Chapter 9

June 2019

‘How’s your family member, Mr Masilela?’

Marlena Botes smiled at Masilela, taking his overnight bag from him despite his protest, with a slight brush of his hand. She matched her pace to his as they made their way through the airport concourse. He held onto his soft leather document bag, moving it from his left to his right hand on the other side from where she walked. He took in the African motif of the Kruger-Mpumalanga International Airport with its browns and creams and beiges. He glanced up at the high, dark wood-beamed ceiling and down at the smooth-tiled orange-brown floor with the darker dividing patterns. He breathed the smell of wood and thatch mingling with the perfumes and deodorants of passing passengers. He heard the sounds of feet on tile, hushed and hurried voices, disturbed now and then by the tinny tannoy announcements of the comings and goings from and to other places.

He turned to Marlena. ‘Family member?’

‘Yes, the accident.’

‘The accident? Oh yes, thank you for asking, Marlena. He’ll be okay. Mostly broken bones. He’s still in hospital. My nephew actually. My sister’s son.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’m glad he’s going to be okay.’

She placed her hand on Masilela’s elbow to guide him toward the exit. They passed through the doors and out under the high thatched overhang with its wooden beams and struts, subtly reflecting in their grain the low but still warm winter sun. She ushered him towards the parking lot and her compact, fuel-cell-powered car. Having stowed his overnight bag in the boot, she offered to take his document bag, but he switched it to his other hand and moved to the front passenger door, climbed in and wedged the bag between his feet. As she turned her head to reverse, he watched her face. Her skin was still smooth for her age. She must be in her late forties, he thought, revising his initial estimate. Green eyes. Hair unusually dark, with perfect streaks of grey he was not sure whether nature or art had put there. A long thin neck, inviting the eyes to the shoulders hidden beneath a light, cream-coloured jersey.

She finished her reverse manoeuvre, and turned her head back to the front, catching his eyes on her. ‘I’ve booked you into a lodge, DG. It’s very comfortable. I’m afraid the VIP accommodation on campus is occupied. Mr Mthembu is here to meet management and the new intake. You can check in after the lecture, if you like.’

‘That will be fine, Marlena. Thanks.’

‘I was wondering, DG.’ She placed her hand on his lower arm. ‘I was wondering if you’d like for us to have dinner together tonight, after the lecture.’ She removed the hand.

Her eyes faced ahead, but there was a hint on the side of her face of a dimple brought on by a smile.

‘Thank you, Marlena. That is thoughtful of you. Let’s see how things pan out this evening.’

There were plenty of his old colleagues working at the academy with whom he could share a drink and some gossip this evening. But Mthembu was here and he needed to avoid time with him. Apart from anything else, there was always an awkwardness between a predecessor and his successor.

They fell into silence for the twenty-kilometre drive north, passed White River and then the left turn west onto the road, still being tarred, towards the new satellite campus of the intelligence service’s training academy. The campus had been decided on, land acquired and the complex designed under Masilela’s watch, a special facility for the training of new recruits, to keep them away from older, perhaps compromised, hands. One of his last acts before retirement had been to come out here to celebrate the laying of the foundations. Now, as they entered the gates, the security guards dressed in smart new uniforms hoisted the boom with a smile and a salute of recognition. He marvelled again at the structures that had been no more than drawings on an architect’s sheet just a few years ago, when they had designed, redesigned, tweaked and scrunched this campus into something both functional and pleasing to the eye. Perhaps an architect, or a builder, would have been a better profession, he thought, as the spreading buildings of the campus came into view ... trimmed thatched roofs, rough-hewn beams and pillars of local wood, stone paving and stone walls.

Marlena eased the silent car backward into the bay in the VIP parking area in front of the main administration building. He wondered if the reverse parking was a hangover from her days in the field, always ready for a quick getaway; he assumed she must have spent time in the field perhaps even when he was her target or in more recent democratic days. He noted again the impressive entrance to the building and wondered suddenly at its similarity to the entrance at the airport they’d just left.

‘Your lecture is in an hour, DG. Did you eat on the plane or shall I organise something? Do you want to perhaps meet with the principal before your talk, or the DG?’

‘I’m fine, Marlena, thanks. I’d just like some coffee. I want to freshen up my notes for the lecture. I can sit in the lounge until then. I can greet later.’

