him. Strict protocol: keep the talk to the job, no names.

He glanced from one man to the other. ‘Where’s the hardware?’

The older one got a bag out of the boot. Said in Xhosa, it was past time they went. Said he would be driving.

‘Hey, champ,’ said Joey Curtains, ‘English or Afrikaans, please, man.’

The driver said, ‘You’re late, my friend. Where is your discipline?’

Joey Curtains said, ‘African time, my bru. So what’s a few minutes?’

The other man made a crack in Xhosa about coloureds always being full of shit, called coloureds bushies. Joey Curtains let it go, pretending he didn’t understand. Laughed with the men as if he shared the joke.

Bushie, hey, they better be thankful they got a bushie with them. The only brains in the car.

He opened the back door, left-hand side. Before he got in, glanced up at the watcher in the window, waved. The person up there taking a step back out of the line of sight.

The driver noticed, said, ‘Who’s that?’

‘Someone checking we’re on the job,’ said Joey Curtains. ‘You got to watch out, champ. Keep your eyes open. Check your back. You know what they say, mos, man who looks back sees the ghosts. Old Chinese proverb I heard from a Chinaman. One day the Chinks shot him in the heart cos he was looking the wrong way.’ Joey Curtains laughed. ‘Sometimes you can’t win.’

The two men didn’t laugh. The driver cursed in his language, the jaunty one half-turned to Joey Curtains said, ‘Enough, my brother.’

Joey Curtains shrugged, settled on the back seat, wiped sweat off his face. ‘Some air-con, please, man, wind it up.’

The men looked at him.

‘What? Hey, what?’

The jaunty one drew two fingers across his lips.

‘Ag, my brothers …’ Joey Curtains let it go there, thinking, of all the hitters he could be teamed with, had to be two serious darkies. Serious like Aquarius. Not. Whatta joyride it was going to be.

They drove out of the Disa Towers, down Derry into Mill Street.

Joey Curtains said, ‘Some more air-con, come’n man, it’s fry city in here.’ At the traffic lights with Hatfield, Joey Curtains unzipped the bag with the guns. Whistled. ‘Very nice. Very nice. Revolvers, hey. Taurus. Nice little snubnose, The Judge, they call it.’ He picked one up. ‘Someone doesn’t want to risk a pistol jam. Going to make a loud noise without silencers.’ He spun the cylinder. ‘Probably what they wants, lots of confusion. Close work with this little barrel.’ He passed the gun between the seats to the jaunty man. The driver freaked.

‘What you doing? What you doing? Everyone can see here. Keep them in the bag. No, no, no.’ Smacking the steering wheel with each beat. Going into a string of Xhosa that had the jaunty one sniggering. He took the gun though.

‘Better check it,’ said Joey. ‘Sometimes they put in blanks jus for fun. I’ve known it. Happened to my chommie. He’s got this job, a home job, he pulls off two – pop, pop – but the target’s still staring at him. Shit scared. Pissing himself. But sitting there in his comfy chair in his comfy lounge alive and well, staring at my chommie. He has to pull off two more. Okay, they do the job. But, listen, hey, listen, the fifth one’s a blank also. Six-shot chamber, they packed in only five, only two for real. My chommie he gets back, he’s spitting like a cobra. He can’t speak, his words come out in a hiss. Everybody jokes with him, says, don’t take it serious, was just for a laugh. Job like that you only need one time. My chommie doesn’t see the joke. He smacks this armoury captain, bliksems him right over a counter. Oke has to have two pins put in his jaw. True story. Really. Honest to God. Really. So, you see, what I do now, I check every time, leave nothing to chance, nothing to nobody. Know what I mean?’

‘Bullshit,’ said the jaunty one. ‘That’s bullshit.’

‘True story, my brother. True story,’ said Joey Curtains. Caught the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror staring at him.

‘Enough. Okay, enough.’ The driver’s eyes bulging with anger. ‘We are not to talk.’

‘Alright, Chief, just saying, just saying.’ Joey Curtains dug an envelope from the bag, slipped out three colour photographs of the target. ‘Was wondering how we supposed to pick out the target?’ He studied the photographs. ‘Mr Handsome. Not someone you can miss.’ He tapped the jaunty man on the shoulder. ‘Better get an eyeful, champ, don’t want to shoot the wrong man. They put that in your file you never get promotion.’

