‘I was hoping for intelligent discourse. Not a single condition of mine has yet been met. You have failed to cancel debt to Africa, you have denied emergency aid packages, you have refused to renegotiate trade arrangements.’
‘These are complex issues.’
‘More complex, more precious, than the whites we have Downtown?’ He watched the three monkeys. Hear no sense, speak no logic, see no reason. ‘What price do you put on their lives, gentlemen?’
The FBI Director leant towards the screen. ‘It is the policy of successive administrations not to negotiate with hostage-takers.’
‘It is the policy of successive administrations to hold the world to ransom, to starve and cheat millions, to allow the populations of Africa to succumb to disease and drought.’
‘Perhaps we can return to the immediate problem, Mr Azania.’
‘Then admit fault, look into yourselves.’
‘We are trying to help, Reverend.’
‘You are trying to win time, you are trying to obscure. Well, power has shifted, my friends, the agenda has moved. Keep up, wise up. And listen.’ His gaze swerved to his cohorts and back to camera. ‘You want to focus on domestic issues? I will order the immediate release of one captive for every ten African-Americans you set free from our country’s penitentiaries.’
‘You are aware of legal process?’ The third individual had joined the discussion, his face ivory-white with indignation. Probably a senior judge, Azania mused.
‘I am aware of the abuse of law, I am aware of wrongful arrest, wrongful conviction, wrongful sentence. I am aware that you take the servitude of the black man for granted, that you build prisons instead of housing, that you purchase our dependency with drugs, that you challenge our dignity and independence.’
‘We’re challenging your point of view. That’s all.’
‘It’s never all. You have motive, you have method. I too have method.’
They were a study, a still-life of frozen ire, diplomatic petulance. ‘You are asking us …’
‘I am telling you.’
‘You are telling us.’ Exasperation swallowed, the correction made. ‘You are telling us to release tens of thousands of felons back into the community.’
‘Every day, you represent the interests, carry through the commands, of the felons on Pennsylvania Avenue.’
‘There are difficulties.’
‘Profound objections,’ the last member of the trio added.
‘You can mount a war on home soil, you can strafe the Forresters, but you cannot hold a door open to liberate a prisoner?’
The FBI Director tugged instinctively at the knot of his tie, trying to ease the building pressure, the anger flush. ‘We’ve seen the files on the people you surround yourself with, Azania. Haven’t you got enough criminals on your team already? Don’t they realize where you’re leading them?’
‘You presume to talk to me of leadership? You threaten me with your tricks, with your cheap attempts to undermine? I have inspired, I have created. And I will prevail.’
Declaration of intent, statement of fact. It was his platform, his prerogative. He could claim the moon was blue or made from cheese, that God was black, was standing with him, and they would acknowledge, were obliged to heed. Keep them guessing, keep them surprised. His role was not to unify, but to divide, not to sway with argument, but to carry by force. Only then could a victor be found, a king enthroned. It was the true way, the African way. Mercy, pity, were for the frail, the directionless. He watched the three men. Each side biding.
* * *
South Africa
Spring had yet to venture to the Cape. It was drizzle-dull, dejection-grey, the sodden tracts and fields absorbed by mist as they crawled towards the foothills. The images that never made it to the brochure. There were many of those. Kemp watched a tractor drag the fishing trawler towards its village berth, the sand scarred and puddling miserably behind. Even the whitewashed native houses looked off-colour, off-season, the cliffs lowering, the hotel and beach homes unwelcoming. Easy to imagine menace when the sun was switched to standby. He resumed his run, would clamber over the shallow rock promontory and open up along the three miles of dune-backed shoreline. Exploration of the marshland and bird sanctuary were scheduled for tomorrow. Time-wasting, rendezvous-waiting.
He had been in Arniston for three days, had driven from Cape Town for the oil derricks of Mossel Bay, cutting off at Waenhuiskrans, alert for tails, for ambush, scanning the bar and restaurant emptied of people, emptier of clues. Weather could change a mood, kill enthusiasm, could pitch a beachside unsentimentally from popular resort to destination of last resort. So much for global warming, for the promise that inclement climate no longer came to these parts. He did not mind. It meant clutter-free angles and fewer faces. He read, drank Cane and Castle lager, ate bokkoms and kingklip, watched sport on MNET, wandered unaware of observation, conscious it must exist. They were close. Any time now, any time.
A burst of music. Radio Good Hope. The triumph of optimism over fact. He paced on, following the line of rippling sand hillocks, the delicate fronds of pink seaweed washed ashore, as far as the wire, to the beach expanse requisitioned for army training. Where sea shells became cannon rounds. Even paradise had its boundaries, was wrapped in razor-wire, abutted by a firing range. The African dimension. No worse than London, than a city in which black and white youths fought pitched battles with knives and handguns. He felt his pulse rise, his breath quicken; he would push himself, relieve the pressure of anticipation. At least Krista was free. He could put himself at risk without split focus or the skulking drag of guilt and responsibility. They had spoken briefly, their conversation and joy restrained by an open line, the limitations of syntax. But it was enough, a re-establishment of trust and affection, of respect and dependency. It was how it had once been, before they forfeited a marriage, lost a daughter. Scar tissue – and stronger for it. He should have been there for her, should have stayed in Los Angeles. He reached the outcrop, then began to climb.
* * *
‘You’re a punctual man, Kemp.’
The South African was perched on a boulder, relaxed in windcheater and jeans. Smug illusion, psychological warfare. His face carried the arrogant neutrality adopted in Germany; the clothing was capacious enough to screen a holster. Of all the beaches, in all the world. The contact was made. Kemp kept his arms loose at his sides. It was not a time for defensiveness, vulnerability. He would say what had to be said, do what had to be done. They could kill him at any moment – could have killed him in the past. A reassuring thought. He was still standing.
‘You know why I’m here,’ he said simply.
‘Because you want the last word. Might well be, Englishman.’
‘And what do you want?’
‘For you to obey instructions and not to irritate me.’ He rose and jumped to a lower rock. ‘Come.’
They descended to the beach, single file, Kemp observing the man’s back and watching his own. They walked in silence, undulating sand berms to one side, slate-grey sea to the other. Caught in between. The South African kept striding, was drawing him away from the security of the boats, the cottages, hemming him in to a strip of unpopulated landscape. A ribbon could lead anywhere, a ribbon could be cut. No man’s land. Entering enemy territory. He marched on, studying the boot imprints, avoiding conjecture. Blood would vanish easily in this ground. An individual could vanish. One mile in.
The South African stopped, shaded his eyes. ‘See it?’ He was squinting across the water.
Yes, he saw it. A rapid approach. The rigid inflatable grew from the haze, gaining size, taking shape, was incoming at over forty knots, its wash tracking back to the horizon. Kemp was its aim point. The boat surged, raced in for the beach, and slowed as crew hands leapt from the bow and shallow-waded to their position. Precision handling, an exacting display. They were not conventional line-fishermen. Firearms drill might yet be introduced.
The South African placed a hand on his shoulder, was willing apprehension. ‘How would you like to come to sea?’
‘For transport or burial?’
