Lindi finally walked in, two mugs precariously held in one hand and her notebook in the other. He grabbed one of the mugs, took a sip and nearly gagged. ‘Christ! What the hell is this?!’
They swapped mugs, Lindi taking back the peppermint tea that was her habitual work-time tipple.
He knew he was heading for a ticking off and waited for Lindi to speak first.
‘You should have told me last night that you were going to do an interview.’
‘I didn’t know I was. Some journalist caught me off guard first thing this morning.’ Anton sounded almost apologetic, unusually for him.
She brushed off his explanation with a wave of her hand. ‘Whatever. The fact is we’re out there now saying that one of South Africa’s most famous families, not to say most respected, is somehow embroiled in the land business. Talk about going out on a limb.’
‘Okay, I may have pushed it a bit too far—’
‘A bit too far?’ Lindi interrupted. ‘You’ve practically gone the whole distance. I’ve already had a couple of journalists calling me.’
‘What did you say to them?’
‘That I’d call them back. A bit lame after your performance but it buys us time to get this straight. And they’re not the only ones who are curious.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I had a call from an old colleague of mine. I was still at home. It must have been minutes after your thoughtful contribution on the airwaves this morning.’
‘From the Foreign and Commonwealth Office?’
Lindi shook her head. ‘He’s no longer a diplomat. Anyway, he said your statement – or whatever it was you said – must be my doing. If only he knew.’
‘I don’t get it.’ Anton frowned.
‘It’s ancient history. Years ago, when I was at the FCO, I wrote a paper about how explosive the land issue would be in South Africa.’
‘You told us that at your interview. Remember? I was impressed – a woman after my own heart. It was partly why you got the job.’
‘I also said the British government would be dragged in because of all the London-based investors cashing in on land deals.’
‘You were bloody right about that too.’
‘That’s the bit the FCO didn’t like. I say FCO, but the paper only got as far as Missenden. He killed it.’
‘You’re losing me. Who’s Missenden?’
‘The guy who called me this morning. Anyway, the call was a sort of warning. That was the word he used.’
‘Warning?’ Anton’s voice was a few decibels higher. ‘I hope you told him to fuck off.’
‘That’s not quite how I put it but, yes, I told him to mind his own business.’
‘Anyway, who does he work for now?’
‘That’s my next task of the day.’
Clive Missenden looked out over London. He had the best view in town. He’d made the most of the revolving door between government and business. People paid to see the cityscape he now took for granted. His office was high up in the Shard, which, like so much real estate in the city, was now owned by foreign conglomerates – in this case the Qataris. He swivelled his leather and steel chair to face the sheet-glass desk. Apart from a laptop, a landline, a mobile phone and a mug of coffee, it was entirely bare. Here was a man who saw no need to commit anything to paper. Hanging on the wall that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows were several framed photos: an aerial view of a phalanx of tractors ploughing a vast field, another shot of a plantation of some sort, and a third, taken against a backdrop of verdant foliage, showed two men shaking hands, one of them suited and white, the other black and in traditional garb. His office, sumptuous in a clinical sort of way, and an anteroom with a secretary, were all there was to show for Africa Rising Investments. The company was registered in the British Virgin Islands, and its British CEO was a one-time City trader who now seemed to spend most of his time in hotels and the back of a private jet. This CEO was the man in the photo.
The mobile phone vibrated on the desk. Missenden saw that it was Jake Willemse in South Africa and pressed the green icon to answer.
‘Returning your call.’ Willemse was curt. ‘I haven’t got much time. I suppose you’ve heard about Motlantshe’s son?’
‘That’s why I rang. What the hell was Motlantshe’s boy doing there? So much for you reining him in. Now we’re going to have every friggin’ journalist nosing around.’
‘It’s okay, we’re dealing with it. I’ve spoken to Josiah and it doesn’t change anything. He’s still on the case.’
‘Well, that’s reassuring, but we might have to do better than that.’ Superciliousness came naturally to Missenden.
‘Who says? Is this coming from the top?’
‘You know how it is, Jake. I’m his eyes, ears and voice. He only has to think something and I’m already there. We need to shut this whole thing down, no need for all this publicity. I’m hearing on the grapevine that even the bloody FT is getting interested in doing something on land. You’d expect that sort of thing from those pinko-liberals at the Grauniad …’
‘The what?’
‘The Guardian. Oh, never mind. Anyway, we don’t want this thing snowballing.’
‘Like I said, we’re working on it, we’ll make a plan.’
‘You need to pin it to someone and quick,’ said Missenden, catching his own reflection in the desk. ‘This deal is only the beginning. Mark my words, with all this guff about climate change making farming impossible you’ll have the whole world and his sister queuing up for your land. The Chinese, the Gulf sheikhs, they’re all on the lookout for more.’
‘The police have arrested a Mozambican labourer and—’
‘Don’t give me that bullshit, Jake,’ said Missenden. ‘Nobody’s going to believe some wretched, shirtless Mozambican was responsible for this.’ A change of tone. ‘And, besides, we’ll need those chaps when, if, this project gets off the ground.’
‘Don’t worry, it will get off the ground.’
‘It better had. As I recall, you have quite a lot riding on it. All that talk about foreign investment in the land. Got you quite a few good headlines here. And then there’s your little share, only a fraction of what you’ll get as you climb the greasy pole I’m sure but, still, something to be getting on with.’
Missenden thought he was playing the conversation rather well, imagining Willemse squirming at the other end.
Jake Willemse was one of a new breed of South African politicians, who evoked ‘the struggle’ in their speeches but were privately contemptuous of those who still believed it offered a rubric for government. They’d attend the ruling party’s conferences for as long as it took to be noticed, then make a quiet exit. They pretended to listen as the grey-haired veterans relived their glory days, singing revolutionary songs. The young Turks would watch it all from the sidelines, as if they were indulging a grandparent who still thought he was the head of the family. One by one, these men and women had either died or been given a seat on the Board of Elders, the political equivalent of a care home. The Elders were allowed to attend big state occasions, like the start of a new parliamentary session, but were otherwise hardly seen or heard.
For Jake Willemse and his generation of fellow ministers – products of business schools around the world – out of sight meant out of mind. With the veterans out of the way, they could pursue ‘the project’, to drag South Africa into the twenty-first century,