While the jaunty man looked at the photographs, Joey Curtains checked his gun. Everything in place, all the chambers filled with the real deal. Five hollowpoints. He placed the revolver back in the bag. The time now: 18:50. The service would have started.

The driver turned off Orange into Queen Victoria, found a parking space outside the French embassy.

Joey Curtains looked around. Nice part of town, this corner. Reminded him of his childhood. Coming here with his granny to play in the Company’s Garden on Sundays. Feed the fish breadcrumbs. Throw peanuts to the squirrels. Sometimes have a Coke float at the café. Coming in on the train, walking up Adderley Street, touching the Slave Lodge like his granny said. Why we got to do that, Granny? Because bad things happened here, Joey. Don’t forget. Yeah, bad things still happening.

‘Hey, my champs,’ said Joey Curtains pushing away the memories, ‘how about some music?’

The jaunty man pressed buttons on the radio, up came Cape Talk’s golden oldies: Aretha Franklin’s ‘Say a Little Prayer’ playing.

‘Every time you listen on a Sunday they play this,’ said Joey Curtains. ‘Like the dj’s hot for Aretha. Must be really old he can remember so far back.’

‘No talking,’ said the driver. He pulled out his cellphone, keyed an

SMS

.

Joey Curtains sat back. Aretha morphed into Petula Clark into Roberta Flack ‘The First Time Ever …’ He picked up the photograph, leant forward to wave it between the two men. Said, ‘Champs, the first time ever I saw this face …’

The jaunty one snorted.

The driver said, ‘Where’s your respect?’

Joey Curtains wasn’t sure if he meant Roberta or the man in the photograph.

‘Nice song. Very soulful.’

2

Kaiser Vula placed himself on the aisle in the seventh pew from the holy end. Liked St George’s cathedral, the late sun at the stained-glass windows. The organ grinding out some Bachish tune. People coming in for evening service, some in their best, some like they’d nipped off the beach in flip-flops and

T

-shirts. Everyone shuffling around, heads bowed. Kids whispering. The robed guys tending candles, laying out the communion stuff on the white lace.

Kaiser Vula eased up off his knees. Anglicans had this thing about being on their knees, the cushions as hard as the floor. Something to do with penance. Not a lesson he’d taken on board. Some medieval thing whiteys got hooked into, couldn’t let go even in the modern world. As he recalled from his choirboy days.

Sat back, had to reach round to shift the pistol digging into his hip. A little 9mm Ruger centrefire, seven plus one, with a blued finish. Ten-centimetre barrel, a grip that disappeared into his fist. He had it in his fist, Kaiser Vula’s finger almost filled the trigger guard. Big man, Kaiser Vula. Big man who liked the little Ruger. You put a load from the Ruger on the money, you could relax. No one was going to tell you I’ll be back.

Kaiser Vula laid those big hands in his lap. Hot hands, his palms moist. An evening too hot for a jacket. What could you do? Didn’t want to get the worshippers jazzed at the sight of some hardware, no matter the beauty of that hardware. So you had to wear a jacket. He exhaled a stream of air at his hands, felt the cool.

Ah, man, sticky humid February.

The other reason he liked the cathedral was Kaiser Vula remembered those student days of running battles with the cops through the city’s streets, ducking into the cathedral to hide from the Boere. Lying among the pews, hardly daring to breathe. Crying from the teargas. Heady stuff, those Struggle days.

Turned his head. To his right, across the aisle, three rows up, the colonel with his family. Wife, two sons, a daughter, the children sitting demure between mom and dad. Young kids, ranged maybe three to ten, well behaved, private-schooled. A perfect family.

Like his own. Many similarities: the military rank, except he was a major, the trappings of wellbeing, the wife, three children, except he had only one son. A penchant for golf on Wednesday afternoons. A taste for whisky. Expensive single-malt whisky. At the thought Kaiser Vula could feel the smoothness of an Islay in his mouth, even smell the fumes, thick, peaty.

He shook his head to dislodge the craving. Looked again at the family, dressed smart-casual, as his would be for church. The colonel in a white open-necked shirt, the two boys in blue golf shirts. Mother and daughter wearing dresses. A pretty picture. Expensive frocks. Not Woolworths. Something designer.

