Spy Games (18 page)

Just before midnight, Mangan took a couch in the corner on the third floor of Sky Club, the dance floor pulsating below, loud enough to obscure a conversation, just distant enough to render conversation possible. He ordered a bottle of Black Label, watched. When girls came over, sat down next to him and crossed their long silky legs, leaned against him, he smiled and said, “Maybe later.”

Rocky appeared after twenty minutes, a big, anticipatory grin on his face. He wore stone-colored slacks and a smart blazer. He would be dapper, Mangan thought, but for his slight ungainliness, his splay-footed walk. Rocky sat on the couch, gestured with pleasure to the bottle of Black Label. Mangan poured, added a little water.

“To us, Philip,” said Rocky. He was speaking English.

“For sure,” said Mangan.

“To cooperation.”

“All right, then.”

They drank, sat in silence for a moment.

“Found any more promising investments?” said Mangan.

“You,” said Rocky. “You are my promising investment.” He laughed.

“Tell me how that works,” said Mangan, smiling.

“Soon.”

Another pause.

“So, got any family, Rocky? Parents, wives? Where are they, then? Back home minding the hearth?”

A flicker of surprise on Rocky’s face.

“No, no. Not married. Parents long gone.”

“Why not married? Attractive chap like you.”

Rocky looked to be pondering the question, as if for the first time.

“I don’t know. Married to work, maybe.” He sipped his whisky, then gestured with his glass to Mangan, index finger extended along its rim. “Yes. Married to my work.” He laughed again.

“And what about your father? You said he was a soldier.”

“Did I? Yes. Big soldier. Infantry. Fought the Americans in Korea. Later, he commanded a division.”

“He must have been proud of you.”

Rocky adopted an expression of disbelief. His expressions were contrived, deliberately assembled, thought Mangan. There is no spontaneity in him.
Now I shall appear disbelieving. Mark the extent of my disbelief.

“Proud? Of me? No. He was, you can say, very tough.”

“Really? How?”

“He thinks that young people don’t know how to
chi ku.
You know
chi ku
?”

Chi
, to eat.
Ku
, a bitter taste. To eat bitterness. To suffer, endure privation. “Yes,” said Mangan.

“So he make sure I can
chi ku
. Any bad marks, or trouble at school, he takes his belt and
pshh
,
pshh.
” He made whipping movements in the air with his free hand, his face alight with astonished humor. “Oh! It hurt so much. My mother tried to stop him, but she could not. She was so weak, useless. No good.”

He drank.

“One time I left the dinner table before I finished my food. There’s still some food in my bowl. And he says, why are you leaving your
food? And I said, oh, it’s not good. It was
hong shao rou
, you know? Red cooked pork. Very fatty. I didn’t like it.” His eyes went wide, as if the memory still revolted him. “And my father, he just exploded. He’s shouting! How dare you waste food! How dare you say it’s not good! It’s the favorite food of Chairman Mao! And he picks up the
hong shao rou
in his hand. And he rubs it all over my face, this fat, in my nose and eyes, everything. Too disgusting. So I start to… how do you say,
tu
…”

“Throw up.”

“Yes, I start to throw up, and then he takes my collar and drags me outside. It was winter, very cold. And he makes me kneel down on the ice and I have to stay there for a long time. So cold! And this fat all over my face, and the smell. And the other kids come out and start mocking me and throwing ice and snow.”

He started laughing, shaking his head.

“So I had to become a soldier, too, of course. But not an infantry officer. I chose my way. So my father was mad again. Such a bastard. What can I do?”

“Did he ever talk about Korea?”

“Yes. He had stories about it. Lots of
chi ku
, of course. He was in the fighting at Chosin Reservoir. No food, and they wore just canvas shoes in the snow, so their feet all froze. Trumpets sounding the charge, straight into American machine guns. And then, later, he was in the tunnels. Some mountain somewhere they tried to hold. No water, so he sat in the darkness, inside the mountain, holding a cup waiting for drops of water from the rock. And he ordered three men to hold the mouth of the tunnel, and they lasted eight minutes, and then he sent another three, and on.”

He lit a cigarette, held it between his thumb and forefinger. At the sight of the two of them, a Westerner and a Chinese businessman drinking expensive whisky, the girls lingered, cast glances. One caught Mangan’s eye and walked slowly toward their table. She was attempting a model’s walk, the swing in the hips. She leaned over them, a gorgeous caramel-skinned girl, her dress white, skin-tight.

Mangan smiled at her, was about to gently shoo her away, when Rocky turned on her.

“What the fuck you want?”

The girl’s face fell.

“Just, maybe, you like company?” She held her hand out. Rocky batted it away.

“You get lost. Now,” he snarled. And Mangan glimpsed it again, behind the carefully constructed joviality, some flicker of rage.

