Those Who Love Night (28 page)

Freek looked at him without the smallest glimmer of amusement. “I can see three possibilities,” he said. “You can leave this flat now, you can be on your way back to the countries you came from an hour from now, or maybe you won't leave this room alive. You decide, but decide now.”

T-shirt spent no time thinking it over. He tilted his head toward the door as a gesture to his friends and started in that direction. The rest followed. When they were gone, Freek turned the key in the lock.

“Mr. Jordaan, I never did nothing, I swear. Only a little bit of dagga.” Ephraim Khumalo was also a big man, but he looked a lot smaller now that his friends had left. He was a long way from the
CIO
and the authority of those days. “But who the hell are you, man?”

“I'm the deputy police commissioner for the province.”

“Shit. Don't you take muscle with you at times like this?”

Freek smiled for the first time since entering the room. “Only when I need it,” he said. “But sit down, make yourself at home.” Freek waved a hand in the direction of Khumalo's own couch. He imagined that Khumalo's mind was racing as he tried to guess just which of his many transgressions had caught up with him. “You don't keep a job long, do you?”

“I'm trying, man. I'm trying. I just had bad luck so far. I'll have a job soon, I swear.” A line of sweat was forming along Khumalo's forehead.

“Relax, Ephraim. You tell me what I want to know, and I'll do what I can to keep the immigration authorities off your back.”

“What do you want to know, man?”

“I want you to tell me about Zimbabwe.”

“Zimbabwe?” His relief was obvious. “What you want to know?”

“I want to know everything you can tell me about Director Jonas Chunga of the
CIO.
”

“He's defecting?”

“Is that what you call it—defecting?”

“I call it like that.”

“No, Chunga's not defecting. I just want you to tell me about him.”

Khumalo thought about this for a moment. “And what do I get?”

“You get to stay here. I don't send you back to Chunga.”

“Shit, you can't do that.”

“You want to try me?”

Khumalo said nothing. He did not seem to be enthusiastic about trying Freek.

“How long did you work with this man?”

“Ten years, plus-minus.”

“How closely?”

“I was his main man. I worked with him every day.”

“I believe there's an officer called Mpofu working with him now.”

“Mpofu was nothing in those days. I did everything for Jonas.”

“But you don't want to go back?”

Khumalo shrugged. He had decided on the role he should be playing. “I can go back. Jonas and me, we're all right…”

Freek rose quickly. A pair of handcuffs had appeared in his hands. “On your feet,” he said. “Let's go.”

Khumalo was struggling to his feet. “Jesus, man, what you doing?”

“You don't want to cooperate with me, so you can cooperate with Jonas Chunga.”

“Wait. Wait, man. Wait!” He raised his hands in protest, trying to keep them away from the handcuffs. “I'm cooperating. Whatever you want, I'm cooperating with it.”

Freek sat down slowly, motioning Khumalo to do the same. “Now, why are you afraid of going back to Chunga?”

This time the answer did not come easily. “With Jonas everything is about loyalty. If he thinks you not loyal to him, you dead.”

“Dead?” Freek asked.

“Maybe not dead, but you outside, you nothing.”

“But not dead?”

“Something you got to understand about Jonas…” He was leaning forward and for the first time he was speaking earnestly to Freek. “… he tries to keep his hands clean. He tries to stay away from the killing and he tries never to give the order to have someone killed. Some of the top guys in the
CIO
don't give a fuck. They'll give the order to rub some small opposition politician out. It's nothing to them. They even pull the trigger themselves sometimes. I think some of them like it.”

“But not Chunga?”

“Not Chunga. Jonas does his best to be a good man. But in his book, if you not loyal to your country, you a bad man.”

“And being loyal to your country means being loyal to Jonas?”

“Some'ing like that.”

A wire-bound book had appeared in Freek's hands and he had started making notes. “But you don't want to go back to this good man?”

“Man, it's not personal. I like Jonas. I admire him. Jonas got principles. I seen Jonas bring food to a poor village where the people were starving.”

Freek knew that in a country as poor as Zimbabwe, where so many people were starving, the reasons for such gestures often did not have simple answers. It was impossible to feed everyone. “Where did the food come from?”

“We took it from a World Food Program shipment.”

“Did he charge the people for it?”

“Never, not Jonas. He's a good man. The others woulda sold it, but not Jonas. Jonas didn't do that stuff.”

“So he's a good man?”

“He's a good man.” Khumalo was nodding emphatically.

“Not violent?”

“Never, not usually.”

“Never, or not usually?” Freek asked, speaking slowly. “Which is it? Explain it to me.”

“I seen him crack.”

“And then?”

“It's not something that happens a lot.”

“You've seen it?”

“I seen it once. An' I heard about it.”

“What did you see? What happens when Jonas cracks?”

“I heard about it before, but I only seen it once when I went with him to a farm where the white farmer was getting kicked out—part of land redistribution, you know. It was not the stuff we normally did, but someone high up who was getting the farm asked for us to come. When we got there the farmer was gone, but twenty or so of his workers were still there. The new owner wanted them gone too. Jonas told them to get out, but they said no. He showed them the letter of offer from the magistrate, giving the new owner permission to occupy the farm, but they wouldn't listen. So he warned them to be out the next day and we went back to Gweru and booked into a hotel. That night he gets a call from our minister. I was there when he took it. The minister wants to know what's going on, are the workers out? Jonas says, not yet, and the minister goes mad, screaming at him. He tells him the order came from the very top and if it is not carried out some head is going to roll. No prizes for guessing which head. The next morning we go back to the farm and the workers want to argue. They tell Jonas they won't go. Jonas explains to them very nicely that it's not him personally, it's the government. They got to leave and they got to leave now. He says we'll come back after lunch and they got to be gone. So we come back that afternoon and they still there. One a them, a youngster, comes right up to him. He brings his face right up to Jonas. He's right in Jonas's face and he screams as loud as he can. We not fucking going, he screams. This kid makes two mistakes. He didn't show respect for Jonas and he was doing some'ing that woulda meant Jonas coulda lost his power. Jonas shoots him right there. He went down like a sack a potatoes. Deader'n a mackerel. Two others come forward too fast and Jonas shoots them too, himself, but not to kill. One takes it in the thigh, not too far from the main attraction either, and the other loses a knee. We not waiting longer, he says. They were out ten minutes later, goods, dead boy, their wounded and all. An' they didn't have much goods. With Jonas, you got to do what he says and you got to be loyal and you got to respect him and don't mess with his power.”

Freek had listened carefully to the story. It sounded real to him. Ephraim sat back now, exhausted with the telling of it. “You spoke about other occasions?”

“Two others I heard of. One with a trade-union problem and one with interrogating a activist.”

“He also did the killing himself?”

“No. They say he gave the orders, but I dunno.”

Freek was looking past him. “Any others?”

“No, just them. But listen, commissioner, I don't want you to get the wrong idea about this guy. He saved lotsa people too. Sometimes, even when you on the wrong side, maybe he saves your life.”

“Give me an example.”

“The bombing of the party offices last year was big news, that's a example. In Zimbabwe that sorta stuff is treason. All involved can get death. Jonas knew who done it, but he destroyed evidence and they got away. They never even arrested them.”

“He destroyed evidence? You sure?”

“I swear. I was working with him at that time.”

“Do you know why?”

“Compassion. He was like that. Like those people at Madikwe Falls where he took food. That was Jonas. He was like that. An' if he thought someone was not guilty, he never pushed for conviction. Never, not like the others.”

Khumalo waited for another question from Freek. When it did not come he made as if to rise, hoping the interview was over. Freek was not finished, though. He was thinking about this man, Chunga, and what it was that Yudel most needed to know. “How high in the
CIO
is he?” was the question that came eventually.