One thing about the colonel, he didn’t do brands. Kept his profile down, no bling, no ostentation. His wife too. Unusual trait to Kaiser Vula’s way of thinking. Colonels out of uniform, if you could get them out of uniform, more inclined to the stereotype: heavy watches, gold chains, top fashion clothing. Their women too. Young women usually. Not like Colonel Abel Kolingba and his family. Mrs Kolingba in her forties. Good-looking woman, did a lot of gym work and jogging. Kept herself trim. Name of Cynthia. A brainy type, he remembered from the file, degrees from French universities, into gazing at the heavens, not that she’d done much of that in recent years. Kept in touch with other astronomers despite everything. A linguist too, her own language, Sango, French, English, German. Difficult situation for a woman like that.

You looked at them you’d think executive family, maybe riding on black economic empowerment, owned a high-end suv, lived in some gated estate down the peninsula, wife did book clubs, family had holidays at Sun City. You’d be right, according to the file, except for the bit about the executive. Instead you’d read Colonel Kolingba was planning a palace coup. Take his country out of its violent chaos.

Kaiser Vula was up on the file. Had no opinions on the colonel. No opinions on his politics. Kaiser Vula did what he was told. A good soldier. A good major. Only thing, Kaiser Vula never wore a uniform.

In the row behind the Kolingbas two security. Pumped-up steroid types in black suits, had to be overheating. Their shirt armpits soggy. Probably the sweat running down their spines. Those suits the pits. Kaiser Vula knew. He’d done a stint in the goon squads. Two decades back when everyone came home to the new country. He glanced round at another bodyguard standing at the back. Knew there were two more outside on the pavement. All of them wired up. The colonel one cautious man. With good reason.

In his trouser pocket, Kaiser Vula’s cellphone vibrated: an

SMS

. No need to read it. He knew what it said: Everything in place.

Good.

Right on time.

Good.

Out of the vestry came the bishop in his purple vestments, smiling. Raised his hands, the congregation standing. A short beseech for mercy on high, the first hymn. One Kaiser Vula dimly recalled.

Behold the sun, that seem’d but now

Enthroned overhead

Beginneth to decline below

The globe whereon we tread:

And he whom yet we look upon

With comfort and delight

Will quite depart from hence anon,

And leave us to the night.

The major sang through to the end of the second verse, closed the hymnal, stepped out of the pew. A man opposite, his mouth filled with song, looked at him. A glance of disinterest that Kaiser Vula didn’t acknowledge. Nodded more than bowed quickly towards the altar, then, eyes hooded, shoulders bent, strode down the aisle. Could feel the goons watching him. Made no eye contact, sloped outside into the evening heat, fumbling to bring his cellphone to his ear. Knew the bodyguards posted on the cathedral steps would be tracking him. Wonderful ruse, the cellphone. Paused near them, said loudly, anxiously into the phone. ‘I’m coming. I’ll see you at the hospital.’ Hurried away up Wale Street.

To his car, parked a block higher, other side of the road, a more or less clear line of sight through the palm trees to the cathedral entrance. Kaiser Vula took off his jacket, laid it along the Golf’s back seat. Closed the door, opened the driver’s, stood looking down at the church. The two security men outside, beneath the trees, beyond them people leaving the Company’s Garden, slow Sunday traffic passing the Slave Lodge on the curve into Wale. All fine.

The sun had left the high buildings. Behind them the mountain face would be in shadow. The city quiet, tourists at the pavement cafés, people relieved at the end of the day’s heat, relaxing in the twilight. Out on the western rim, the sun would bulge a moment as if it truly sank into the sea.

3

Kaiser Vula slid behind the steering wheel, hitched his slacks where they were tight across his knees. Breathed in the smell of new car: polish, leather, cleanliness warm in his nostrils. From his belt brought out the Ruger, placed it in the cubbyhole. Clipped his cellphone into the hands-free holder. From under the seat pulled a small pair of Bushnell birding binoculars. Adjusted the focus, paid attention to the two guards. They leant against the cathedral wall, smoking, gazing at the drift of pedestrians making for the station. Bored. As Vula’d been as a bodyguard. The sheer tedium. Then the need to be alert. To see everything. To react to what was out of place. To recognise what was wrong.

Nothing was wrong. Everything was as it should be. In the parking lot beside the cathedral, the colonel’s black Fortuner, tinted windows, bulletproof panels in the doors. The driver in place. The support vehicles for the security in Queen Victoria Street: Audi

A

4s, no stinting on the price tag. By now they would have flat tyres, both front left against the kerb.

Nothing to do but wait.

