Project Tokoloshe

Chapter 1

CAPE TOWN Summer 2009

They sat silently in the stolen car and waited for the white man to come home, the late afternoon sun bright on the high wall that hid the house behind. The Volkswagen Polo had been taken a week earlier from outside a nightclub, and had been stashed at the back of an abandoned warehouse, to make sure that it was not fitted with satellite tracking.

Sello shifted his skinny buttocks on the back seat and slipped his hand under his shirt to touch the Norinco 9mm pistol stuffed in the front of his jeans. He kept his finger away from the trigger, wary of sending a bullet through his balls; the Norinco’s safety catch had long ago broken off. Lundi, sitting in the passenger seat up front, carried the real hijack magic: a police-issue Z88, one of the thousands of firearms that slipped away from the Police Force. A look down the barrel of the big Z88, tapped angrily against the glass, was all that was needed to persuade a startled driver to hand over their vehicle.

Lowering the window, Sello sniffed the scent of trees and flowers in bloom, which smelled a lot better than his lodgings in the shack settlement near the airport, where the air hung thick with the smells of human faeces and cheap cooking. He tensed as he heard a car turn into the quiet street.

Bulelani sat with his hands casually folded over the steering wheel, watching their apprentice in the rear-view mirror. Relax, he said. It’s not ours.

An SUV rumbled past and down the sun-splashed road, the petite and manicured lady at the wheel of the silver behemoth not sparing them a look. Sello looked through the steel gates at two black Dobermans that loped down the drive-way on long legs to stop and quietly peer at the car from between the bars.

Lundi leaned over and thrust his jaw towards Bulelani. Why didn’t we know about the dogs?

Sorry, my spotter never told me about them. Too busy screwing the maid. Bulelani straightened his expensive leather jacket and smoothed his hair in the mirror.

Lundi pointed at the two sleek dogs, their pointed ears pricked up. To get his dick into the maid, he had to get past those dogs. Is this Audi really coming?

The same time, every day.

Running his hand over his shaven and fight-scarred skull, Lundi said, This Audi's got a manual gearbox, for sure?

Yes, yes, it's a manual.

Lundi shifted his small frame on the seat. His deprived childhood had left him physically stunted, but when he walked the township, big men instinctively stepped out of his way and avoided his eyes – a gut reaction of self-preservation.

He turned and fixed stony eyes on the young man in the back. Are you ready to do this?

Sello stiffened. It's my turn, today?

What more do we have to teach you? Lundi pointed at the two dogs, sitting now and watching the car with dark eyes. This will be a good first job for you. If the gate opens, those dogs are going to come fast, so you better start thinking how you're going to handle this.

The young man leaned forward and braced his feet on the floor of the car, his one hand on the door handle, the other on the grip of the pistol. He would have to get to the driver before he pressed the remote, or he would have to do some fast shooting.

It was time for the owner to arrive when the brightly-coloured security car came rolling down the road towards them. As it drew closer, the driver stared at them and lifted his radio receiver to his mouth; the suburb of Constantia was the preserve of wealthy whites, and three black men sitting in a car parked on a grass verge was suspect, even to a fellow black man. Bulelani watched in the mirror as the security car reached the end of the road, pulled over and stopped, its brake lights lit up.

Lundi made a cutting motion with his hand. Bulelani started the engine and slowly drove off. Once they turned into the next street he sped up and headed for the M3.

Head for Claremont, let’s cruise there, said Lundi. It’s busy time now. He turned in his seat to face Sello. Look sharp! This is Audi country. It's your big day.

Bulelani shook his head and clicked his tongue, throwing a scornful glance into the mirror. Three pairs of eyes scanned the heavy traffic looking for a replacement Audi. They turned off the busy Claremont main roads and cruised the residential areas, where palm trees hung fronds over electrified fences.

The Polo was humming smoothly along a narrow avenue when Bulelani said, There, ahead, it’s a gift from our ancestors.

A red A4 had stopped in front of an ornate steel gate flanked by high walls. Sello squinted at the letters on the rear of the car and reached for the door handle. It was the right model.

They pulled up behind the A4. An old man with fluffy white hair sat behind the wheel, bent over a cellphone in his hands. Sello pulled out his pistol and took in a sharp breath.

Get up close! said Lundi.

Sello threw open the door and ran to the side of the A4 where the old man was still fiddling with his cellphone. He banged on the roof of the car and shouted in English, Get out, whitey! Get out! I will shoot you!

