yards, the whole rooty-tooty, the complete kraal and reed dance. Except Jacob Mkezi will not be hung out to dry.
THE ICING UNIT, DECEMBER 1977
Couple of days before Christmas the Commander calls the blond agent tells him the time has come to deliver the briefcase.
The next morning the Commander arrives to collect Blondie in his Benz. The Commander wearing the same jacket and tie he wore the RAU TEM night. They drive to the winelands, not talking.
What the Commander doesn’t know is that Blondie’s been into the briefcase. That night, after they dropped him at the hotel, the flea-ridden Station Hotel, he tried the locks. Combination locks. Not expecting them to open. But they did, flipped up with a sharp click. Inside: election flyers, letters for signing, newspaper clippings, draft of a speech, and …
And under that a sheaf of photocopies. Blondie flipped through them saying, Jeez, man, jeez, man. Wondering: that man, the politician, couldn’t be so rich? No, man, never. This was about something else. This was why he’d been told not to open the briefcase. This was stuff the politician shouldn’t have had, these copies of numbered Swiss bank accounts holding millions. You got killed for having this sort of information. Your own had you killed.
Blondie propped himself on the bed, smoked two cigarettes staring at the open briefcase. A thing he’d been told on training, always take insurance. Especially documents, photographs. Anything looks like it might have value, take it. You never know. The thing about insurance, mostly you don’t need it but sometimes …
The first opportunity he made photostats. Bank statements of all the accounts, deposit slips, correspondence. Then closed the briefcase, spun the combinations. Safe my mate.
That briefcase right now on the back seat of the Merc.
‘You ever heard of Dr Gold?’ says the Commander.
Blondie sucks on the cigarette, exhales. ‘Of course. The minister of finance.’
‘Was minister of finance. Now ambassador to Switzerland. You know why they call him Dr Gold?’
‘Nah.’ The cigarette dangling on his lips, trademark-style.
‘Because he shifted our country’s gold from London to Zurich, at a profit.’
Blondie thinking, makes sense of the millions in the bank accounts. Makes sense of blotting the RAU TEM politician, if the politician had found out what was going on. Blondie doesn’t know what’s going on but he thinks it has to be some get-rich scheme for Dr Gold and his mates.
‘This’s who we’re going to see,’ says the Commander. ‘To give him the briefcase.’ The Commander glancing at him. ‘You didn’t open it?’
Blondie blows out smoke. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Not a problem for some people.’
‘Ja, well. I didn’t.’
Blondie reckons the Commander’s not convinced. Tough tittie.
The Commander half-looking at him, one eye on the road, smiling. Says, ‘There’s a boykie.’
Blondie, eyes on the mountains ahead hazed in the heat, lets a trickle of smoke curl up the side of his face, disappear in his blond surfer’s thatch. They drive in silence, the Commander tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. The road narrow through the winelands, past silos, sheds, the Commander going wide round a donkey cart, children in the cart waving.
On a hill he slows, turns off the tar onto a dirt road, the road ungraded, the Merc’s underbelly scraping on the bumps. Takes them through a labourers’ settlement of low white cottages, women staring at them, children and dogs running out.
At the end of the settlement they swerve between two cottages into a plantation of bluegum trees, the track smoother, covered in brittle eucalyptus leaves, still heading upwards. On the risethe trees clear, the vista opening into a valley, a pond below, beyond that lawns rising to the gabled house.
Blondie whistles.
‘Built 1730,’ says the Commander. ‘Says so on the gable.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘You met
THE ICING UNIT, DECEMBER 1977
Couple of days before Christmas the Commander calls the blond agent tells him the time has come to deliver the briefcase.
The next morning the Commander arrives to collect Blondie in his Benz. The Commander wearing the same jacket and tie he wore the RAU TEM night. They drive to the winelands, not talking.
What the Commander doesn’t know is that Blondie’s been into the briefcase. That night, after they dropped him at the hotel, the flea-ridden Station Hotel, he tried the locks. Combination locks. Not expecting them to open. But they did, flipped up with a sharp click. Inside: election flyers, letters for signing, newspaper clippings, draft of a speech, and …
And under that a sheaf of photocopies. Blondie flipped through them saying, Jeez, man, jeez, man. Wondering: that man, the politician, couldn’t be so rich? No, man, never. This was about something else. This was why he’d been told not to open the briefcase. This was stuff the politician shouldn’t have had, these copies of numbered Swiss bank accounts holding millions. You got killed for having this sort of information. Your own had you killed.
Blondie propped himself on the bed, smoked two cigarettes staring at the open briefcase. A thing he’d been told on training, always take insurance. Especially documents, photographs. Anything looks like it might have value, take it. You never know. The thing about insurance, mostly you don’t need it but sometimes …
The first opportunity he made photostats. Bank statements of all the accounts, deposit slips, correspondence. Then closed the briefcase, spun the combinations. Safe my mate.
That briefcase right now on the back seat of the Merc.
‘You ever heard of Dr Gold?’ says the Commander.
Blondie sucks on the cigarette, exhales. ‘Of course. The minister of finance.’
‘Was minister of finance. Now ambassador to Switzerland. You know why they call him Dr Gold?’
‘Nah.’ The cigarette dangling on his lips, trademark-style.
‘Because he shifted our country’s gold from London to Zurich, at a profit.’
Blondie thinking, makes sense of the millions in the bank accounts. Makes sense of blotting the RAU TEM politician, if the politician had found out what was going on. Blondie doesn’t know what’s going on but he thinks it has to be some get-rich scheme for Dr Gold and his mates.
‘This’s who we’re going to see,’ says the Commander. ‘To give him the briefcase.’ The Commander glancing at him. ‘You didn’t open it?’
Blondie blows out smoke. ‘It’s locked.’
‘Not a problem for some people.’
‘Ja, well. I didn’t.’
Blondie reckons the Commander’s not convinced. Tough tittie.
The Commander half-looking at him, one eye on the road, smiling. Says, ‘There’s a boykie.’
Blondie, eyes on the mountains ahead hazed in the heat, lets a trickle of smoke curl up the side of his face, disappear in his blond surfer’s thatch. They drive in silence, the Commander tapping the steering wheel with his fingers. The road narrow through the winelands, past silos, sheds, the Commander going wide round a donkey cart, children in the cart waving.
On a hill he slows, turns off the tar onto a dirt road, the road ungraded, the Merc’s underbelly scraping on the bumps. Takes them through a labourers’ settlement of low white cottages, women staring at them, children and dogs running out.
At the end of the settlement they swerve between two cottages into a plantation of bluegum trees, the track smoother, covered in brittle eucalyptus leaves, still heading upwards. On the risethe trees clear, the vista opening into a valley, a pond below, beyond that lawns rising to the gabled house.
Blondie whistles.
‘Built 1730,’ says the Commander. ‘Says so on the gable.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘Not long ago.’
‘You met
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