He waited. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. In the cathedral they’d be full voice with the second hymn. Kaiser Vula put the binoculars on the site: the bodyguards now away from the building, the one talking into his cellphone, the other focused on the crypt notice board. Ah, the job’s tedium.

His cellphone vibrated, the name Marc on the screen. Marc, Kaiser Vula’s codename for Nandi, the lovely Nandi.

Made him click his tongue.

Kaiser Vula dropped the binoculars in his lap, connected her.

‘Darl,’ she said. ‘When’re you getting here? People are chilling already.’

He pictured it. Her chic apartment, the balcony with the view over the Waterfront. Over the whole of Table Bay. Evening like this, the beautiful people’d be looking at a glassy sea, the white scythe of beach, the lights taking hold in the twilight haze. Very Cape Town lifestyle. Glossy, chic, theirs.

He could hear voices. Laughter. The laughter of good times. Music. Adele. Adele was Nandi’s soundtrack.

‘What’re you wearing?’ he said.

She laughed. ‘The Chanel. The one we bought in Paris.’

That voice of hers, the good-school accent, no sound of the townships.

‘Underneath.’

‘Kaisy, darl …’ Surprise in there. Playfulness. A pause.

He imagined her lips, pink lipstick, silky. Imagined her turning away from the guests, seeking privacy. Where? On the deck? Facing into the towers of downtown? Smiling to herself.

‘What d’you mean … underneath?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Kaisy!’

‘Tell me.’

‘Alright.’ Drawing out the syllables, teasing him.

‘Tell me.’ He kept his voice hard. ‘Are you wearing a bra?’

‘No, my bra,’ she said, making a joke of it. ‘Not with this dress. Doesn’t need one. You know.’

‘Touch your nipples.’

‘Ah, darl. That’s for you.’

‘Do it. Make them rise up.’ He could see her in the dress, the thin material, the rise of her nipples pressed against the fabric. She had long nipples. Nipples you could get your tongue around. ‘Yes, you’ve got them hard?’

‘They’re good girls.’

Kaiser Vula shifted on the seat, tugged more room into the crotch of his slacks.

‘Run your hand down,’ he said.

‘I’m doing that, darl,’ she came back.

‘Now tell me, what’s underneath?’

‘A thong.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one you bought. The black one.’

‘Take it off.’

A pause.

‘Take it off.’

A whispered, ‘I can’t, babe, not here, I’m on the deck.’

‘Take it off.’

Again a pause. He could hear her breathe.

‘Wait, I’m doing it.’

Imagining the silk sliding down her thighs, dropped, a pool of material around her high heels. She’d have to step away.

‘Pick it up.’ She’d have to crouch, the dress was too short for her to bend. ‘Have you got it?’

‘I’m holding it.’

‘Is it warm?’

‘Yes.’

‘Smell it.’

He heard her draw air through her nostrils.

‘What’s the smell?’

‘Me.’

‘Yes, yes. What?’

‘Soap. Lotion. Herbs.’

‘And?’

‘Me.’

‘And?’

‘Musty me.’

‘Throw it over the balcony.’

‘I …’

‘Do it.’ He waited to the count of three. ‘Have you done it?’

‘I’ve dropped it.’

‘Who’s seen you?’

‘No one.’

‘What’re they doing?

‘Drinking. Talking.’

‘Touch yourself.’

He heard her gasp.

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll be there soon.’ Kaiser Vula disconnected, sat back, sweating, sweaty in the humid air. Closed his eyes: saw Nandi, the lovely Nandi, in her short dress, thongless on the balcony. Breathed out, not a sigh, just a long exhalation.

That girl.

Kaiser Vula brought his attention back to the street, to the knot of people on the steps of the cathedral. The service must have finished. Lifted his binoculars. Saw the family emerging, shaking hands with the bishop. Cynthia Kolingba and the two boys ahead, the colonel and his daughter behind. Behind them three security guards. The goons on the pavement moving through the people, shepherding the family towards the car park. The Fortuner’s driver had the doors open, probably the engine running.

Kaiser Vula fired the ignition of his car, kept the binoculars on the dispersing worshippers.

At the Queen Victoria Street traffic lights a white Honda Civic stopped. Two men got out on the left-hand side. Young men in

T

-shirts, board shorts, trainers. One going round the front, the other round the back of the car. Striding across the street. A lithe hop onto the pavement, four, five paces down the pavement, the men reaching behind, under their

T

-shirts to pull out revolvers. Raising them. Shooting.