The girl looked to Mangan, who just shook his head, and she straightened up and walked away. Rocky made a dismissive gesture, muttered under his breath, then turned back and regarded Mangan.

You. You are my investment
.

“But it sounds as if the army has given you a great career,” Mangan said, carefully.

“Oh, yes. Yes, it has. I have traveled a lot and I have some great comrades,” said Rocky, equanimity restored.

“You must have seen many changes. In the military. During your career.”

Rocky was looking at him, amusedly, a sharpness to his humor now. He broke into quick, incisive Mandarin.

“What can I tell you, Philip? What do you need?”

“Need?”

“That will satisfy your people.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Come on, Philip. You want my motive. Of course you do. That I’ll be passed over for promotion? That’s true enough. No senior command for me, nothing to match my father’s. That I earn a pitiful army salary, while everyone in China gets rich? God knows that’s true, too. That I am
resentful
? That I loathe the creeps who run the Party? That I loathe their duplicitous shit about the Three Represents and the Harmonious Society and the China Dream and the Six Bend Overs, while their children and siblings siphon billions into offshore accounts thoughtfully provided for them and administered on their behalf by Great Britain and its dependencies?”

Mangan didn’t respond.

“Tell them all that if you want. Tell them. And tell them I want my own little offshore account. With twenty thousand a month. No. Twenty-five thousand. So they’ll know my motive. And then we’re all happy.”

“Pounds or dollars?” Mangan asked after a beat.

Rocky gave him a wide grin, but his gaze was straight and level. Then he drew on his cigarette deeply and exhaled, a long stream of smoke toward the ceiling, and his eyes flickered to something behind Mangan.

“Oh dear,” he said. “And we were having such a nice evening.”

The first thing Mangan noticed was the way the girls were drawing away, standing up, smoothing their skirts and then moving quickly off, leaving their drinks. In his peripheral vision, he saw one of the club security guards come toward them, then stop and move away again, his look hesitant. Mangan was conscious of the dance music still pounding beneath them. Rocky sat immobile, looking past him, trying to summon a look of injured innocence.

Mangan turned.

Behind him were three Ethiopian men, unmoving, unsmiling. The first of them wore a light blue suit, a brown tie and held a mobile phone. He was balding, with a face seemingly hewn from dark, pitted rock, with hooded eyes. The other two were in open-necked shirts and jackets, one on the cusp of middle age, heavily spectacled. The other was older, lanky, grizzled. All of them were watching Mangan.

Rocky stubbed out his cigarette, sitting primly on the edge of the couch.

Mangan thought furiously. What was he carrying? Nothing. Patterson had done her work: he was clean.

Calm and a good cover story are your friends, Philip.

And this is how it works.

Blue Suit gestured, a barely noticeable twitch of his mobile phone.
You’ll come with us now.
The eyes in that face made Mangan think of something ceramic, something scoured. Mangan opened his hands, as if to say, what? I don’t understand. Rocky did nothing, looked straight ahead.

Blue Suit gave a tight shake of the head. Spectacles walked slowly over to where they were seated and leaned down.

“We just want to talk. A few minutes. Please.” He stood again, made a concierge’s gesture.
This way, gentlemen
.

“We can talk here,” said Mangan. Spectacles just gestured again.

“Please identify yourselves,” said Mangan, playing the irritated journalist. No response. He sensed Rocky giving him a sympathetic look.

Spectacles leaned down to the table and picked up the bottle of whisky. He held it, looked at the label admiringly, hefted the bottle in his hand. He looked about himself. The space around the couch had emptied. Spectacles drew back his arm and with a startling ferocity hurled the bottle to the tiled floor, where it shattered, fragments of glass arcing into the air. Mangan flinched, smelled the stench of the spilled whisky. Spectacles glared at the two of them.

Rocky raised his eyebrows, shook his head and sighed.

Two SUVs waited outside the club. Mangan was escorted to one, Rocky to the other.

Mangan began the standard remonstration.

“Please show me some identification.”

Spectacles said nothing, just gestured to the car. A knot of curious boys watched from beneath a street lamp furred with insects.

“I am an accredited journalist here. You have no right to… where are you taking me?”

But there were more of them now and Spectacles just nodded with his chin and Mangan found himself held by the arms, given a gratuitous shove into the side of the car and then rammed into the back seat. Spectacles got in with Mangan, sat in the front, gestured silently
to the driver. The cars pulled away in the cool night, bumping onto Jomo Kenyatta Street and then on to the northeast, to the outskirts of Addis.

Mangan watched the city lights fall away to darkness, felt the shimmer of fear in his stomach and tried to plan what he’d say. They drove for forty minutes, through a district of new, scattershot construction, lamps burning on the building sites amid the wooden scaffolding, mud as far as he could see.

