Those Who Love Night Page 9

  It was only when a hand closed around her throat, almost closing off her breathing, that she rushed upward through the darkness to full consciousness. With her eyes open she could still feel the place where the fingers of the hand had dug into her throat. She fumbled for the switch of the bedside light. It came on in a blinding flash, but she was alone in the room.

  I shouldn’t have said that to Krisj, she told herself. I should never have admitted that fear comes when everything is quiet and I’m alone and thinking. I should have told him that I have no fear and never have had. That’s what I should have done.

  According to what she had heard that evening, the CIO had come in the daytime to make their arrests. But more often they came at night. She remembered that in her own country in the apartheid days, the security police had usually come in the night. So did the army when conducting the cross-border raid in which her father had died. These were the purveyors of violence who loved the night. They loved it because of the cloak it drew over their activities.

  At night, the sleeping victim was disoriented, unable to counterattack or even to flee. The only other time when a human being was as vulnerable was during love-making. That thought brought Robert to her mind, so she tried to dismiss it.

  Surely the CIO would already know about her presence in the country? If they were detaining members of this organization, they would be watching them closely. Such organizations often had informants in their ranks. Telephones could be tapped, and other listening devices used. She was certain that they would know that she had arrived and where she was staying, right down to the room number. Whatever Marjorie Swan said about it being an honor to have her stay, would she really be able to refuse the CIO access to her register? Would she even try?

  And Krisj Patel, why had he put her up in this damned hotel? Did they not have a safe house somewhere, a place where the nights would not be haunted?

  Abigail’s watch told her that the time was just past two. She had slept for a little more than four hours. She reached for her phone to try to raise Robert again and had started keying in the number before she canceled the call and laid the phone down.

  She got out of bed to go again to the window, but stopped herself before she was halfway there. A memory returned to her of Douglas Bader, a Battle of Britain hero who claimed that, as a child, he would walk slowly through woods at night, his only purpose being to overcome his fears, forcing himself never to look back no matter what he heard behind him.

  Abigail returned to the bed, switched off the light and again tried to sleep. Just closing her eyes brought back the images from her dream. It’s this room, she told herself. If they come looking for me, the register will tell them where I am.

  Staying in bed, unable to sleep, unable even to close her eyes for more than a few seconds, was impossible. Without switching on the light this time, she made her way to the door, unlocked it and opened it, trying to make no sound. Except for a dim light on the landing three or four doors away, the passage was in darkness. She moved quietly into the passage.

  Abigail carefully turned the door handle of each room in turn. The first three were locked. The idea that some man, also an insomniac, might see the door handle move and open it to find her there, was disturbing. It would be entirely reasonable for him to assume a special interest on her part. The fourth door was not locked. Abigail eased it open. The bed was empty and the curtains drawn.

  She locked the door behind her. If they came during the night, they would not look for her here. And yet there was always a chance. Opening the closet, she saw that the floor space inside was wide enough for her. She removed the bedcover and spread it across the closet floor. Its extra width could be wrapped around her. Once inside, she pulled the doors closed. Lying down was not possible, but she could stretch out her legs and rest her body against the wall.

  I’m being a fool, she thought. I’m allowing myself to be stampeded for no reason. I’m behaving like a child.

  But, despite admonishing herself, that was how she spent the rest of the night. This time the dreams stayed away. By the time she woke, the room was already full of light and getting back to her own room was something of a challenge.

  15

  At breakfast, Abigail discovered that The Herald was already carrying the news that she had arrived to challenge the government over the so-called Harare Seven. A photograph of herself, taken all those years before when she was practicing in the country, smiled at the readers from page five. The article described her as an ambitious young lawyer, trying to establish a reputation. It ended by quoting a senior member of the ruling party as saying, “All indications are that the seven have left the country.”

  She was reading the article when Krisj Patel arrived. He was still wearing his ill-fitting clothes of the day before. “Would you like to join me?” she asked.

  He glanced at the food on her plate, then back at her. She read the gesture to mean, yes, please, but I didn’t dare ask.

  “Come along, Krisj, we can talk while you eat your bacon and eggs.”

  “Do you think they’ll have bacon?” he wondered.

  They did have bacon and eggs, and sausages too. Patel consumed a fair portion of all three, while Abigail had scrambled eggs on toast. Then he wrapped a slice of toast, one of the sausages and a piece of bacon in a paper napkin and slipped the parcel into his pocket. He saw the curiosity in her face and explained, “I’d like to take it to Suneesha. We don’t often have bacon or sausages.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes.”

  Abigail hated other people showing excessive interest in her affairs. For this reason she automatically turned away from unnecessary interest in theirs. “Are we going to work in your office this morning?” she asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Then why did we have to meet in that scout hall yesterday?”

  “Not everyone agrees that it’s safe at my office. My own feeling is that, when they really want to find us, the authorities will be able to.”

