said it was the name and contact number of someone he trusted completely. If anything should happen to him, I must phone Tiny Mpayipheli.?
?Tiny??
?That is what was on the paper.?
?Were you surprised??
?I was disturbed. I asked him why something should happen to him. He said nothing was going to happen, it was just insurance, like we work with at Sanlam. Then I asked him who Tiny Mpayipheli was, and he said, A phenomenon.? ?
?A phenomenon??
She nodded. ?Then he said, A comrade.? Tiny was a comrade, they served together. He saw Tiny grow up in the Struggle.?
?Your father was in Europe during the Struggle??
?Yes.?
?And that is where he got to know Mpayipheli??
?I assume so.?
?And??
?And should anything go wrong, I should contact Tiny. Then I asked him again what would go wrong? I was worried? but he would say nothing, he wanted to talk about how nice my office was.?
?And then when you got the calls from Lusaka, you phoned Mpayipheli??
?First I opened the safe to get the hard drive. On top of it was a note. Tiny Mpayipheli?s name and phone number. So I phoned him.?
?And then you took the hard drive to him in Guguletu??
?Yes.?
?And you asked him to take it to Lusaka for you??
?Yes.?
?And he agreed??
? ?I owe your father,? he said.?
?I owe your father.?
?Yes.?
?Is his photo here??
She looked at the row of portraits as if seeing them for the first time. She pulled her crutches closer, stood up with difficulty. He wanted to stop her, sorry he had asked. ?I don'?t think so.? She looked over the photos. The liquid welled up in her eyes again.
?Have you had any contact with Mr. Mpayipheli since then??
?You listen to my phone. You know.?
?Miss Kleintjes, have you any idea where Mr. Mpayipheli is now??
?No.?
Radebe called her to the Ops Room. ?Yes??
?The team searching the files in Pretoria, ma?am ?? ?Yes?? ?There?s nothing. They can?t find Thobela Mpayipheli.?
11.
The agent was from the Eastern Cape Bureau in Bisho. She knew, operationally speaking, that it was the backwoods of South Africa, a professional quicksand where nothing ever happened to give you a chance to rise above, to propel yourself to headquarters. The longer you remained there, the more you suffocated in the sands of mediocrity.
When Radebe phoned from HQ to order you to interview a subject in Alice, you didn?'t moan about the lack of information, you put zeal in your voice and hid the gratitude and climbed into the grimy, juddering Volkswagen Golf Chico with 174,000 km on the odometer and you seized the day, because this could be your passport to higher honors.
Then you focused on the questions you were going to ask, the tone of voice to maintain; you prepared until your thoughts began to wander, when you began to daydream about the possibilities this could bring? you saw in your mind?s eye Mrs. Mentz reading the report (not knowing what her office looked like, you filled it with chrome and glass) and calling Radebe in to say, ?This agent is brilliant, Radebe. What is she doing in Bisho? She belongs here with us.?
Before the fantasy could properly take shape, before she could furnish the dream apartment in Sea Point and picture the view, she had arrived. She parked in front of the house in Alice, just a kilometer or so from the lovely new buildings on the Fort Hare campus. There was a light still burning and she knocked politely, her tape recorder and notebook in her handbag, her weapon in the leather holster in the small of her back.
The man who opened the door was silver gray, the wrinkles on his face deep and multiple, the tall body bowed with age, but his ?good evening? conveyed only patience.
?Reverend Lawrence Mpayipheli??