In the lounge, the mug of coffee on the low table before him, Masilela did not work on refreshing his lecture notes. He was not one, anyway, for copious preparation for his talks. Not here at the academy, or his pep talks to his officers in his days in the service, or his fiery political speeches in the days of exile and after. He spoke off the cuff. More engaging. More dialectical. And, in that way, he often surprised himself at the ability of his brain to bring forth ideas and phrasing drawn somehow from aeons of experience and observation.

But he did have a few pages of notes for his lecture, which he now took from his bag and placed on the table in front of him. The pages consisted of single circled words with question marks beside them scrawled at different angles across the paper: Intelligence? Secrets? Enemies? Power? Insights? Uniqueness? Tools? Priorities? Constitution? Laws? Rules? And, interspersed between these scribblings, there were more conventional paragraphs in his meticulous handwriting – quotations copied from some of his favourite thinkers. His all-time favourite was Sun Tzu and his Art of War. He also liked to quote his namesake – Lenin – but, depending on his audience, he would not attribute such quotations, simply introducing them with a someone once said.

Before he reached into his briefcase to pull out another document, he checked the room to confirm he was alone. The paper was a list of names with, here and there, a short paragraph under a few of the entries. With pen in hand and highlighter between his teeth, he worked through the list, placing red crosses next to some names as a preliminary elimination of those no longer among the living. For others, though, whose reach might extend beyond the grave, he took the highlighter from his mouth and marked them along with the red cross. Done, he turned back to the first page and this time swiped the yellow highlighter across a selection of names and, for a few, added a red-penned asterisk. Every now and then he sipped at his coffee, ran a hand over his scalp, and, on the back of his lecture notes, made an obscure note to himself.

A soft hand touched his shoulder. Immediately, he turned the document face down and placed it on his lap.

‘It’s time, DG.’

‘Thanks, Marlena. Sorry, I was deep in thought.’

‘Still got secrets, DG?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You turned your document over when I came over.’

‘Oh that? No. Old habits, Marlena. Ancient instincts. I was going over notes from the talk I gave to management when I started as DG. I thought I could use some of it today.’ He gathered his papers together and slipped them into the briefcase. ‘Let’s go.’

She escorted him to the lecture theatre, where she pushed open the swing doors to let him through, then quickly stepped past to lead the way down to the front. After some hesitation, the students stood, some turning and nodding to him. Marlena introduced and welcomed him, and moved off to her seat in a row near the back.

‘Good afternoon, young intelligence officers. I’m back.’ He took off his glasses and wiped them on the hem of his guayabera and squinted around the room. ‘Again, apologies for my hasty departure last time.’

He reached into his bag and ruffled his notes on the lectern. ‘My nephew is fine, by the way.’ Puzzled faces looked back at him. ‘My nephew, who was in the accident that called me away last time. Well, he’s not fine, but he’s out of danger.’

The young man with the dreadlocks murmured: ‘That’s good, chief.’

‘Okay. Before I beat a hasty retreat last time I left you with some questions to discuss. Did you discuss them?’

Fidgeting, heads turned to look at one another.

‘Yes, they did, sir.’ Marlena spoke from her seat. She smiled a private smile.

‘Good. Who’s going to report back, then?’

Dreadlocks eventually broke through the resumption of fidgeting. ‘I will, chief.’

‘Good. Okay. Sukuma, ndoda.’

Dreadlocks stood, gathered the locks tied into a thick ponytail at the back of his head, and moved them to one side over his left shoulder. He began to speak, initially with the assumed confidence of arrogance, then more falteringly, turning every now and then to his classmates for affirmation, or referring to his notebook in which, as far as Masilela could see, there were no notes.

Masilela’s mind wandered. He caught words and phrases, much like the question-marked words in his sparse lecture notes: secrets, agents, tasking, spying. But in his head other words were drifting by, names from a list and names for further consideration, a potage of strategies and methodologies skimming across his brain like pebbles on a smooth lake, hardly creating ripples until they plopped back down, submerged. And then a small explosion of noise as the doors at the back of the lecture theatre swung open.

