closed-circuit television was in the adjoining observation room, pointing its cyclopean eye through the one-way glass.
Janina stood by the camera and looked at the woman in one of the chairs. Interesting that everyone brought in chose the chair half turned away from the window. As if they could sense it.
Was this the result of too many television serials?
She was Miriam Nzululwazi, common-law wife of Thobela Mpayipheli.
What had Umzingeli seen in her?
She did not seem a cheerful type. She looked like someone who was chronically unhappy, the permanent lines of unhappi-ness around her mouth. No laugh lines.
She predicted that the woman would not cooperate. She expected her to be tense and hostile. Janina sighed. It had to be done.
Allison?s phone rang as she climbed the stairs.
?It?s Nic.?
Any news??
?We don'?t have your Mrs. Nzululwazi.?
?Well, who has??
?I don'?t know.?
?Can the intelligence services detain people? Without trial??
?There are laws that are supposed to regulate them, but the intelligence people do as they please, because it is in the interest of the state and the people they work with are not the sort who run to the courts over irregular treatment.?
?And the drug angle??
?I talked to Richter. He says Mpayipheli is well known. He worked for Orlando Arendse when he was Prince of the Cape Flats. No arrests, no record, but they were aware of him.?
?And Orlando Arendse was a dealer??
?An importer and distributor. A wholesaler. Mpayipheli was a deterrent for dealers who would not pay. Or who did not reach their targets. It?s another kind of business, that.?
?Where do I get hold of Arendse??
?Allison, these are dangerous people.?
?Nic ??
?I'?ll find out.?
?Thanks, Nic.?
?There?s something else.?
?Not now, Nic.?
?It?s not about us.?
?What is it??
?Memo from the minister. Strong steps if they catch anyone leaking information on the Mpayipheli affair to the media. Full cooperation with our intelligence colleagues, big mobilization in the Northern Cape.?
?You were not supposed to tell me that.?
?No.?
?I appreciate it.?
?I want to see you, Allison.?
?Good-bye, Nic.?
?Please.? In a little-boy voice.
?Nic ??
?Please, just once.?
And she weakened in the face of? everything.
?Maybe.?
?Tonight??
?No.?
?When then??
?The weekend, Nic. Coffee somewhere.?
?Thanks.? And he sounded so sincere that she felt guilty.
It had been fifteen years since Miriam Nzululwazi?s terrible night in the Caledon Square cells, but the fear she felt then made the jump to the present, here to the interrogation room. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair,