Mouth gaping open, the old man stared at the gun at the window. Sello jerked at the locked door and banged on the window, shouting more threats. The old man dropped the cellphone to his lap and unlocked the door. Sello yanked it open and pulled the old man. Freeing himself from the seatbelt, the old man stumbled out of the car. He followed the standard procedure for hijacking: holding up his hands, he kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, and moved slowly away from the car, no sudden movements.

Sello stood next to the open door of the A4, gun in hand, and watched the old man shuffling away. The cellphone lay on the leather seat of the car, but he also wanted the old man’s watch and wallet. With a whirring sound, the heavy gate began to open. The old man changed direction and headed with slow steps towards the opening, his hands still raised.

Sello pointed the pistol at the old man’s back and the sharp crack of the 9mm ripped across the still air. The old man stumbled and fell to his knees, lurched onto his hands and began to crawl forward, gurgling and wheezing. Sello walked up beside the crawling form. Despite the warm weather, the old man was wearing a brown cardigan. Sello held the pistol in both hands and aimed down at the white hair on the old man's head. The second shot echoed down the avenue of walls and the old man lay still.

Sello heard a car door slam shut and turned to see Lundi inside the Audi, reversing and swinging wide. Forgetting the wallet and watch, he ran back to the Polo and jumped in as Bulelani pulled off, the engine revving high.

It was dark by the time they dropped off the two cars at the buyer’s warehouse, deep in a run-down industrial area.

The three men walked through the deserted streets, heading for the highway. In muttering voices, Lundi and Bulelani took turns to scold Sello for killing the old man. He walked with his head hung low, wondering if his short career was already over.

They pushed through a hole cut in the fence and climbed a grassy embankment to where a line of street lamps burned orange in the gloom. They stepped over the railing next to the highway, and in the hazy light they waited for a minibus. Lundi sat down on the railing and started to divide the payment between himself and Bulelani, while their young apprentice stood sullenly a few paces away.

Here, boy, you earned this much, said Lundi, holding out a small wad of notes. At least we know you can use your gun.

Sello slipped the money into his jeans as a battered minibus rattled to a halt in front of them. They clambered on board and slumped into the torn seats. The minibus lurched off, the floor shaking and the worn drive-shaft clanging. Sello thought about the money in his pocket and grinned in the dark; he would count it when he was alone.

Chapter 2

The early morning sky lay crisp blue behind the mountains that still cast deep shade over the land. Anna Coetzee pulled the newspaper from the postbox and ambled back inside. She had grown to love the valley of Helshoogte, outside the wine-farming town of Stellenbosch, where she and her husband had moved after his retirement from a lifetime in the Apartheid government.

She walked down the gloomy passage, her slippers quiet on the polished wood floor. In the strip of light at the doorway to the lounge, she stopped and read an article on the newspaper's front page.

Pieter was in his study, where he liked to spend his mornings.

Dear, she said. Hans Van Zyl has been killed. He was hijacked.

Pieter looked up, confused. He could not have put up a fight, not at his age. Why would they kill him?

Anna shrugged and said, They say he was visiting his daughter. The family found his body lying in the street.

She crossed to where he sat among a pile of books, his face pinched as he tried to remember something. She stroked his bony shoulder and put the newspaper softly onto his lap.

She worried about him sometimes; his memory had been slipping in his old age. During his years in government he had drunk far too much, it had been the department culture: work hard, drink hard. Now it was Anna who took care of all the details of their quiet life together.

Will you be okay? she said. I’m going into town.

Pieter looked up from the newspaper. Can you wait a bit? I need you to post something for me.

Anna ran her hand over his neck and went out to check on her garden. Pieter shifted himself to behind the oak desk. Early morning, when his joints were stiff, was not a good time for him. He sat for a while, staring at the desk.

When Mandela and the ANC had come to power in 1994, he and Hans Van Zyl had accepted retirement packages and had left quickly. The new black government had not wanted to keep Apartheid relics with white skin.

In their last weeks at the office, they had disposed of entire storerooms of files. Impatient with the paper shredders, they had put steel drums at the end of the parking lot and had burned files all day long. They had stood in the sun with their ties loosened, watching the flames push ash high into the air, sipping brandy in a twisted carnival mood, as sailors would drink the rum while the ship keeled over and went down.

His keys jangled as he unlocked the top desk drawer and pulled a brown envelope from under a stack of papers. Inside were a letter from Hans, and another envelope, sealed. He put on his glasses and read the letter again.