  * * *

  The office building where Patel worked, like so much of Harare, was teetering on the brink of a desperate respectability. Spotless cleanliness was offset by cracked and even missing windowpanes on the staircase.

  Prince, whose wife had been taken, Helena, and one of her neighbors were waiting outside the door of the offices of Smythe, Patel and Associates when they arrived. Not only is there no Smythe and no Associates, Abigail thought, but there’s no receptionist either. Only one of the suite of offices rented by Patel’s firm was in use. Another three awaited the return of Smythe and the associates.

  Once in the office, Patel offered his usual seat behind the desk to Abigail. She looked at his face for only a moment to satisfy herself that the offer held no irony, before accepting. The others sat in chairs ranged round the desk.

  “So, after all this, we have just three witnesses?”

  “The others are either afraid or I didn’t think their testimony would help,” Patel said.

  Slowly, with great deliberation, Abigail listened again to the stories as told by her small group of witnesses. Patel sat at an adjoining, smaller desk, making notes from which he would draft the affidavits needed for court. Helena went first, describing the CIO vehicle she had followed and how she had seen it enter the gates of Chikurubi prison. Her neighbor completed her story, leaving no doubt as to who was responsible for the disappearance of Helena’s partner.

  Then it was Prince’s turn. He described at length what he had found when he came home and what the neighbors had said, but he had found no neighbor brave enough to testify.

  “Unfortunately, Prince, if the matter comes to court, all that you can really testify to is that you came home and found your wife missing,” Abigail said.

  “What about the neighbors? I can tell the court what they said.”

  Abigail shook her head. “Unless they are willing to testify, the enemy will object on the grounds that this is hearsay. The judge will almost certainly thro
w it out.”

  “But my wife,” Prince said. “They took her. I don’t know what they may be doing to her.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Two months, only two months.”

  Only two months, Abigail’s mind echoed, and the pain is unbearable. She imposed her most legalistic calm on her voice before continuing. “One thing we must remember, people, is that we are not preparing for a trial. No evidence will be led. We will simply be asking the court to release the prisoners. All we need is enough fact to make our request reasonable.” She looked from one expectant face to the next. “I think we have it.”

  “I’ll need you to come back in two hours while I complete the affidavits,” Patel said. “Then I’ll take you to a neighbor who is a commissioner of oaths. He’ll be waiting for us.”

  * * *

  After the others had left, Abigail and Patel worked on the affidavits. Lunchtime came and Abigail went downstairs to a roadside stall she had noticed earlier to buy fat cakes, little rolls that are fried in oil instead of being baked. “Do you have fillings?” Abigail asked the woman who operated the stall. “I’d like savory mince, if you have it.”

  “No fillings, ma’am. Sorry.”

  Abigail took them as they were, without fillings. She and Patel were consuming them, when the telephone rang. Patel answered in his best corporate voice, “Good afternoon. Smythe, Patel and Associates.” His eyes widened before he said, “Certainly, I’ll put you through.” He handed the phone to Abigail, his wide-open eyes and pouting lips intended to convey his surprise to her. “For you,” he whispered.

  “Abigail Bukula,” Abigail said into the phone.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am,” a strong, confident male voice said. “This is Director Jonas Chunga of the Central Intelligence Organization. We understand you have been briefed by clients regarding a matter in our courts. I wondered if we could meet before this matter goes any further. I am sure that we can straighten out any difficulty that exists and avoid a lot of unnecessary unpleasantness.”

  Really? Abigail thought. And exactly what do you intend to sort out? After a long moment’s reflection, she answered. “Thank you for your offer. I would love to meet you. When did you have in mind?”

  “Now,” the voice said. “As your colleague Mr. Patel knows, we are just a few minutes away. Would that be convenient?”

  Now would work as well as any time, she thought. “I look forward to seeing you,” she said.

  Patel watched her hang up. “He’s coming here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know who he is?”

  “He said he is Director Jonas Chunga.”

  “Abigail, we don’t trust him at all. He is the public-relations face of the CIO. But people say he’s the most ruthless of them all.” Patel was clearly alarmed.

  “Krisj.” She reached out to pat one of his hands. “I can hardly avoid seeing him, can I? Rather this than have his henchmen pick me up.”

  * * *

  Jonas Chunga’s knock was surprisingly soft. At first glance she could see none of the bombast she expected to find. Chunga was an impressive man. Of slightly more than average height and broad in the shoulders, he was carrying a little extra weight. A strong, broad face, eyes that looked directly at Abigail and a firm jaw: all seemed to reflect a mixture of confidence and resolution tempered by restraint. His close-cropped hair was sprinkled with gray. He was wearing a dark, well-fitting suit and blue tie.

  His first view of Abigail brought him to a dead stop in the doorway of Smythe, Patel and Associates. She had risen to meet him and the light was falling toward her from windows on two sides. The neat cut of a suit that had cost Robert plenty showed off her figure to great effect.