A man and a woman entered. The woman was Dineo, principal of the academy, an old friend and comrade. They had done their intelligence training together in Moscow a long time back. He had appointed her to head the academy. The man he recognised with less pleasure. His youthful face contradicted the tinges of grey in close-cropped, tight-curled hair, small, ever-darting eyes, dressed (inappropriately) in a dark suit with navy blue tie and a matching handkerchief protruding from his breast pocket.

Masilela clapped his hands. ‘Stand up, students. Do you not recognise your director-general?’

Marlena was the first to get to her feet. The rest of the class stood with some lethargy. Mthembu indicated that the lecture should continue. He and the principal slipped into the back row.

‘Right. Welcome, director-general. Welcome, principal. We’ve just started. This young man was reporting back on a task I gave the class last time I was here.’

‘I was finished, chief.’

‘You were? Was that all?’

‘Yes, chief.’

‘Okay. Anyone want to add anything?’

Nadine Whitehead put up her hand, more confidently than the last time.

‘Yes, young lady. Please go ahead.’

He smiled at her, perhaps too warmly. He looked over at the director-general. He would certainly know of Masilela’s connection with the young woman, but the man was whispering to the principal. Instead of drawing him to her words, the sound of Nadine’s voice triggered a reminder of his recent evening with Jeremy and Bongi and the troubling choices he and Jeremy would have to make. The sudden silence disturbed him.

‘I’m done, sir.’

‘Good. Good, ntombazana. Thank you. Anyone else want to add?’

The students looked at him blankly. The director-general stared at him with narrowed eyes and that signature twist of the right side of his mouth.

‘No? Okay. Good.’ Masilela shuffled his notes and wiped his spectacles again.

‘We talked last time, and you discussed after I left, the question of enemies and adversaries, about legitimate and illegitimate targets for intelligence-gathering, about collecting secrets and so on. I want now to talk a bit about intelligence as insight. That’s a good word: “insight”. Seeing into things. Seeing behind the obvious, the apparent.’

Masilela spoke at length, but at some distance from this time and place, the words escaping from his mouth as though from a digital recorder lodged somewhere in his head, while the fleshy part of his brain focused on other, more urgent things. This absence of engagement was unlike him, but still the digital device droned on.

He spoke of the need for the intelligence service to have insight, beyond the everyday, to understand what it was that made the social conglomerations of the human species tick, the causality of human interaction and the evolution of human society. Jeremy had liked to tease him: ‘You mean, DG, we need an ideology.’ He would laugh, a glint in his eyes: ‘Yes, comrade, if by that you mean a system of ideas.’

He came back from his reverie into this auditorium.

‘You see, young officers of our democratic intelligence service, when you look around at our country, at some of the strange things that have happened – are still happening – it may not be enough to go out there and try to gather secrets.’

He looked up at them and realised only then that he had been speaking with his eyes cast down to his notes. He saw Marlena hold up her arm with the face of her watch pointed at him. He took his phone out of the pocket of his guayabera to check the time and quickly put it back when he realised his mistake – he was not supposed to bring his phone into the lecture room; all signalling devices were banned from the meeting rooms of the Service. The students fidgeted.

‘I see time’s up. Sorry about that. I have left no time for questions or discussion. Perhaps next time.’

He nodded at the students, looked at Mthembu, and spoke with a tinge of sarcasm, drawing on an old deference from his days in MK: ‘Permission to conclude the lecture, director-general?’

Mthembu made a flourish with his right hand, his face expressionless. Masilela packed up his notes, slipped them into his bag and, with a wave of his hand to the students, walked to the back of the room to greet Mthembu and Dineo. Marlena rose as he passed and followed behind him. Mthembu pointed to the door, dismissing Dineo with a nod, motioned to Marlena to wait behind and led Masilela out into the courtyard.

‘How are you, Vladimir?’

‘Good, thank you, DG. And you?’

‘Ah, I’m surviving. Things are tough. This new president is putting on a lot of pressure.’

‘Apparently. He’s got big ideas, I hear.’

‘Indeed. So, my brother, I see you haven’t shaken off your Marxism.’

‘My Marxism? You mean my talk? Didn’t mention Marx once. And didn’t know Marxism was something that needed to be shaken off, like dust?’

‘No, no, Masilela. No need to be defensive. Just not sure if your ideas are appropriate in this day and age.’

‘An understanding, DG, of what makes society tick is always appropriate.’

‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Mthembu took Masilela by the upper arm and guided him further into the courtyard. ‘I believe you had a meeting with my minister.’

Masilela noted the possessive pronoun. Mthembu was not appointed by Sandile; he had been inherited by the minister. He did not have the same background as Masilela, Ndaba and others. He had not gone into exile. He had been an activist inside the country during the days of struggle, with a reputation for fiery and sometimes provocative activism. In 1994 he was drawn by the ANC into the process of creating the new intelligence services and held a middle management position in the service for a few years until he left to take up a post in a state-owned company. He was parachuted into the top position in the Service by the previous president after Masilela’s retirement. His appointment had not been popular, but perhaps the president thought he needed a manager with corporate experience at the head of his intelligence department.

‘A meeting? No, it wasn’t a meeting. I was in Cape Town on other business and I popped in to greet and to congratulate him on his appointment.’

‘I didn’t know you were in business now.’

‘No, no, not that kind of business. It was family business.’

‘Family? You mean the Party? Are you still a member of the Communist Party?’

‘Ha! Actually, I meant my personal family. My nephew was in a car accident and I had to go down to brief my sister who was tied up with the parliamentary session. And, yes, I am still a member of the Party. Is that a problem?’

‘It’s a free country, my brother. And what did he say?’

‘Who?’

‘The minister.’

‘No, nothing. Idle chatter. Told me the president has some radical ideas, but said I must wait to find out what.’

‘He didn’t try to recruit you? To bring you back?’

Masilela’s mouth took a shape closer to a grimace than a smile. He looked straight into the director-general’s eyes. ‘No, not at all, DG. We didn’t discuss the Service at all. Even if he had tried to bring me back, I would have refused. I’ve done my bit. It’s time for the younger generation.’ The grimace softened to a smile.

Students thronged past them and Marlena hovered at a respectful distance. Mthembu adjusted the handkerchief in his breast pocket, looked quizzically at Masilela, took his phone out of his shirt pocket, put it back.

‘You want to join us for a drink and maybe a meal later? We can chat some more.’

‘Thanks, DG. Actually, I’m really tired. The travelling, the family issues. Many late nights. I think I’ll just go to my hotel, eat, and read for a bit.’

‘Okay, Masilela. That’s fine. We can meet for a chat in Pretoria some time.’

As Mthembu strode off, Masilela noticed two bodyguards in dark suits, standing a few metres away, step up to accompany their charge. Unnecessary here, thought Masilela. He had only used his obligatory bodyguards as drivers, allowing him to prepare for meetings in the back seat of the car. He dismissed them on evenings, weekends and holidays.

Marlena approached, touched his elbow. ‘You staying, DG? Or do you want to check in?’

Masilela turned, placed his hand on her back and guided her towards the parking lot. ‘No, let’s get out of here, Marlena.’

In the car, after they had passed through the security gates and negotiated the half-tarred road, she spoke. ‘You seemed distracted today, DG ...’

‘Distracted?’

‘In the lecture.’

‘Was I? I guess I was. Sorry about that. My mind was elsewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘At home.’

‘Love matters, DG?’

‘I’m afraid there’s no love in my home, Marlena. I’m divorced. Well, there are my kids, of course ... every alternate week, but they might be getting too old to love their daddy.’

He noticed the left dimple appear again.

They turned onto a dirt road through dense thorn-scrub, denuded acacia trees, with some dominating oaks and occasional outcrops of rock. He asked permission to open the window and breathed in the bush, the smell that reminded him of the comforting wildness of Angola, individual odours indiscernible except for the dust of the road and the faint scent of Marlena’s perfume. They rounded a bend and came to a boom gate with rolling manicured lawns beyond. A guard in a khaki uniform came out of a gatehouse, saluted them and, in reply to Marlena’s whisper, made a tick on a clipboarded list and hoisted the boom.

They drove on for some distance, still along a winding cobblestone driveway, the rumbling effect of which reminded him of an ancient European city somewhere in the recesses of his traveller’s memory. To his left dense thorn bush in which he caught a glimpse now and again of scuttling rodents, and to the right the lawns in arrogant protest against the surrounding bush, with thatch, timber and stone chalets hinting uncomfortably of the architecture of the academy they’d just left.

‘It was built in the seventies.’ She turned to him with an almost coy smile.