Occasionally Spectacles muttered to the driver and they sped up, or slowed down. Once they stopped by the side of the road and turned the lights off, waited for three or four minutes, before proceeding. Spectacles murmured into his phone. He wasn’t speaking Amharic, Mangan noticed.

The car pulled off the highway at nearly two in the morning, into a gated community of villas, great yellow monstrosities arrayed along broad avenues, home to politicians, businessmen, athletes. The driver craned his neck, searched for the right gate, then turned into a curved driveway and parked. Spectacles climbed from the front seat, walked around and opened Mangan’s door, gesturing for him to step out. Mangan smelled rain and eucalyptus. Spectacles took his arm, walked him to the villa’s front door, where Blue Suit waited. They went inside.

Mangan was ushered into a brightly lit living room with a faux chandelier, tiled floor, beige leather sofas, glass tables with elaborately carved legs, and ornate heavy curtains, pink, with swags and tails. Rocky was already there, sitting on one of the vast sofas, his fingers tapping lightly on a cushion, composed, alert. Mangan caught his eye and Rocky blinked slowly as if to acknowledge and reassure him.

Mangan felt his mouth thick, pasty; a weakness, featheriness to his hands, legs.

This is how it works.

Silent men in hideous rooms, waiting for it all to start.

Blue Suit made a patting gesture with his hand in the air, indicating Mangan should sit. The four of them, Rocky, Mangan, Spectacles,
Blue Suit, faced each other over the glass coffee tables. The other one, the older grizzled one, stood by the door, still, watchful.

Blue Suit raised his hands then let them fall onto his lap, as if to say,
Well, here we all are then, at last.
He cleared his throat, spoke in English, a mid-range rasp.

“So. Mr. Mangan. Mr. Shi. We have things to talk about.”

Silence. He spoke again.

“Mr. Shi. Perhaps you can tell us what brings you to Ethiopia?”

Rocky was sitting forward on the sofa, eager to oblige, his most ingratiating smile ramped up to high.

“Of course, yes. I can tell all about it. But, please, perhaps you can tell us first who you are and why you bring us here?” He nodded, a vision of expectation. Mangan sat very still.

Blue Suit waited for a moment.

“Mr. Shi, we are just old revolutionaries from Tigray. You know Tigray? That is where we are from.”

He made a circle in the air with his forefinger to indicate himself and his comrades. “All of us from Tigray.”

He stopped, sighed.

“And we fought in our revolution, just like in China. We fought our way down from the mountains of Tigray. Years, it took us. Years. And we took Addis in our sandals and shorts! And we threw out the Dergue, the military dictator. We try to build a new Ethiopia. An open, stable Ethiopia. Maybe an Ethiopia where people don’t starve, leave their children by the road for the hyena. Maybe we even try for a slice of prosperity. Who knows, maybe Africans can have a little slice. The right Africans. Maybe we allow ourselves to expect it a little.”

He stopped.

They are NISS, thought Mangan. They are intelligence officers hardened in war and insurrection and feared across East Africa. He tried to steady his breathing, to calm himself.

A door had opened at the far end of the room and a girl entered carrying a tray, glasses, a bottle of something that could be cognac. She walked across to the coffee tables and set the tray down. She
was slender, wore tight white jeans, a halter top, dark circles around her eyes. Blue Suit looked at the bottle but his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Dangerous, such expectations, for Africans. Prosperity, stability. But then we look at China and we think, see what these fellows have done!”

Rocky, on cue, nodded appreciatively.

In Mangan’s mind, fear gave way to anger for a split second.
What is this fucking charade?
But flickering on the edge of his consciousness was the knowledge that they might kill him.

“Yes!” said Blue Suit. “You understand, Mr. Shi! Your country and mine are so much the same. China was never colonized. Not completely. Nor was Ethiopia. You brought down an emperor. So did we. You had your revolution, your terror. So did we. Now China is prosperous, powerful. And we think… well, maybe. So, you understand.”

Blue Suit now turned to Mangan and his look was of utter contempt.

“But you, Mr. Mangan. Maybe you do not understand so much.”

He sat back, laced his fingers on his stomach, as if his point had been made.

Now Spectacles spoke, blunt, humorless.

“Please tell us, Mr. Shi, what brings you to Ethiopia.”

Rocky held his hand in front of his mouth for a second, then spoke as if from a prospectus.

“I represent a small investment fund, located in the Chinese city of Kunming. We are looking for opportunities. Opportunities that can bring great benefit to our partners. We believe that Ethiopia is a country full of opportunity and that Chinese capital investment, conducted wisely, can help Ethiopia down the path to the prosperity—”

Spectacles, bored, cut him off.

“What sort of opportunities are you pursuing?”

“We look at real estate, and infrastructure, and perhaps ventures in the leather and garment industries.”

“Tell us, please, the extent of the assets at your disposal.”