  Abigail saw his reaction and how long he took to recover. Despite herself, she found an unexpected excitement rising in her. “Good afternoon,” she said, offering a hand. “I’m Abigail Bukula.”

  Chunga took her right hand in one of his. The palm of his hand was dry and the grip firm, but considerately gentle. He bent over her hand. Please don’t let him kiss it, she prayed.

  But his lips never touched her fingers. “Jonas Chunga, at your service,” he murmured.

  To Abigail it was like something out of a Viennese operetta in which she was cast as the soprano who had to be swept off her feet. Where were the violins? “Won’t you sit down,” she suggested.

  Chunga accepted a seat opposite her. She had already arranged the seating so that Patel was now on her side of the desk, forming in her mind a united front against the danger this man represented. Chunga had nodded to Patel in a perfunctory way. The solicitor was clearly not a person who needed to be taken into the reckoning. This South African woman, with some sort of ties to her own government, was a different matter.

  “You found out about my visit quickly,” Abigail suggested.

  “We try to keep abreast of who is visiting our country.” Chunga was effortlessly genial, but she heard an unevenness, almost a hoarseness, in his voice. Something had changed since she had spoken to him on the phone. Only the knowledge of who he was and what he represented reminded Abigail that there was a need to be careful. “And when the visitor is someone as eminent as yourself, we are always eager to help.”

  Beyond the words, which may have been straight from a government manual, Abigail read in his face a different message entirely. His smile, deliberately warm and relaxed, seemed to be saying, I am a powerful man and you are an attractive woman. We should not be spending our time discussing such matters.

  The words continued on their own course. “As for this visit, I am simply wondering if there is anything I can do to help.” A slight hoarseness lingered in his voice.

  “I don’t think you can,” Abigail said.

  “Why don’t you try me? We understand you are here to sue our government, or something of the sort? We’d rather deal with it before it reached that point.” If there was a threat in what he was saying, Abigail could not discern it.

  She glanced at Patel and saw that his eyes were fixed on the CIO man, seemingly without blinking. She was reminded of a rat, cornered by a cobra. “It is my intention to file and serve papers on your country’s prison authorities tomorrow morning.” She could see no point in silence. Within hours of the papers being served, he would know why she had come. “We are appealing to your High Court to free the seven people arrested by your organization some ten days ago, the so-called Harare Seven, and held without trial since then.” She was pleased that she had been able to keep her voice calm and even. She would like Chunga to believe that, for her, this was a professional matter that contained no emotional element.

  “Do you have the names of these people?” Chunga was good at this. It was almost possible to believe that he did not know their names.

  “I believe we have a list,” Abigail said. Patel had already produced a sheet of paper with the names of the seven. Abigail slid it across the desk.

  Chunga looked over the list as if this was the first time he had seen these names. “No, I don’t believe we have them.” He was looking seriously at Abigail, trying to hold her eyes with his.

  “Oh, we know that you don’t have them,” Abigail said casually. She was aware of a quick movement from Patel’s direction.

  It should have been a victory for Chunga, but he showed no sign of celebrating. The directness of his gaze had not changed and he said nothing.

  “We know you don’t have them. But we are sure that the prisons department does.”

  “I don’t think so, but I will establish that today.”

  I could argue the case with you, Abigail thought. I could tell you about my witness who saw your vehicle enter the gates of Chikurubi. But how would that help me? I too can use silence, she thought. Her eyes were fixed on Chunga’s with a look as direct and uncomplicated as his own.

  He waited for her to continue. Eventually, he spoke again. “How would it be if I put my resources at your disposal?” The hoarseness in hi
s voice had increased. “You are, after all, a visitor to our country. Let me see what I can do to help. I am willing to contact every government agency to see if they have these young people.”

  “Young people?” Abigail asked.

  Only the briefest flicker of confusion betrayed the possibility that Chunga had recognized his mistake. He immediately tried to cover his tracks. “It’s usually the young who get themselves into this sort of trouble.”

  “I do thank you very much. Your help would be greatly appreciated.” Abigail could play the game at least as convincingly as he did.

  “Then we’re in agreement,” he croaked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Excellent. I will have our people look into the matter and report back to you tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Mister Chunga,” Abigail said.

  He smiled again, but she imagined the expression to be more guarded now. “While you’re here, why don’t you let me show you around the city?”

  Was it possible that his voice now held an element of breathlessness? “Would you do that?”

  “Certainly I would.”

  “Perhaps in a day or two, when this matter has been sorted out.”

  “It would be a pleasure. It’s not every day we have a person of your standing visiting us.” He paused and his voice deepened, but the slight weakness was still present. “Nor one as attractive.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Despite herself, she felt a growing warmth in her face and neck, and just the smallest tremor of excitement. God, Abigail, she asked herself, what are you thinking? Has this thing of Robert’s derailed you to this extent? Get yourself together, girl—quickly, very quickly.