‘Really? It looks more recent. A bit like the academy actually.’

‘No, it’s old. One of the first lodges built around here, outside of the Kruger Park. They’ve probably upgraded it a few times, but owned by the same family that built it. I believe the original owner was a retired policeman, Special Branch, actually.’

‘Oh, really? Interesting. Must have got a really good pension.’

She either missed the sarcasm or ignored it as she steered the car into a parking space outside a large building with a wooden sign with ‘Reception’ burned into it. She retrieved his suitcase from the boot and carried it into the building, ignoring the obsequious porter. Masilela followed and stood back as she checked him in. Marlena took the key from the receptionist, an old-fashioned Yale key on a carved ivory key holder, and motioned to him to follow her out into the gardens and along a stone pathway bordered by blackened wooden logs. She headed to one of the chalets, dragging his wheeled suitcase behind her.

When they reached his chalet, she, with apparent familiarity, unlocked the door and wheeled his suitcase inside. He took in the room: its dark wooden furniture, the African mask on the wall, the ochre-and-beige bedspread, the round wooden table near the sliding doors into the garden beyond. He walked past her and peered into the bathroom, all marble and beige porcelain, wooden towel racks and a large Jacuzzi. When he turned back into the room, she was standing by the bed.

‘Do you want me to unpack for you, DG?’

‘No, no, Marlena. That’s not necessary. I’m a big boy and anyway it’s only one night. Not worth unpacking.’

She didn’t move from beside the bed. He looked at her. She smiled without embarrassment, both dimples now visible. ‘Do you want some time to freshen up, DG? Would you like to go to the bar for a drink, or perhaps dinner?’

‘Both, Marlena. Actually, all three. Just a few minutes to freshen up, as you call it, and then a drink and dinner.’

She smiled again, ran a hand through her hair and then both hands down the sides of her skirt. ‘Okay, DG. Shall we meet in the bar in, say, fifteen minutes? It’s on this side of the reception building, next to the pool.’

‘Sounds good. See you in fifteen.’

He watched her as she left via the sliding doors into the garden, then turned back to the room, opened his suitcase, and took his toiletry bag. In the bathroom, he rinsed his mouth with mouthwash, massaged lotion into his face and sprayed cologne onto either side of his neck.

Back in the room, he extracted the folder from his briefcase, cast his eyes once more down the list and made some mental notes. He searched for the room safe, found it behind the sliding, slotted wooden cupboard doors. It was the new type of safe that could only be locked and reopened with the electronic national identity card or an e-passport and a pin number. He placed the folder and a notebook into the safe and locked it, using his daughter’s birthdate in reverse for the pin.

‘You all fresh, DG?’

He joined her at the high, round table near the log fire and slipped onto the stool opposite her.

‘Yes, thank you, Marlena. All fresh.’

She waved her hand at the waiter. ‘What would you like to drink, DG?’

‘Whiskey, please. Double Glenfiddich, on the rocks. Water on the side. And perhaps you should stop calling me “DG”. We are off duty, so to speak.’

She frowned at the lack of attention from the waiter, and got up to go to the bar. He scanned the room. It was almost empty. A group of four Afrikaner farmer types at a table in a far corner, a black couple – he much older than her – on stools at the bar, and three youthful black men at a low table across the room, all in suits.

Marlena returned with two tumblers of whiskey and a bottle of still water. ‘What should I call you?’

‘Pardon?’

‘You said we’re off duty.’

‘Oh? Yebo. My name is Vladimir.’

‘Not sure I can call you that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Don’t you have a South African name?’

‘Yes. Vladimir.’

‘That’s not South African.’

‘It is now, Marlena.’

‘I think I’ll stick with DG – in the most off-duty sense, of course.’

He looked hard at her. She looked back, her lips pressed tightly together, though still with a ghost of a smile, her eyes were all buried laughter.

‘Why don’t you try “Vlad” then?’

‘Nope. I’m going to stick with “DG”. It’s the name I have in my head when I think about you. It’s got nothing to do with your title – ex-title – any more.’

‘You think about me?’

‘I do. Sometimes.’

Masilela ran his hand over his scalp. He put his glass down, placing it precisely on the wet circle left on the table. He looked around the room and then back at her. ‘Marlena, tell me, are you trying to seduce me?’