14 November 1995

Dear Pieter,

I regret that we have not spoken since we left. Everything has changed so much and so quickly. I cannot adapt to this new world. I was watching the television last night and it is all so unreal. Mandela is out of prison and has become our president. We were betrayed and what we fought so bitterly has come to pass. So the sacrifice of so many was all for nothing.

Retirement is not sitting well with me and I fear that I have not been very pleasant for my family to live with.

It is hard for me, very hard, because we were so close to salvation. Victory was within our grasp, but then things fell apart. I am talking about Project Tokoloshe.

But this thing is not dead. It has circled back on us like a wounded buffalo in the long grass. Some have profited from the project, and continue to benefit from it. It is terribly wrong that they do so, but my hands are tied.

Yet I intend to have the final shot. I will be the one who laughs last.

Enclosed is a sealed envelope. This is my bullet from the grave. Take precautions to see that the letter is never discovered or sent while I am still alive.

When you hear of my passing, please send it. I'm assuming that you will outlive me. Below are four possible recipients, in order of preference. Send it to the first on the list that is still in a position to act.

This is all I ask of you.

Your friend,

Hans

Pieter read the names on the recipient list. He knew these men, but the memories did not come. How long had he been retired? Where had the time gone? With each passing year, heavy curtains had descended inside his head, and he had no wish to push back the dusty veils. He dragged out the telephone directory and turned to the government departments. After several phone calls he crossed out the first two names. He made one more call and circled the third name. Grimacing, he forced his stiff fingers and carefully wrote out a name and address on the sealed envelope. He sat back and rested his hands on the table.

Why the need to send this thing? All this time, he had never had the urge to open the envelope, and would not now. Pieter had never been told what Hans and his team had been working on. There had been whispered rumours of projects with odd code names, but he had never asked. Unlike Hans, he had been relieved to retire early.

Rubbing his head, he felt annoyed at this small task, resenting the intrusion from the past. An image came to him of the envelope burning in the fireplace behind the house. But it was a simple request from a friend, now dead. He would send the envelope and be done with it.

He watched from the study window as Anna carefully drove their car down the driveway, on her way to Stellenbosch, where she would post the envelope. He shuffled in his slippers to the kitchen and poured himself a generous shot of Van Ryn’s 15-year-old brandy.

Sitting on the veranda, he sniffed the aromas wafting from the glass. This was a good place to have a drink, Anna’s neat garden in front of him and the brute crags of the mountains rearing up behind. He lifted the glass to the open sky. Hans, he said softly.

As he sipped the brandy and the warmth spread from his belly to sooth his aching joints, it occurred to him that he had toasted his dead friend in the wrong direction. Hans would not be in heaven.

Chapter 3

Christof Stromberg walked through the doors of the Musanda Complex in Pretoria, his blue eyes peering through square spectacles. He stood on the spotless floor and waited for the elevator. Beside him loomed the steel statue that was the symbol of the National Intelligence Agency, an ominous iron orb surrounded by fearsome plough-blades for eyelids; the eye of the nation, it glared sharply at all who passed.

With the end of white rule, the old Apartheid security agencies had been combined with the resistance movement intelligence organs, and so the NIA had been born. The merger had ended several nasty Apartheid creations, such as the Civil Cooperation Bureau. Stromberg had been there for it all, his entire working life in state security departments, a cunning negotiator and a meticulous administrator. In the intelligence business, his experience and vast network of contacts were irreplaceable, so the newly-formed NIA had kept him on, with only a little hesitation.

Polite greetings met Stromberg all the way to his office. He switched on his computer and began to open the neat pile of envelopes his secretary had left in the middle of his desk. She would soon bring him a hot cup of tea.

Within the NIA, he contentedly let the months and years slip by, waiting out his retirement in three years' time. It was a benign government department, compared to the diabolical purposes of its predecessor under the Apartheid regime. Those were the days when he had thrived and excelled.

He had finished his tea by the time he came to the envelope with the Stellenbosch post-stamp, his name and the address shakily written on the front. He pulled out the single sheet of paper inside the envelope. Under the title Project Tokoloshe was a list of names. His mouth hanging slack, he ran his eyes up and down the list.

Stromberg stood on weak legs and staggered to the window, feeling ill and light-headed. For an hour he stood motionless, until the fermenting desperation in his heart curdled into courage.