Kaiser Vula counted three shots, a pause, two more shots. Saw the colonel go down, the daughter falling with him. Saw the mother and two boys being forced down by the bodyguards. Saw one of the shooters take a bullet in the face, collapse. The remaining one sprinting for the Civic.

Kaiser Vula eased his car into Burg Street, drove slowly away round Greenmarket Square. Had gone three blocks when he heard the sirens, the cops quick on this one. Almost too quick.

Yes, well. There would be news in due course about the outcome.

4

From a bench on Government Avenue, Mart Velaze phoned in his report. Heard the Voice say, ‘Wait, Chief, wait one minute, okay.’ Then: ‘Now I’m with you. All ears.’ In that minute gazed up at the mountain behind the white towers of the Cape Town Synagogue, across at two lovers getting among one another on the lawn. Off to his left, children throwing breadcrumbs into the fish ponds. The mommy doing a record on her cellphone despite the dying light, the daddy looking bored, like he’d rather be watching soccer. No one worrying about the wail of sirens in the city.

The Voice came on: ‘Talk to me, Chief. What’s happening? Tell me things.’

‘It happened,’ said Mart Velaze.

A silence. This’s what the Voice did. Thoughtful silences. Mart Velaze well used to them, long enough part of the Voice’s unit. Over the last year survived witch-hunts, enquiries, debriefs, probes, official warnings. ‘Stick with me, Chief, you’ll be alright.’ He had. Kept his head down, become a Teflon man. For all this, knew nothing about her, though. Nothing about who she reported to. ‘Off the books, Chief. Black ops, black, black, black,’ she’d said at his recruitment. ‘As if we aren’t black enough anyhow.’ Laughed at her own joke. Her voice slightly husky, always calm.

From her tone Mart Velaze pictured her slim in tailored suits, white blouses. A silver chain necklace. Unmarried. Self-sufficient, self-contained, alone in her office that could be anywhere, handling agents she never met. A lonely job. Just with her secure phones, her internet connections.

‘You’ve got photographs?’

‘Of them meeting. Of the operation.’

‘Good. They complete the task?’

‘Looked like it. The little daughter too.’

‘That’s bad. That’s not nice.’

A silence.

Mart Velaze saw the young family holding hands, moving away. Going home.

‘Listen, Chief, a couple of things, okay. One, there’s talk, rumours, you know, things I’ve heard that there’s a restless group, mostly communists, could be up to naughty things. Things like what the Yankees call a wet job. You know this term?’

Mart Velaze lied, said he didn’t.

‘You can Google it. There you can find it means assassination. Like what’s just happened to the poor colonel. Only for the restless ones, their target is the president.’

‘Serious?’

‘Serious. But, Chief, Chief, this’s hands off. Ears only. Strictly. Okay, you with me here? If it’s happening, if you hear any whispers, ours is not to stop it. A name I’ve heard mention who could be involved is Henry Davidson. One of our own, one of the old boys. So, like with the colonel’s wet job, we’re surveillance only. Information only. No action. You got me, Chief? We stay out of it.’

Mart Velaze said he understood.

‘Good. Then number two,’ she sniggered. ‘Be a good idea to help the colonel’s wife. Show her we’re a democracy. Don’t like refugees being shot down after church. Give her some pointers at this sad time. You can do that?’

Mart Velaze said he could.

‘Excellent, Chief. That’s it for the moment. Go with the ancestors.’

Mart Velaze disconnected. The lovers had disconnected too. Were packing up their picnic. Now in the twilight hour, the face of Table Mountain dark.

5

Three days later, Wednesday: 23:30. Vicki Kahn took

KLM

598 out of Cape Town for Schiphol, Amsterdam. Cape Town in the low thirties

C

all day, Vicki well pleased to be getting out of it. Had laid down two thousand on a pick six for the Saturday races at Kenilworth, expected a tidy homecoming. Right there and then Vicki Kahn revving her life.

During the flight Vicki plugged into Melissa Etheridge on her iPad, ‘4th Street Feeling’, her thoughts drifting below Melissa’s voice. Especially the song about being rocked and rolled all night long. Made her think of her own love life. Of Fish Pescado the surfer dude who did her rocking and rolling. Just the thought of him made her smile.

Then sometime in the night, somewhere over the equator, came the realisation: she was on a mission. Her first overseas mission. Full-on cloak and dagger.