She laughed with no embarrassment. She rested the rim of her glass just below her lips.

‘Do you want to be seduced, DG?’

‘Ha! That’s unfair.’

‘Well, your question was blunt.’

‘Okay. Well, I am, for the moment, single. You’re an attractive woman. And, unless I am hallucinating, I have been getting signals from you. Am I hallucinating? That would be very embarrassing.’

She looked at him. He couldn’t believe the steadiness of her eyes.

‘Yes.’

‘Yes? I am hallucinating.’

‘Yes, DG. I do find you attractive. Yes, I think I may be trying to seduce you, as you call it.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you find me attractive?’

‘Well, DG, you’re very intelligent. Not bad looking. And you have an aura about you.’

‘An aura?’

‘Yes.’

‘Power?’

‘Huh?’

He held the glass against his right cheek, glowing from the warmth of the log fire. ‘Marlena, forgive my forthrightness.’

‘Sure.’

‘When I was a “real” DG ...’ He gestured the quote marks. ‘When I was a real DG, I had no shortage of women attracted to me because of my status and the power they thought I wielded.’

‘Lucky you!’ She grimaced.

‘No, no ... on the contrary. Sure, I confess I took advantage sometimes. But there’s no chance of a real relationship with a woman who is with you because of your status, your power.’

‘You’re looking for a real relationship here, DG?’ She gestured between them.

‘Are you?’

‘No, DG. I’m married.’

He reached for his glass but then put it down again without drinking.

‘You’re married? Then why the seduction?’

‘Don’t ask, DG. Just enjoy. You hungry?’

‘I’m not sure. I think I may have lost my appetite.’

‘Which appetite?’

‘For food.’

‘Let’s go then.’

Masilela kissed her on the brow, the eyes, the lips, the neck. He licked the sweat from his own lips as he lay back, lifting her head gently with his left arm and resting it in the crook of his right. She bit his ear lobe.

‘You hungry now, DG?’

He pulled a face. ‘You know what I need now? A big plate of chips and a bottle of wine.’

She removed her head from his arm and leaned over to the phone next to the bed. He slid out of bed and went to the bathroom to dispose of the condom now clinging precariously to the tip of his deflated penis. He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and ran the hot-water tap until the water was warm, took the neatly rolled-up facecloth from its perch on the marble shelf above the basin, wet it and wiped his groin. The warm water felt good. He frowned at himself and went back to the room. She was half-sitting in the bed, back propped up against the bulky cushions, head back on the heavy oak headboard. He slid back into bed and propped himself up next to her. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

‘Okay, Marlena, now that I know you, in the biblical sense, tell me about yourself.’

‘What do you want to know, DG?’

‘Oh, where you’re from. When did you join the Service? Stuff like that.’

She placed her hand on his thigh. ‘Oh? Is this about sleeping with the enemy?’

‘Are you the enemy?’

‘Well? I guess I was. Until ’94 that is. But I was still very young.’

‘Aha. So did you spy on me?’

‘No, DG.’ She squeezed his leg hard. ‘I joined the Service after 1990, after the ANC was unbanned. I was just a junior analyst.’

‘Okay ... So, where are you from? What led you into the dark world of intelligence?’

‘Actually, from around here, from what used to be called Nelspruit. How did I get into the dark world? Mmm, I’m a bit embarrassed to tell you.’

‘If what we did a while ago didn’t embarrass you then nothing should.’

‘Ha! Well, if you must know, my father was a policeman ... a security policeman.’ She gently stroked his inner thigh. He didn’t speak, his eyes expressionless. ‘You know how it is with daughters and their fathers. I looked up to him, was intrigued by his secret life. He had this aura about him.’

‘Aura?’

She slapped his thigh.

‘Anyway, I told him when I finished school I wanted to be a spy. A spy like him. But I didn’t want to do the police thing – you had to go for basic training first, wear a uniform, and that wasn’t my scene. So he introduced me to an acquaintance – I think it was a distant relative – who worked in the NIS. Very reluctantly, mind you. He hated the NIS. Called them a bunch of overeducated wankers.’

Her hand moved to his groin where she demonstrated the word. He flinched, but felt himself getting hard again.

‘Anyway, my father resigned from the police soon after. He said he didn’t think he could work for the new government.’

‘You mean a black government?’