Sitting back at his computer, he clicked the mouse and searched among the folders and sub-folders, until he found what he was looking for. The printer on his side-desk whirred and pushed out sheets of paper. He picked them up and pushed them into a folder, along with the letter. His heart pounded and his mind focused on the plan as he strode from his office with the folder under his arm. He crossed long passages, took two flights of narrow stairs down, and slowed, looking for the office he needed.

Francois Labuschagne looked up from the open file he had been hunched over, a frown still on his face. Stromberg entered and closed the door behind him. Though they were of similar age, Labuschagne looked much older, pink folds hung over his collar, and narrow shoulders ran down to an immense mass, that long ago used to be his waist and buttocks. His eyes narrowed. Christof, what brings you down here?

The entire office was covered in open files, even the floor was messily tiled with paper bundles. Stromberg cleared a chair and seated himself. I'm glad you're still here.

I got bored with retirement. And my dear wife resented having to share the house with me all day. Besides, this contract work pays much better.

You're doing something with the new paperless system?

Labuschagne laughed wheezily and waved at the files. The scanning has been done. But someone has to sort and categorise all of this. So they called me back in. I can string this out for at least a year.

Stromberg opened the folder and handed him the letter. I got this in the morning post, no sender details.

Jesus Christ, said Labuschagne. He held the paper close to his face and read intently down the list. My God, this brings back memories. He read the list one more time. I'm not on here, and neither are you.

Those are the big boys, but it's addressed to me. Someone out there connects me.

Labuschagne shook the letter. So what is this, blackmail?

I don't have that kind of money, said Stromberg.

But you're in a useful position, you still wield some power here. Could it be that? Perhaps someone wants information?

I don't know. Do we just sit here and wait for it to play out?

Hold on there, who's we? This letter was sent to you.

It is us! said Stromberg. We're the only two left in the NIA who were on Project Tokoloshe. I might have more to lose, but just think about it, if it came out that we were involved. Turn it over in your mind.

For a moment Labuschagne sat silent, still holding the letter in the air. He said, But we were only on board in the beginning, to set things up. And then the Directorate of Covert Collection took over and shut us out. We didn't know.

We didn't? I did the recruiting for that project. And you sourced all that strange equipment from overseas. It was you who crooked the import papers. We damn well knew what it was for.

Labuschagne sat silent again, his tongue slipping out to slide around his fleshy lips.

Stromberg shook his head and said, We'll be cast out like lepers. They'll haul us in front of tribunals. We could bloody well go to jail. Can you imagine the media frenzy, you and me on E-TV, going into court, trying to cover our faces with our jackets.

Labuschagne held up his hand, his swollen face turned grey. Enough, enough. He breathed heavily and said, What do you want to do?

We need to find out who sent this letter and what they want. I'm not sitting here at their mercy.

But, said Labuschagne. You dare not, we dare not, use NIA people. Do you want me to contribute for a private investigator?

Stromberg opened the folder and handed Labuschagne the pages. Here's our solution. This guy has applied four times over the past years for NIA vacancies. He's ex-Umkhonto we Sizwe, he's been with the VIP Protection Unit, studied part-time to get an MBA.

Labuschagne grunted. He's smart and he's black, so what's he still doing in the VIP unit? Why did the NIA turn him down? Four times. Must be something wrong with him. He rustled through the pages with his flabby fingers. Victor Nkambula. Good grief, why's there so much NIA intel on this guy? That's never a good sign.

He straightened the papers and began to read. Let's see who we have here. Signs up with Umkhonto we Sizwe in 1982, at the young age of 19. An idealist? A revolutionary? Wants to fight the Apartheid regime. Ah, that would have been us, hey Christof.

Labuschagne settled his soft bulk into the creaking chair and peeled back the next page. Goes to Angola with his brother Gabriel Nkambula. One of the ANC's secret training camps. Hmmm. Seems there's was some sort of incident there, and Gabriel disappears. Victor gets sent to a rehabilitation camp called The Farm. Weren't those for suspected spies and undesirables? I'm surprised he survived that. Returns to the training camp, takes lessons from Cuban instructors on weapons and military tactics. Ha! Bet there were plenty of Communist lectures.

Stromberg waited while Labuschagne flipped another page and sniffed wetly. Victor returns to South Africa. Smuggles weapons, does some recruitment, intelligence gathering. Ah, this is interesting. He becomes an enforcer, makes a name for himself interrogating ANC members suspected of being police informers. Suspected of killing several informers, suspected of assassinating several key Inkatha members in the Johannesburg area. Mmm, then he appears in KwaZulu-Natal.