“One below the
DG
.”

“So he's next in line?”

“Maybe, but there's about six on his level. And I don't think the others ever try to save anyone. They know their job. Maybe Jonas thinks too much.”

“One last thing. Have the
CIO
chiefs ever in your experience used snipers to do their business?”

“No, why would they? They can take whoever they want. Make them disappear, if they want to.”

Freek studied the face of the other man. And you, he thought … what was your position in all this? “Why did you defect?” he asked.

“I read the papers, Mr. Commissioner. I know Mugabe and them can't travel anywhere in the world. I know what the world says about Zim. I don't want to be tried for crimes against humanity. When the shit hits the fan, I want to be here in Jo'burg.” His voice took on a wheedling tone. “I helped you today. Maybe if immigration comes looking for me, you can also help old Ephraim.”

“Maybe,” Freek said.

*   *   *

Downstairs, in a parking garage that was almost completely empty, Freek tried to raise Yudel on Rosa's cell phone. He was looking at his notes in between keying in the number, then keying it in again. He was getting no response from the Zimbabwean telephone system—no busy tone, no number-unobtainable signal, nothing at all. He had made only two pages of notes, but he knew there were points in Khumalo's story that Yudel would want to hear about. Before starting the engine, he tried one last time. Still there was nothing. That country may as well have disappeared off the planet.

37

Yudel had seen a lot of the back terrace of McDooley's Inn. On many occasions, Freek had made him aware that listening devices were more effective inside than out of doors. Now, with the power down for the third time since he had been in the city, he had ordered a glass of wine. On the table next to him was a copy of
The Herald.
It carried a report that the government had not opposed an application to court for a search of Chikurubi prison. The search had been conducted, but the applicants had not found what they were looking for. The confident face of Jonas Chunga looked back at the reader from the picture that accompanied the text.

Yudel had considered ordering coffee, but two factors decided him against it. He may be embarrassing the management by asking for something they could not deliver … In fact, he had forgotten that one of the waiters had already explained that, because of the city's regular power outages, the hotel used gas in the kitchen.

The other factor was Rosa's constant explaining that caffeine was bad for barely controllable sugar levels, like his. The wine also contained sugar, he had been told. So to minimize its effect, he had asked for and received an extra glass filled with ice. Sip by sip, as the wine level dropped, Yudel replaced the wine with ice. By the time he got to the bottom of the glass, he would be drinking water, with only the faintest taste of wine.

Sitting opposite him, Abigail was fascinated by the process. “Why do you do that?” she asked.

“Do you know how homeopathy works?” he asked.

“No.”

“Apparently, they take a tiny portion of whatever is ailing you and dilute it by a million or so to one to cure you.”

“Does it work?”

“I've no idea. But I like wine and it's not good for my blood sugar. So I drink it in homeopathic style, hoping that just the faintest vestige will cure my desire for it.”

Abigail looked intently at his face for a long moment. “Jesus, Yudel,” she said eventually. She chose not to explain what she meant, and he never asked.

She picked up her bag from the chair and excused herself, saying that she was going to shower and that after that they should discuss their strategy for the next few days.

Yudel had spent the day following her from one office of the Department of Justice to another. It had been almost five in the afternoon before they got back to the hotel. “I'm not leaving until I have that judgment in writing,” she had told numerous government officials. The day had ended at Judge Mujuru's private residence where Abigail, following his dictation, used his computer to type the order onto a departmental letterhead.

As soon as they were out of the judge's earshot, Abigail had waved the envelope triumphantly in the air. “I've got it,” she said. “I've got it. I've got it!”

“We still have to find them,” Yudel had said.

“When we do, I'll be holding in my hand the authority for their release.”

He was using a teaspoon to drop more ice into his wine, when the phone Rosa had left for him demanded his attention. “Answer your phone!” the recorded voice said.