‘This’s what we do, Vicki.’ His words.

His words to her about this specific assignment.

Thursday 10:10, Vicki flew in to Schiphol, the plane docking at gate

E17

. Vicki got off feeling weird, nauseous. Maybe the flight or the food or both. Found her way down the

E

terminal concourse to the passport control access to

B

terminal.

The passport officer asked what she did, she told him company lawyer. Meeting other company lawyers in Berlin. He stamped her Schengen, said nothing, looked her square in the face without expression. Vicki stared back, picked up her passport, flicked her hair. The nausea unabated.

Got through the security check no hassle. Walked down the shopping concourse to Bubbles, this seafood and wine bar at the confluence of the spokes for

C

and

B

gates. The nausea at the back of her throat.

‘You’re not there to eat oysters, no no, no sipping a French white, Vicki, you hear me.’ Her boss again. The last thing on her mind right now.

Her boss Henry Davidson. How he’d hung in through all the changes was beyond logic. This Tyrannosaurus white from the hated regime. Had to be he had dirt on people. You tracked him, he’d gone from Security Branch to the reformed National Intelligence Agency now State Security Agency. Okay maybe nowhere near the top but still had his finger in. Bewigged Henry with his blazers. A brown wig. She’d seen pictures of Henry in those blazers wearing a cravat. Nowadays favoured a tie in the dark range, green to blue. Sometimes with stripes, mostly without. On Fridays his old boy’s tie, stripes of yellow and blue: Rondebosch Boys’ High School. The network. The alliance. The syndicate. The gang. One thing about Cape Town there were gangs in every class of society. The high-end gangs hadn’t changed much: same schools, same way of working, clubs and pubs, only their skin hue was darker nowadays. Dark rumour too that Henry the Communist had been a mole all those dangerous years. Was still faithful to the cause. He and his comrade relics singing the Internationale in their hi-tech kitchens: ‘This is the final struggle …’ The image making her smile.

Vicki bought a bottle of water from the quick food across from Bubbles, drank off a mouthful, the nausea subsiding. But now a tenderness to her breasts.

Some leather couches nearby with a view over a section of the airport. A place people spending hours and hours in transit could relax. Very considerate of the Dutch. Take a seat there, wait, were her instructions. Watch the aeroplanes through the big windows. Wait. Not a bad way to spend the morning. She did. Kept on hearing Melissa being a hundred miles from Kansas City.

This morning snow lay everywhere. Except it’d been cleared from the aprons and runways, ploughed into heaps. The flat expanses glistening in low sunlight. The temperature out there minus six, if you believed the pilot. His way of a landing welcome. The sky a faint blue, hazy. Not a single reason that Vicki could imagine why you’d want to live in a place like this.

6

Half an hour before the meeting time, Vicki stopped watching the aeroplanes. Saw off an Air France 737 Boeing then swapped her seat for a couch facing the concourse. Wanted to see her contact arrive. Didn’t want a sudden tap on the shoulder, Are you Vicki Kahn?

To pass the minutes placed bets on people coming through the area. Five to two on a woman with a shaved head wheeling an airport trolley. It wouldn’t be her. It wasn’t. Vicki collected from the imaginary bookie. Two to one on a tall classiness with a sling bag and an elegant coat, pixie-style haircut. The woman’s eyes brushed over her and she thought, oh-oh, you lost, Vics. But Ms Pixie moved on.

Only things Vicki knew, the person she was to meet was a woman. A troubled woman. This much she’d been told over lunch up at the café on top of Table Mountain. Just her and her boss yesterday, hot windless yesterday, having taken the cable car up with the tourists, stared down at the city for a while, then walked over the lumpy ground to the café. Admired the view way down on Camps Bay beach first. ‘Pleased I’m not there,’ Henry Davidson had said. ‘Frying my skin into cancer. Cannot afford to with all the cancer spots I get each year. White skin is a death certificate, Vicki, consider yourself lucky.’ He’d touched her arm. Vicki’d moved slightly away from him, half a step to the left, almost imperceptible but there all the same. And he’d noticed it.

From the buffet they’d helped themselves to pie and chips, a glass of white wine each. Taken a window table. Henry Davidson all manners and the lady sits first. Had tucked his paper serviette into his collar so it stuck there like a small flag. Said, ‘Bon, bon,’ hacked into his pie. Vicki suppressed a grin. Tried to raise the cathedral