Labuschagne licked his finger and turned another page. Gets caught by the Security Branch not long after his arrival in KwaZulu-Natal. They interrogate him and dump his body. Ah, but he rises from the dead. And then he does his best work, and bloody work at that. He does serious damage to Inkatha in the Midlands. And, oh, what's this? Suspected of killing three Security Branch policemen. That gets him on their most wanted list.

Labuschagne peered over the papers. No wonder the NIA never hired this bastard, he should have gone before the Truth Commission.

Stromberg raised an eyebrow and said, So should we.

Labuschagne put the pages down on his desk. I don't like this. This bugger's got an axe to grind with the old regime, with us, actually.

That's why he's perfect for the job.

You must have access to so many applicants, so why this guy? There's something you're not telling me.

Stromberg sat expressionless and still.

This could go wrong in so many ways, said Labuschagne, his jowls wobbling. So how's this Umkhonto we Sizwe killer going to help us?

Leave that to me. What I need is funding and clearances, and you know both systems here. Remember the old days.

Yes, I remember, but in those days we had authorisation, be it unspoken. If we get caught now, fiddling accounts, we'll be finished.

Stromberg stood and collected his papers and the letter, carefully putting them back into his folder. We're between the devil and the deep-blue sea. Besides, these days it's even worse than before. It's a labyrinth of clearances and channels of authorisations. It's your old playing field, my friend. Make it happen. He pulled open the door. I'll pop round again tomorrow.

Labuschagne grimaced as the door slammed shut, his soft hands in his lap. His mind wandered over the past. The project. He remembered playing the role that had been assigned to him, but it was like a movie he had watched a long time ago.

Chapter 4

JOHANNESBURG 11pm

The black BMW X5 with tinted windows sat parked outside the apartment building, its polished paint reflecting the street lamp above. Victor Nkambula contorted his large frame in the driver’s seat and swore loudly, disturbing his sleeping colleague.

Menzi Mpiko rubbed his face and sat up, blinking at the quiet street outside. How much longer can he fuck? he said, peering up at the building. A new VIP Unit recruit, he had been paired with Victor for three days now.

Victor dug in his jacket pocket, pulled out a cellphone and pushed it onto Menzi's chest. You keep his phone. His wife is going to call anytime now. I'm tired of lying to the woman.

What do I tell her?

It's an urgent meeting, national emergency, make something up. You'd better learn, said Victor, clenching his fists on the steering wheel. At 47 he was still on active duty. His superiors had tried to give him an office job, three times, but after sitting behind a desk, for days and weeks on end, the darkness caught up with him and the rage began to surge. And there would be a nasty incident, and he would be disciplined, and his superiors would shake their heads and put him back on duty. And here he sat, waiting for the Minister to finish screwing his young mistress.

Menzi clutched the Minister's phone and leaned back, bored. He said, Have you met his girl? Is she pretty?

Of course she's pretty, said Victor. I had to take the bitch shopping last week. He gave her a credit card and she went crazy with it. Taxpayer's money, packed the boot and the back seat with shopping bags.

And how is the Minister? He doesn't even look at me.

He's rotten. He filled up all the positions in the department with his friends and family. They have no qualifications and many of them don't even pitch up for work. He ran out of positions for all of them, so he set up a whole new division.

He can't be so bad? He fought in the Struggle. I heard the Apartheid police killed his father and two of his brothers. His whole family were activists.

Victor laughed. So because he was in the Struggle, now he thinks he deserves sex and luxury for the rest of his life? He does nothing for the people. I drive that bastard, I watch him day and night. He builds connections and allegiance, it's all about power and money, and rigging government tenders.

Have you ever driven any good VIPs?

When they were fighting, it was about the people. But as soon as these bastards took power, they drove in German cars with leather seats, and they slept in soft beds in big houses. French champagne and cognac washed away their socialist values. In their greed for more, they forgot about the people that voted for them.

Menzi said, I read in the newspaper that for the ANC, the Struggle was about power and money, not about ending Apartheid. The ANC had to get rid of the white government and the other black opposition groups like Inkatha, so that they could get total control of the country. He glanced up at the building and yawned. The guys at the college said you were a big hero in the Struggle. So how do you feel about having spent all those years fighting, just to put a pack of thieves into power?

Victor twisted round, stabbing a forefinger under Menzi's nose. You have earned no right to speak to me about it, you ignorant little cunt.

The stiff finger lifted until it quivered over Menzi's wide eye. The young man pressed his head backwards. Easy, man, I was just trying to make conversation.