‘He might have used those words, or worse.’

The doorbell chimed, playing the first bar of ‘Shosholoza’. He started.

‘It’s the chips and wine, DG. Don’t panic. The war is over.’

She slipped out of bed, moved to the wardrobe as if it was her own bedroom, slipped on the flannel dressing gown and went to the door. Masilela lay back and pulled the duvet up to his chin. She returned with a tray.

‘It’s Merlot, DG.’

‘How do you know it was red wine I wanted?’

‘Everyone in the Service, DG, knows you only drink Glenfiddich and Merlot.’

She poured the wine, let the robe slip from her, climbed back into bed, her leg touching his, and pulled the tray towards them. He drew his legs up. Without asking she shook salt over the chips and drowned them in tomato sauce.

‘Tell me, Marlena. Is it true that you guys had agents all over the ANC right up to the top, as your former colleagues like to boast?’

Her mouth full of chips, she turned away and reached for her glass. ‘I wouldn’t know, DG. As analysts, we never knew who the sources were. You know the drill – separate intelligence from operational reports. Disguise the sources.’

‘Yes, but from the intelligence you could have gauged the level of access.’

‘Do we have to have this conversation, DG?’

‘Why?’

‘It feels uncomfortable. Those years are long gone. It’s close to thirty years ago.’

‘I know. It’s just interest. It doesn’t matter now. Does it?’

‘Maybe not. All I can tell you is that we were getting intelligence in the early nineties about the ANC’s negotiating positions that must have come right from the top – at the Groote Schuur negotiations, the Pretoria round and all the way through CODESA I and II.’

‘Really? Then why did you guys do so badly in the negotiations?’

‘We guys?’

‘Sorry. The apartheid government.’

‘Did they?’

‘Did they what?’

‘Do so badly.’

‘What do you mean?’

He held his empty glass out to her. She reached for the bottle, her right breast emerging briefly from the folds of the duvet.

‘I mean, look at the ANC revolutionary policies during the war years and look at South Africa now.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Let me tell you something, DG, but it’s between us, okay?’

He wiped his fingers on the napkin on the tray, slipped his hand under the duvet and squeezed her thigh just below the crotch. She smiled and pouted.

‘Okay, okay. My lips are sealed. Anyway, what difference does it make now?’

‘My father, he had a friend – a colleague – who worked in some sort of special unit of the Security Police in Pretoria, although, if I remember, he was from around here.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. Well, anyway, I remember one evening. My father was, as usual, a bit tipsy from his after-work brandy and Coke. He and my mother and my elder brother got into a discussion about politics. I was just a bystander. I didn’t understand politics then. Actually, I don’t understand it now.’ She laughed, a sardonic laugh. ‘Anyway, they were talking about the possibility of negotiating with the ANC, I think. Something like that. I remember my father saying that this friend of his told him that, even if the ANC comes into the government, he had plenty of ANC people at the top who would do his bidding – something along those lines. I only remember because I thought, at the time, that it was mysterious and impressive.’

‘Oh yeah? And who was this friend of your father?’

‘Jesus, DG! Is this an interrogation? Is this why you slept with me?’

‘Don’t be silly, Marlena. I slept with you because you’re beautiful and sexy. And very intriguing. And, anyway, it’s you who seduced me. It’s purely historical interest. I’m not in intelligence any more. Just interested to know if we had information about this stuff during the exile days.’

‘Well, I’m not sure. I know this guy used to come to our place sometimes when he was in the Eastern Transvaal. My father always used to make me address his friends formally, as Mister, Meneer. Let me think. Meneer ... something with a ‘B’ ... Bekker? No. I’m not sure. Maybe, Bester. Meneer ... Bester! Ja, Bester! That’s it, I think. Meneer Bester. Or, Bekker? I don’t know.’

Masilela withdrew his hand from her thigh.

‘Actually, DG, come to think of it, I think my father told me this Bester-or-Bekker guy had later joined NIS. I think so, but I certainly never met him in NIS.’

They ate in silence for a while before she, gingerly, reached for his crotch. He hardened immediately. Again he slipped his hands under the duvet, touched her until she was wet and then, without the condom, entered her. He moved furiously, hardly noticing the epithets in his head that drove him. This time he didn’t wait for her to climax. He grunted furiously when he reached his and rolled off her.