“I am authorized to consider and submit proposals for investments up to and including twelve million dollars.”

Spectacles did not respond, looked over at Blue Suit.

“And Mr. Mangan here,” said Blue Suit, waving idly in Mangan’s direction. “Is he a partner, or adviser in your enterprise? What is he?”

Rocky affected surprise.

“Mr. Mangan is a journalist who shows great interest in China’s new partnerships in Ethiopia. Very smart reporter.”

“You spend a lot of time together.”

Rocky spoke slowly now, carefully.

“We talk a lot about China’s interests in Ethiopia.”

Blue Suit turned to Mangan.

“Is this correct, Mr. Mangan? You are reporting on Mr. Shi’s enterprise here? You are just a reporter.”

“Yes,” said Mangan, but the word caught as it came out, and he had to clear his throat and try again. “Yes, that’s right. I am very interested in the way Mr. Shi is going to make his investment decisions, and I intend to write about it.”

Blue Suit regarded him.

“Yes, I see. And is that all you intend? You have never considered going into a partnership of some sort with Mr. Shi? The two of you together?”

“No.” Mangan swallowed. “Though I must admit, sometimes the prospect of leaving journalism and trying something new is tempting.” Rocky was looking at him hard.

Blue Suit raised his hands in acclamation.

“Of course. And you could bring all your expertise to such an enterprise. Have you told Mr. Shi how unpredictable Ethiopia can be, Mr. Mangan? That we are not a country with a mature, well-developed legal system? That sometimes problems can arise, things can… go astray, here. People, too.”

Christ.
Sack the scriptwriter, thought Mangan, absurdly.

Spectacles was nodding gravely. The door across the room opened
again and the girl walked in. She held a small clay brazier, gingerly, by its edges. She stopped and looked questioningly at Blue Suit, who waved her over. They all watched as she laid the brazier down on the floor. Embers glowed within it. She left the room again, and then was back with a coffee jug and coffee beans on a skillet.

“Some coffee,” said Blue Suit.

The girl squatted, awkward in her tight jeans and heels. She placed the skillet on the brazier and let the beans start to roast. She moved them around with the little rake. She reached in a pocket and brought out a twist of paper, opened it and allowed flakes of incense to fall into the brazier. The room filled with the smell of roasting coffee beans and gray flecks of incense that the girl idly wafted toward the watching men.

Blue Suit shifted in his seat, impatient.

“So, do you not feel, Mr. Mangan, Mr. Shi, that any bold person who seeks opportunity in Ethiopia would benefit from the partnership of local people? A guiding hand, a friend to advise, to warn. Do you not think?”

Rocky appeared to be pondering the question.

“Maybe I can see that. Yes, maybe I can.”

“Yes, why not?” said Blue Suit. He had raised his voice and was looking at Spectacles, who nodded. “What do you think, Mr. Mangan? Do you agree?”

“Well, I am just a journalist and I am not experienced in these matters.”

Blue Suit responded with animation and a rigid smile, which seemed to Mangan to have, churning just below its surface, cold fury. The girl was grinding the coffee beans now, in a mortar and pestle, keeping her eyes down, working with a tension and rigidity to her movement that spoke of fright.

“Certainly not!” yelled Blue Suit. “Surely there must be a role for you!”

Mangan felt the atmosphere in the room as balanced on the point of a knife, teetering just above violence. Rocky stepped in.

“Perhaps you can suggest who is suitable local partner for investment enterprise such as mine,” he said.

“Well, we know many people,” said Blue Suit. “Trustworthy people. People we are tied to.”

Spectacles spoke.

“Your wife. Why not?”

Blue Suit feigned astonishment.

“My wife?” He turned to Rocky. “Very able woman. She does business in Dubai. Buys and sells, currency and gold. She charters aeroplanes to bring in the
chat.
She is there now, doing business. Very capable.”

“I’m sure she can bring much to the table,” said Rocky.

“Oh, yes, she would. Most certainly.”

The girl was standing, pouring coffee into tiny cups. When she offered one to Blue Suit, her hand shook. Blue Suit took the coffee, then sat up suddenly, as if another thought had occurred to him. He spoke fast and Mangan heard nothing but threat.

“And of course, I, we, can guide you as well. Ensure you are properly protected from the problems that can arise in an immature market. We can give you guarantees. Who would not want such guarantees, Mr. Shi? Who?”

“Such guarantees sound attractive from risk mitigation standpoint,” said Rocky.

“Yes, yes. Risk mitigation.” Blue Suit turned to Mangan. “Think of the benefits, Mr. Mangan. For everybody. Even you. We can get some benefits for you.”

The girl was offering Mangan a cup of coffee, and Blue Suit leaned forward and put his hand on her flank, ran it up and down the inside of her thigh. She stood still.

“What about her? You have her as a benefit. Yes? Want a taste?”