Victor sat back into his seat and shook the steering wheel in two large fists, slowly rocking his thick torso back and forth, air hissing from between his teeth. Menzi sat perfectly still, barely breathing. There were stories in the unit about Victor's temper, but he had ignored it all as gossip. He stared morosely out the window. He was too junior in the VIP Unit and could not ask for a new partner.

Another hour passed before the Minister waddled contentedly from the building. Victor and Menzi hurried from the X5 and made a show of escorting him into the car, theatrically scanning the area for assassins. Taking back his cellphone, the Minister called his mistress, already missing her comforts. Victor ground his teeth as he listened to a conversation better suited to a horny teenager.

They dropped the Minister off at his palatial home, where a small army of guards took over the protection of the important man.

Early the next morning at gym, Victor pumped weights in anger and punished his heavily-muscled body among walls of mirrors and machines of gleaming chrome. Aching, he stepped onto the treadmill and cranked up the speed. The gauge read seven kilometres when his cellphone lit up. He got off the machine and picked up his phone from where it lay on his damp towel.

Victor Nkambula? The voice said. Christof Stromberg, Operations Division, NIA. Can you talk?

Go ahead.

I’m looking at your CV and I think we may have something for you. It’s a one-off assignment, you’ll be on contract, but when it’s finished we’ll evaluate your performance for a permanent position. You'll have to travel, starting in Cape Town. When can you make yourself available?

They discussed a few details while he stood in his sweat-drenched shorts and T-shirt. He agreed to call back as soon as he had taken care of his departure from the VIP Unit. A faint smile on his lips, he stepped back onto the treadmill and increased the speed.

Christof Stromberg slipped his newly-bought cellphone into his jacket pocket and leafed through Victor’s details again. A charge of excitement tingled in his veins; he had not had a mission like this for a long time, not since the good old days. He picked up the file and walked out, telling his secretary that he had a sudden appointment. This new energy would serve him well, out on the golf course.

Chapter 5

In a dusty field next to the township, hundreds of people had gathered in the bright heat to attend the funeral party of Sharps Mahlangu. Not yet 25, he had built a reputation as a fearless hijacker and a brazen robber of stores, but had met his end trying to outrun the police Rapid-Response Unit. And now it was time for curious township dwellers and gangsters to mix.

A crowd of young men and women stood around Sharps' mother, where she sat proudly on an upturned plastic beer crate, telling her story again.

And then the police came and took me to that awful place, where they keep the dead bodies. They had no care for my feelings, those murderers. They were in such a hurry for me to identify the body. They pushed me to the table. And when I saw it was my boy and I cried, two of the cops did the high five, they were so happy.

The mother contorted her face in theatrical grief, and scanned the faces of her audience. When I saw my boy, it reminded me of when he was little and he was sick with the pox, there were so many bullet holes in his chest, and in his arms. She gave a little sob. And in his face.

She raised her arms and howled a long cry to the sky. A man pushed a full bottle of beer onto her lap, and the crowd moved off in quiet awe.

Sello walked through the crowd, swaggering beside Lundi. Drunk men walked around, sweating, clutching quart bottles, and greeting their friends with loud shouts. Until they came across Lundi, when their smiles disappeared and they quickly turned away. At Sello they frowned and shook their heads, but no-one dared scorn him – he was Lundi's man now.

They came to a flat area of dirt where the crowd had gathered in a circle. Two gangsters sat inside an old BMW 325, the engine roaring until it stuttered, then roaring again. Dust plumed from the rear wheels as the car began to slide sideways, spitting sand and stones behind. The passenger stepped neatly from the moving car, leaving the door open, and did a little dance as the car swung around him. A cheer of applause rose from the crowd. He leaped nimbly back inside the circling vehicle, and soon there was only the roaring engine somewhere behind clouds of brown dust that rolled out over the spectators. Lundi nudged Sello and they moved off.

In the shade and quiet of Lundi's shack, they sat at the plastic table and drank water from plastic mugs.

Give me your gun, said Lundi, holding out his hand.

Sello reached under his shirt, pulled out the Norinco and reluctantly handed it over. Lundi stood and moved to cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. He wrapped the pistol in newspaper and put it away, returning to the table with something wrapped in a yellow dishcloth. You use this now, he said and offered it to the young man.

Sello grinned as he unwrapped the cloth and gazed wide-eyed at the pistol. Not the police Z88 he was hoping for, this was even better: