In the Company of Killers, Bryan Christy [love story books to read .txt] 📗

in hand, she walked to a waiting car. She paused at the door and turned to Klay. “How many innocent people have died because of your lies?” She had not waited for an answer.

They brought him into the prison through an underground tunnel left over from the Apartheid era. Klay had not been arrested or charged. He was simply caged.

Botha withdrew a second orange from his briefcase. He raised the fruit to his mouth and bit its skin. He worked his lower lip in and out, nodding as he peeled the fruit. “Wild Dogs dead. Advocate Hungry Khoza ruined. Ncube investigation terminated. My case dismissed . . .”

“Ras,” Klay said, “what can you tell me about Hungry?”

“Oh, she’s royally sorted. A masterful fucking you gave that one. She’s a CIA operative helping the Americans oust our legitimate president. Bring back white rule. Don’t you read the papers? Well, you couldn’t, could you?”

“Which is all bullshit,” Klay countered. “I did some interviews with her for The Sovereign working on a story . . .”

“You did.” Botha shook his head and laughed. “Yes, you did.” He laughed some more as he laid newspapers on the table. “Ncube called in your ambassador for a full dressing-down. Fucking international incident you’ve caused.”

It was all a game for Botha.

“What do you want?” Klay asked.

Botha pointed at the newspapers. “Take a look.”

It had been ten days. Klay skimmed the articles, all front page. Hungry had issued a press release before disappearing: “Intruders as yet unidentified raided the field office of the Wild Dogs Anti-Corruption Task Force, Office of the Special Prosecutor, Office of the Public Protector, killing Advocates Edna Sebati and Minenhle Mthembu and Chief Investigator Mr. Julius Sehlalo, formerly of the Hawks. A visiting American journalist, David Tenchant of The Sovereign magazine, was also killed during the raid. The Wild Dogs Task Force was formed under a mandate by . . .”

“Then there’s these . . .” Botha withdrew more newspapers and web page printouts. These were pro-government tabloids with racy headlines: “I, Spy!” . . . “Hungry’s Last Supper!” . . . “A Very Spe-CIA-l Prosecutor.”

An op-ed in one of them began, “Advocate Hungry Khoza, a pawn of White Monopoly Capital, has been doing the bidding of her CIA masters, attempting to undermine the office of the presidency and incite unlawful regime change . . .”

None of the stories mentioned Tom Klay. Someone had fed the tabloids their CIA angle. He went through the papers again to be sure. “She did you a favor,” Botha confirmed. “Lord knows why, but she kept your name out.”

Klay looked more closely at the printouts of the online stories, focusing on publication dates and times. A Perseus Group tabloid in Johannesburg had been first out with the story. PGM coverage then spread around the world, mutually triggering news and social media algorithms, feeding the beast.

•   •   •

Klay was confident he had pieced together most of the puzzle. He had been the CIA’s Trojan horse, sent to carry Tenchant into Hungry’s office to destroy her files, not copy them. The Agency, Krieger, and Ncube had all won.

The puzzle piece that didn’t fit was sitting across the table from him. Ras Botha seemed to know everything. But he didn’t seem to want anything. And Klay needed Botha to want something from him because Klay very much needed something from Botha. Botha was his only way out.

Desire is opportunity. It creates leverage. It was a basic rule of tradecraft. But Botha didn’t seem in need of anything at all now. A man without desire was invisible. Botha was a ghost.

There are no truly invisible men, Klay reminded himself. Every person wants something. He inventoried what he knew. Botha was here, so that meant: ego. He’d brought a stack of media reports: authority. And an orange: power. Botha hated anyone with leverage over him. And that translated into a single word. Botha’s abiding desire was for respect. Hunger for validation fueled his outbursts at trial, his refusal to wear a prison uniform, all of the special accommodations he demanded here. It was in every one of his stories. His tales of conquests over women, grand money-making schemes, and powerful friends all added up to a lifelong search for respect.

Klay looked at the orange in front of him. Terry Krieger had stolen the Kimber from Botha. To take a Boer’s land was just short of taking his life. It was humiliation.

Klay picked up the orange and bit into its skin. “Last time we did this,” he said, slowly peeling the fruit, “you told me, ‘I’m in here because of you.’ What did you mean by that?”

Botha didn’t respond. He chewed his own orange and watched Klay’s fingers. Klay kept peeling, slowly, as if he didn’t care. As if he didn’t have any desire of his own. When he had the fruit peeled, he looked across the table for Botha’s answer. Botha raised his eyebrows and indicated Klay’s orange with his eyes.

Klay put an orange wedge into his mouth and began to chew.

Botha cleared his throat. “Now do you hear me, counselor?”

“I’m listening,” Klay said.

“You’re listening. I need you to hear me. Do you hear me?”

Klay swallowed the slice. He looked directly into Botha’s eyes. “You haven’t said anything.”

Botha smiled. “You are Agency property. Sum and total, that’s all you are and all they want. You”—he stabbed a finger hard into Klay’s chest—“don’t exist for them.”

Play along, Klay told himself. Go with the flow until you see it. “That’s right,” Klay said. “What they want is my shadow.”

“Your shadow?”

Klay watched Botha roll the word around in his mind.

“Okay,” Botha said. “Yeah, that’s good. Your shadow is what they want. They’ll cut your throat to keep your shadow alive. And you don’t mind because you’re looking the other way, happy to be rid of what’s behind you. You don’t want to be you. That’s what makes you useful. Makes you a good asset. Do you hear what I’m telling you?”

“I hear you,” Klay said in a tone suggesting he was still waiting for Botha to say something meaningful.

Botha nodded. “When they told me the plan, I