him?’
‘Was his job we pulled. His orders.’
Blondie lights another cigarette from the stompie of the last.
‘This is where he lives?’
‘One of the places. Dr Gold moves around. Has a house in Cape Town for when he was in parliament. Another one in Pretoria. The farm he likes best’s in the Free State. Has this koppie, more like a mountain, on it. Flat-topped mountain, you go up there you could be in another world. Something to see let me tell you. You think this looks good, you gotta see that place. Air you can drink. Big landscapes, big big landscapes. At night stars and stars to the end of the universe.’
‘What sort of farm?’
‘Cattle.’ The Commander shakes his head. ‘Not Angus or any of them. Not Frieslands. Nguni cattle, he calls them. Even breeds the bastards.’ The Commander does his finger drum on the steering wheel. ‘I don’t know, something strange about Dr Gold, if you ask me.’
The Commander stops the Merc near the house. There’s a black man standing at the front door. Smartest-looking black man Blondie’s ever seen. Even wearing a jacket in the heat. Young too, about his own age, Blondie reckons. Says, ‘Check those shoes.’
‘Crocodile skin,’ says the Commander. ‘Very pretentious all that patchwork. Bloody awful.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Jacob Mkezi,’ says the Commander, keeping his voice low. ‘Dr Gold’s man. Only Bantu security in the whole government. Comes from the Free State farm. We trained him. Special training in the security branch.’
They get out of the car, Blondie reaching in to lift the briefcase off the back seat.
‘Kill the smoke,’ says the Commander. ‘Don’t light another one.’
As they walk up the steps onto the stoep, Jacob comes forward. No smile, nothing in his eyes.
The Commander unholsters his gun, hands it over. ‘Give it to him,’ he says to Blondie.
He hesitates.
‘Give it to him.’
Blondie obeys, pulls a pistol from his belt.
‘And the briefcase.’
‘You said …’
‘Give it to him.’
Jacob takes the guns and the briefcase, stands aside to let them enter. Inside it’s dark, cool, smells of thatch. The ceiling of wood planks, a fan turning in the dimness.
‘Wait,’ says Jacob.
They wait not speaking, the day bright and harsh beyond the open door. Their eyes growing accustomed to the gloom. The room looks like a museum. Old farm implements on the walls. Rack of ball-and-powder rifles. Ancient cabinets, writing desks. Riempie furniture: chairs, benches, footstool bankies.
A door opens at the end of the room, a voice says, ‘Thank you for bringing the briefcase.’ There’s a short man, stocky, carrying weight on his stomach. His pate bald, grey whispers of hair over his ears, approaching them. ‘People call me Dr Gold,’ he says, chuckling, shaking hands with the Commander, moving on to Blondie, lingering, his hand damp and soft in Blondie’s grip.
‘You are a surfer,’ he says. ‘So I’m told. Very nice, exhilarating, I would say.’ He releases Blondie’s hand. Turns towards a movement in the passage, says, ‘Jacob, is all in order?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Jacob.
‘The briefcase was locked? The papers inside?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Jacob.
Dr Gold smiles at Blondie. ‘I was told you are discreet.’ He lays his hand on Blondie’s arm. ‘There are no waves in Switzerland but we could use someone … discreet. Don’t you think so, Jacob?’
Jacob says nothing.
‘Well, think about it anyhow.’ He backs off two paces. ‘I appreciate your trouble, Commander, most sincerely. As they say, you’ve taken a great weight off my mind. I can return to Switzerland, relieved.’ His hand flutters a goodbye. ‘Oh, Jacob,’ he says, ‘fetch them a jug of lime juice. It is a hot day to be driving.’
12
Fish takes a shower, gets into a hoody and jeans, a pair of ankle-boots made of vegetable-dyed kudu leather he only wears in winter. Wanders through to the kitchen, toasts slices of bread under
‘Was his job we pulled. His orders.’
Blondie lights another cigarette from the stompie of the last.
‘This is where he lives?’
‘One of the places. Dr Gold moves around. Has a house in Cape Town for when he was in parliament. Another one in Pretoria. The farm he likes best’s in the Free State. Has this koppie, more like a mountain, on it. Flat-topped mountain, you go up there you could be in another world. Something to see let me tell you. You think this looks good, you gotta see that place. Air you can drink. Big landscapes, big big landscapes. At night stars and stars to the end of the universe.’
‘What sort of farm?’
‘Cattle.’ The Commander shakes his head. ‘Not Angus or any of them. Not Frieslands. Nguni cattle, he calls them. Even breeds the bastards.’ The Commander does his finger drum on the steering wheel. ‘I don’t know, something strange about Dr Gold, if you ask me.’
The Commander stops the Merc near the house. There’s a black man standing at the front door. Smartest-looking black man Blondie’s ever seen. Even wearing a jacket in the heat. Young too, about his own age, Blondie reckons. Says, ‘Check those shoes.’
‘Crocodile skin,’ says the Commander. ‘Very pretentious all that patchwork. Bloody awful.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Jacob Mkezi,’ says the Commander, keeping his voice low. ‘Dr Gold’s man. Only Bantu security in the whole government. Comes from the Free State farm. We trained him. Special training in the security branch.’
They get out of the car, Blondie reaching in to lift the briefcase off the back seat.
‘Kill the smoke,’ says the Commander. ‘Don’t light another one.’
As they walk up the steps onto the stoep, Jacob comes forward. No smile, nothing in his eyes.
The Commander unholsters his gun, hands it over. ‘Give it to him,’ he says to Blondie.
He hesitates.
‘Give it to him.’
Blondie obeys, pulls a pistol from his belt.
‘And the briefcase.’
‘You said …’
‘Give it to him.’
Jacob takes the guns and the briefcase, stands aside to let them enter. Inside it’s dark, cool, smells of thatch. The ceiling of wood planks, a fan turning in the dimness.
‘Wait,’ says Jacob.
They wait not speaking, the day bright and harsh beyond the open door. Their eyes growing accustomed to the gloom. The room looks like a museum. Old farm implements on the walls. Rack of ball-and-powder rifles. Ancient cabinets, writing desks. Riempie furniture: chairs, benches, footstool bankies.
A door opens at the end of the room, a voice says, ‘Thank you for bringing the briefcase.’ There’s a short man, stocky, carrying weight on his stomach. His pate bald, grey whispers of hair over his ears, approaching them. ‘People call me Dr Gold,’ he says, chuckling, shaking hands with the Commander, moving on to Blondie, lingering, his hand damp and soft in Blondie’s grip.
‘You are a surfer,’ he says. ‘So I’m told. Very nice, exhilarating, I would say.’ He releases Blondie’s hand. Turns towards a movement in the passage, says, ‘Jacob, is all in order?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Jacob.
‘The briefcase was locked? The papers inside?’
‘Yes, sir,’ says Jacob.
Dr Gold smiles at Blondie. ‘I was told you are discreet.’ He lays his hand on Blondie’s arm. ‘There are no waves in Switzerland but we could use someone … discreet. Don’t you think so, Jacob?’
Jacob says nothing.
‘Well, think about it anyhow.’ He backs off two paces. ‘I appreciate your trouble, Commander, most sincerely. As they say, you’ve taken a great weight off my mind. I can return to Switzerland, relieved.’ His hand flutters a goodbye. ‘Oh, Jacob,’ he says, ‘fetch them a jug of lime juice. It is a hot day to be driving.’
12
Fish takes a shower, gets into a hoody and jeans, a pair of ankle-boots made of vegetable-dyed kudu leather he only wears in winter. Wanders through to the kitchen, toasts slices of bread under
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